My Kind of You (A Trillium Bay Novel Book 1)

by Tracy Brogan

  What. The. Hell.

  “That was completely uncalled for, Ryan,” his father said as they strode from the tent. “Lilly doesn’t deserve that, and if you think she’s just after my money, well, then you’ve insulted me as well.”

  Ryan stopped walking and turned to face his father. “I’m not trying to insult anyone here, Dad, but that girl is half your age. Less than that, even, and I’m worried that you’re not thinking straight.”

  “Why? Because I’m enjoying the company of a beautiful young woman?”

  “Because you’re talking about quitting your job and moving across the country for some woman you hardly know. A woman who is younger than I am. How do you think this . . . this relationship is going to play out?” He called it a relationship for his father’s sake, but it still seemed like too substantial a word to assign to this midlife crisis masquerading as a love affair.

  His dad was flushed, his face stern. “I don’t know, Ryan. I don’t know if it’s going to last a month, or a year, or a decade. I’m not really thinking that far out. What I do know is that I feel alive again. Lilly is sweet and funny, and she makes me feel happy. We’re having fun. I’ve earned that. If I learned anything from losing your mother it’s that fun, just for the sake of fun, is a worthwhile thing. Work is important, too, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of enjoying life. Fifty-nine is not that early to retire, you know. And it’s not as if I’m letting the company fold. I’m leaving it to you boys. You three are more than capable of running the show, so how about you get off my back, huh? How about you mind your business and leave me alone.”

  Tag turned on his heel and stomped off toward Market Street, and Ryan watched him go, his mouth opening to say . . . something. But what? What could he say that his father didn’t already know?

  He stood there a moment, letting tourists flow around him like water encountering a rock in the center of a stream. He needed to think, because what this situation called for was some good old-fashioned mulling, and nothing helped with mulling like a cold beverage. Time to go find that beer tent. He had definitely earned himself a drink.

  Chapter 9

  Sunday morning church services on Wenniway Island were roughly one part spiritual rejuvenation and five parts catching up with the neighbors. Not that they all didn’t keep pretty close tabs during the week, but during the summer months everyone was busy dealing with the tourists and their normal socializing time was reduced. Still, they weren’t so out of touch that everyone didn’t know who would be late, who would be a little hungover, who would sit in front and sing the loudest, and who would make a big show of putting money into the donation basket.

  “Oh, you see those diabolical Mahoney sisters, sitting there and thinking they are all that and a bag of chips,” Gigi muttered as she, Chloe, and Emily made their way into Saint Bartholomew’s and took their place in the fifth row back, on the right. It was the same place Gigi had sat for the past seventy-five years. It was the same place her father had sat when he was little, and the same place her grandparents had sat. Gigi was willing enough to move from house to house when she got married, but no matter what her life circumstances were, that was her spot in church. Fifth row back, on the right. Woe be it to the poor, unsuspecting island visitor who accidentally sat there. She was not above shooing away a total stranger with her black patent-leather handbag.

  “That June Mahoney,” Gigi added, “she says they have plans for those rental cottages of theirs over on Crooked Tree Trail and that I’ll be downright flabbergasted when I see what they’re up to. As if anything those old hags could do would knock my stockings off. I don’t care what they do. I’m not going to let them lure away my renters, and I told her as much. I told her, I said, ‘June, you mind your own business, and don’t you know I have my granddaughter working on the place my second husband left me? And it’s going to be fabulous.’ She thinks she can scare me, but she can’t.”

  Emily was only half listening to Gigi’s monologue. On an island full of Irish, holding a grudge was an Olympic sport, and the feud between the Mahoneys and the Callaghans was intricately woven through the tapestry of Trillium Bay history dating all the way back to the eighteen hundreds. There were arguments, of course, about who started it and how and why, and every now and then it would flare up, then eventually fade into the background again. The last significant event occurred nearly thirty years ago when old Dewey Mahoney chopped down a one-hundred-year-old fifty-foot pine tree because it obstructed his view of Lake Huron. He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that the tree was smack-dab in the center of the Callaghan family’s front yard. He apologized later, when he sobered up, but some questioned his sincerity when he paid off the $1,000 court-ordered restitution entirely with Canadian pennies.

  Emily glanced over at the Mahoney sisters. They were staring back and whispering behind their hands. She couldn’t be sure if they were gossiping about her, about what had happened in the pie tent yesterday, or spreading tales about some other poor, unsuspecting victim. Still, they never had seemed all that diabolical to her. They looked like harmless little old biddies. April, May, and June. Those were their names. They had a brother, too. August. He’d run off and joined the marines when his sweetheart left him for another. Then he’d come back home covered in so many explicit tattoos that June forbade him to ever go shirtless in public again. And Gus obeyed. Marine or not, he wasn’t about to make his sisters angry. So, now that she thought about it, maybe looking harmless was just part of their diabolical disguise?

  Three rows in front of them was old Bridget O’Malley. She’d been old for Emily’s entire life and was currently closing in on 103. The old spinster had never been married. Maybe that’s why she’d lasted so long. Gloria Persimmons sat down next to her, wearing a traffic-cone-orange dress. She helped Mrs. O’Malley take the songbook from the rack attached to the pew in front of them, and then she waved at Emily.

  Emily waved back just as Brooke joined them. She had on a white dress covered in cherries, and red sandals to match. She even had on mascara, and Emily wondered what the special occasion was. This was church, sure, but Brooke never dressed up.

  “Hi,” Emily whispered. “You look cute.”

  Brooke blushed. “Thanks. So do you. Of course you do.”

  Harlan sat down on the other side of Gigi, his face so stoic this might have been a funeral. Then again, any face on Mount Rushmore was more apt to display emotion than Chief Callaghan, so when Lilly sat down next to him and he patted her arm, Emily knew for certain that the scandal had yet to break. Or at least he had yet to hear of it.

  Yesterday, after Tag and Ryan had left the pie tent, Lilly excused herself. She’d come back twenty minutes later, looking moderately relieved. When Emily asked where she’d been, she said, “Damage control. I just gave Dmitri Krushnic twenty bucks for his silence. Let’s hope I shouldn’t have offered him fifty.”

  The sisters hadn’t talked much after that, and the rest of the day had been full of Lilac Festival festivities. Emily was kept busy fielding questions about her own life, and love life, but no one said anything to her about Lilly’s, and that was a relief. Still, there did seem to be a number of people in the congregation with their heads bent toward the person next to them, murmuring something into their ear. For once she found herself hoping they were talking about her instead of Lilly.

  After Mass, everyone slowly ambled out to the front yard of the church where the Saint Bart’s Ladies’ Auxiliary always had sugar cookies and lemonade waiting. Harlan was usually accosted during this time by people with very important issues to discuss, such as when the new No Trespassing signs might be going up near the golf course because teenagers loved to drink on the greens after dark and then pee into the sand traps, and what to do about the trash that tourists left behind on the walking trails, and whether or not he’d need extra deputies on hand when Independence Day rolled around. Today was no exception, and he was quickly surrounded.

  “So what are your plans for today
?” Brooke asked Emily as they sipped lemonade while standing next to the statue of Antoine St. Antoine, a French fur trader who had established the first outpost on the island. He’d married an Ojibwa woman, and together they had sixteen children. That being the case, it really was Mrs. St. Antoine who deserved the commemorative statue.

  “Gigi is taking me to see the cottage I’m renovating. What is Lilly doing over there?”

  Lilly was off to the side, whispering to Chloe, who nodded slowly. Emily followed her daughter’s gaze, and there was Ryan. Her heart gave a traitorous little skip. Sure, he’d called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, but damn, he did look good in a dress shirt. Had his shoulders been that broad yesterday? Probably, but they seemed even more broad today. Too bad he was officially the enemy. And too bad he was standing next to Tag. That was not good, but there they were, not looking the least bit sheepish or guilty. Not looking at all as if Tag was the type of man to get handsy with the chief’s daughter. What was wrong with them, showing up here like this? Were they not in the pie tent yesterday? Did they not think keeping a low profile today might be a wise decision? Certainly a better decision than showing up at church. Then again, maybe Tag was here for confession and absolution. He’d better hurry, because the churchyard just wasn’t that big, and Harlan was about fifteen feet away.

  Dmitri strolled past, nodding at Emily with a knowing smile and a conspiratorial wink. Add that to the column of not good.

  “Good morning, Peach. Brooke. Lovely day today, isn’t it?” He carried his hat in his hand. If he had actually kept his mouth shut, it would be twenty bucks well spent, but Emily had her doubts.

  “Good morning, Dmitri,” the sisters said in unison. He kept on going, and Emily breathed a tiny sigh of relief, which was cut short as Chloe left Lilly’s side, skipped right past the beekeeper, and walked right on up to Tag and Ryan. No, no, no. This could only end badly, but Lilly’s face was calm. Mostly calm, although a muscle around her jaw seemed a little tense, and Emily realized that was what the whispering was about. Lilly had probably been reminding Chloe not to tell Harlan about Tag, which reminded Emily she needed to talk to Chloe about how it was never okay to keep secrets or tell lies . . . unless, of course, your twenty-six-year-old auntie was dating a man as old as your grandpa. In that case, lying wasn’t just okay. It was essential. If Harlan Callaghan found out his baby daughter’s boyfriend was a card-carrying AARP member, shit would fly, and wasn’t nobody ready for that, especially not in the front yard of Saint Bartholomew’s. A church was no place for full-frontal honesty.

  Uncertain of what her role in this little drama was supposed to be, Emily just stayed to the side until Harlan approached the Taggerts, and then she quickly crossed the grassy expanse of lawn to join them, pulling Brooke with her.

  “That’s the guy I met at the airport. Let’s go say hi.”

  They reached Tag and Ryan at the same moment their father did. Lilly came too, and so did Gigi. It wasn’t very subtle, the entire Callaghan family descending on the two Taggert men all at once. Dmitri changed direction, sensing a showdown, and came to stand off to the side. Emily wanted to shoo him away like one of his bees, but that would just draw more attention.

  Mrs. Bostwick turned toward April Mahoney and said something—something unflattering, no doubt—and Delores Crenshaw adjusted her glasses as she leaned forward and nodded. There was a good chance Emily was imagining this, but there seemed to be clusters of onlookers . . . looking on. Either because they were still fascinated by her long-overdue visit . . . or because twenty bucks did not buy silence like it used to. Dmitri put on his beekeeping hat and pulled down the veil.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Chief Callaghan. It looks as if you know my granddaughter.” Everything Harlan said sounded like an accusation, but the men appeared unruffled.

  Chloe smiled up at Harlan and batted her lashes. “Yes, Grandpa. This is Ryan. He’s the one we rode in the taxi with because the plane was broken.”

  “Ah yes, Emily mentioned something about that. Not sure why you wouldn’t have flown through Pellston, but I guess you’ll know better for next time.”

  Ryan nodded and shook his hand. “Yes, sir. Thank you for that advice. This is my father, John Taggert.”

  Tag didn’t flinch at all as he reached forward to shake Harlan’s hand. Very smooth. “Good to meet you, Chief Callaghan.”

  “Good to meet you as well, Mr. Taggert.”

  “Please call me Tag.”

  Emily glanced toward Lilly, but her sister was wearing sunglasses and showed little expression.

  Harlan clasped his hands behind his back and assumed a stance that Emily was all too familiar with. It was his I’m going to size you up stance, but both of the Mr. Taggerts seemed relaxed and unperturbed. Ryan reached up and ran a finger around the inside of his collar, though, and Emily saw his chest rise and fall with a deep breath. Tag flicked a tiny droplet of perspiration away from his temple. Hmm, maybe not so unperturbed after all.

  “This is Aunt Brooke,” Chloe said, moving on with introductions, just as casual as any hostess introducing dinner guests to each other. “And this is my mom, and Aunt Lilly, and Gigi. There. That’s everybody.”

  There were so many ways this could go wrong, but everyone just smiled politely at one another, nodding. There were a few innocuous comments about the amazing pleasantness of the weather and how delightful the island was. Brooke seemed to pick up on a bit of the tension and crooked an eyebrow at Emily, but Harlan didn’t appear to notice any of it. He didn’t seem to notice all the parishioners giving them sideways glances, either. So much for crack police work, if he couldn’t pick up on some fairly obvious body language.

  Lilly’s jaw clenched and unclenched, and then she gave a weak little smile to Emily once she realized Emily was not about to spill her beans. As if Emily would. Their father was not above killing the messenger, and Emily had no intention of telling him anything about anything. Lilly was on her own here.

  “Harlan!” A big, booming voice came from the left side of the churchyard, and Emily recognized it immediately as Judge Murphy. He was a short, stocky man who, rumor had it, once ate an entire raw fish, bones and all, just because someone said he couldn’t. “Harlan, I didn’t see you in church this morning. Where were you?”

  The chief stared down at him for a minute. “Brian, I’ve sat in the same spot in that church my entire life, and you’re saying you didn’t see me?”

  “No, I looked right in that spot, and I couldn’t see you. In fact, you’re a mite blurry now, come to think of it.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that you’re wearing your wife’s glasses again instead of your own?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why, I never . . . wait a minute.” He took off his glasses and looked at them. “Well, I’ll be damned. No wonder Mary said she felt dizzy this morning. Poor woman probably can’t see a thing. Anyway, we need to change our poker game from my house to your house on Thursday. The missus went and scheduled a book club that night, as if she didn’t know it was my turn to host. As if my poker night hasn’t been the third Thursday of the month for fifteen years. Anyway, can we play at your house?”

  Harlan nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

  “Excellent. Thanks.” The judge squinted over at Tag and Ryan. “Forgive me. I don’t seem to have my glasses. Do I know you?”

  Dmitri sidled closer. He lifted his glass of lemonade to take a drink and fumbled with his veil. Emily might have laughed at him, but at the moment, he held their fate in his hands.

  “John Taggert. This is my son Ryan.”

  “Brian Murphy.” They all shook hands, and the judge squinted. “You fellas staying on the island for long?”

  Tag nodded. “For the summer. Maybe longer.”

  Emily heard a little squeak come out of Lilly’s throat and saw a smile tilting at the corners of her mouth before her sister quickly looked down at the ground.

  “Longer, huh?” Judge Murphy�
��s voice rang out louder than the church bell. “Well, in that case, do you play poker?”

  “Yes, I do.” Tag nodded.

  Emily was fairly certain she heard Dmitri chuckle. That dude needed to mind his own . . . beeswax. Her breath went shallow, and Lilly leaned against her just the least little bit, still staring at the ground, her smile fading.

  “Good,” the judge said. “Never trust a man who doesn’t gamble. That’s what my daddy used to say. Anyhow, we play every Thursday, and you’re welcome to join us. You don’t mind if we add another old man to geezer-night poker, do you, Harlan?”

  Another tiny noise from Lilly’s throat, this one more of an oh shit kind of gasp.

  “Not at all.” Even if Harlan did mind, his face was as impassive as Stonehenge. Emily hoped hers was, too. She didn’t even dare look at Ryan or Tag. Lilly’s boyfriend playing poker with their father? Not good. Not good. Not good.

  Chapter 10

  “Oh, Gigi, this place is in much worse shape than I thought.”

  Sunday afternoon, Emily stood in the center of a Victorian cottage that had not been updated since before women had the right to vote. She’d remembered it as being much nicer. The exterior footprint was large enough, and at least the place had a wonderful, if somewhat dilapidated wraparound front porch, but inside the rooms were tiny and dark with tarnished brass light fixtures that would never pass today’s inspection standards. The plumbing was questionably noisy, the kitchen seemed to have a slant that made all the cabinets hang open, and that moss growing on the roof was neither decorative nor harmless. She could practically hear it munching on the cedar shingles.

  “I think this place has old-world charm. Like me,” Gigi answered.

  Emily sighed with resignation. “Sure, if by old world you mean cave-like dwelling. This place is primitive.”

  “Well, so was my second husband, and this place belonged to him. I’ve had college kids staying here for the past few summers, and they’ve done some damage, but I’m sure you can work a little magic and make it far better than any of those dumps the Mahoney sisters rent out. I want top-of-the-line everything, but don’t go over budget,” Gigi added. “And everything needs to be reliable. No cutting corners.”