My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Jack passed her the thin local newspaper, the Islander. Maude flipped to the back, tremors in her hands shaking the thin pages. Print inside a square box advertised: “Wanted for immediate employment—Grand Hotel seeks local workers. Contact Mrs. Ada Fox, Housekeeping Manager.”

  She knew about running a hotel. If Father wouldn’t allow her to assume management of the inn, Maude would look elsewhere. Today. She’d prove herself capable.

  Bea entered the room, her clothing clean but the hem dragging and a small patch peeking through in the pleats in her skirt. The girl reached over Father to pour juice from a silver pitcher into his goblet.

  “Thank you, Bea.”

  “Yes, sir.” Their new maid bobbed, but the bow in her hair flopped forward and she shoved it back awkwardly with her hand.

  Jack covered his mouth, but Maude could see that he was stifling a laugh. She cleared her throat and shot a scolding look in his direction. Bea’s face crumpled, and she poured a splash of juice, just a jot, into Jack’s glass before coming around the table.

  When their father went back to his newspaper, Bea wrinkled her nose at Jack.

  “Hey!” the boy protested.

  Father’s head shot up. “Young man, you shall conduct yourself with decorum at this table.”

  How many times had Father fussed at Uncle Robert to do the same when he had lived with them? Where was Captain Robert Swaine now? And why wasn’t he answering her letters?

  Ben allowed the manservant assigned to adjust his cravat.

  “How you like dinner last night, sir?”

  Mostly Ben had enjoyed learning more about those seated at his table. “I met some interesting people.” Like Marcus Edmunds, who purported to be a wealthy Detroiter, but whom Ben had never met on the social scene, which he covered for the paper.

  “Good.” Ray Blevins assisted Ben into his superfine wool jacket. “Find the billiard room earlier?”

  “Sure did.” Ben stretched out his arms, amazed that his sleeves, for the first time in many years, were tailored expertly and hit perfectly at his wrist. “Played with Casey Randolph.” Whom he suspected of being a man in pursuit of wealthy conquests.

  “You gonna give Mr. Randolph a run for his money if that Miss Ingram sees you tonight.”

  “She was all eyes for him at the billiard tables.”

  “Mr. Ingram a lumber baron.” Ray adjusted the jacket sleeves until they lay perfectly at Ben’s wrist. “He sure he gonna find his girl a good match up here.”

  “That so?” Would Ingram discern that Casey Randolph was all polish and no substance?

  “Yes, sir.” The servant nodded. “Enjoy the dance.”

  “I won’t be dancing.”

  Ray slipped almost silently from the room.

  Ben tucked a pencil nub and a minuscule square notepad in his pocket, in case he needed to jot a note.

  Inside the ballroom, crystal chandeliers illuminated the inlaid mahogany-and-oak dance floor, around which were clustered tables covered in pristine linen tablecloths. He scanned the room. No bronze-haired vision—the woman from the dock. Many families sat together. Single people lingered by the dance floor. A mixed group surrounded an ice sculpture of a swan—similar to one recently pictured on the cover of the New York Times social section.

  If only this exposé could garner the attention that New York papers had given to tales of Britishers seeking American heiresses for their fortunes. Maybe then Ben’s life would finally fall into place. Finally—a promotion, a raise, and journalistic respect.

  Marcus joined Ben and pointed toward the arched entryway. “Can you believe someone as rich as Anna Forham would marry an island sap?”

  Anna floated into the room, on her husband’s arm. Her crème anglaise skin glowed beneath the hotel’s new electric lights.

  Ben moved back farther into the shadows. He’d not stay. If he watched Greyson and Anna waltzing, then he risked being discovered.

  “Greyson Luce was engaged to be married to the daughter of an island inn owner.”

  Slacking his hip, to affect a nonchalance he didn’t possess, Ben inquired, “Which one?”

  “Prettiest one on that curve as you approach the Grand. Light lemon color.”

  “I meant the young lady, not the inn.”

  “Oh.” Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Greyson Luce was engaged to an island girl. Instead he married Anna. Could that have been the fiancée crying at the wharf? Granted that girl looked angry, rather than devastated over the loss of the love of her life. Still …

  As the band began to play, Marcus glanced in Miss Ingram’s direction. “Excuse me, I see Myra is here.” He headed off toward his target.

  If Ben got a scoop on Anna, daughter of their newspaper owner’s rival, both Ben’s editor and he could benefit. But pursuing such a story would be mean-spirited. Surely Banyon hadn’t sent Ben up with muckraking in mind.

  After only a night on the island, how might he feel after several weeks? Editor Banyon’s suggestion to pose as a wealthy businessman seemed so persuasive at the time, but now Ben felt more like a spy than a journalist.

  Ben turned on his heel and returned to his room. When he entered, he stepped onto a piece of paper. Ben bent and retrieved the telegram. Already Banyon was issuing directives from afar. Ben groaned as he read the terse words, “Expose Luce.”

  Crossing to the bed, he flopped down on his back, shoes and all. Did his editor simply wish to humiliate the owner of their rival publisher? And so soon after Zofija Forham’s death. Other than Greyson Luce having ended his relationship with the loveliest creature Ben had laid eyes on, there were no leads on Luce. While Banyon expressed his belief that Luce had pursued Anna for her money, he’d never tasked Ben to investigate. Until now. Had Banyon set him up with a diversionary story as a pretext to muckrake against the Forhams?

  Chapter Three

  Arguing with himself hadn’t gotten Ben far the night before. Today he’d take action—and deal with his conscience later. This research might afford him the chance to encounter the cinnamon-haired beauty again. He’d argue the point with Banyon when he crossed that threshold.

  Standing at the top of the steps at the Grand, Ben took in the sweep of azure lake water dotted with whitecaps as he prepared to leave the property, which covered many acres.

  He descended the steep hill adjacent the Grand Hotel. After another ten minutes of walking, he paused and scanned the occupants of two carriages that rolled down the main road, then continued on, the breeze inconsistently following him. Marcus said Greyson’s former fiancée lived in a yellow inn at the sharp curve with a grassy knoll across from it.

  Sweat broke out on Ben’s forehead and he removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. He walked on past beautiful homes. Soon he’d be in the outer rim of the business district where several hotels and inns clustered near the water.

  Would he once more see those flashing eyes, or had the young woman recovered from the shock—if indeed the beauty from the docks was Luce’s former fiancée?

  Dodging a pile of horse droppings, he crossed the street and stepped onto the boardwalk near the well-maintained early Victorian inn. Guests clustered on the porch surrounding the yellow clapboard building. A servant girl rolled a tea cart past them.

  Near the street, a white-haired groundskeeper clipped at boxwoods. He looked up. “Beautiful morning, eh?”

  Ben paused. “Ja, but I tell you what—it would be lovelier yet, if I can locate a young woman I met at the dock when I arrived.” He hoped his smile might assure the gardener that he wasn’t an evildoer.

  The worker ceased cutting and wiped a shirtsleeved arm against his forehead. “Young lovelies coming to the island all the time nowadays.”

  Ben ran his tongue over his lower lip. “I think she might be a resident.” The gardener’s thin lips rolled together. “We’ve not too many young beauties on the island. Sadie Duvall is one. Blond hair, robin’s-egg-blue eyes.”

  “No, brunet
te.”

  The older man blew out a puff of air. “Ah, that beauty might be Mr. Welling’s daughter.” He jerked a thumb toward the well-kept inn behind him.

  Ben’s heart rose into his chest as he read a sign hanging from a shingle—WINDS OF MACKINAC. Was this where Greyson’s abandoned fiancée lived?

  “Does she have golden-brown hair and stand about so high?” He raised his hand up to just above his own shoulder, which was taller than the groundskeeper. The young lady stood tall, but she might have been wearing high-heeled boots beneath her skirts.

  Both men watched as a young woman stepped around from the back of the inn, a filmy scarf secured her wide straw hat beneath her chin. Her gray skirt and jacket, trimmed in ribbon, perfectly displayed her femininity with her blouse tucked into the tiny waist of the skirt. A jacket, almost military in cut, was anything but soldierlike in appearance.

  He’d not realized he’d been holding his breath until the other man jabbed a finger at him. “I’m guessin’ that’s who you were lookin’ for, eh?” The gardener chuckled and went back to his chores. But then he looked up, his eyes narrowed. “We look after our own here on the island, sir. Just be sure you understand that, eh?”

  Warning acknowledged, Ben tipped his hat at the man. Now what? He had to have this story, but he had no desire to cause this young woman even more distress than she’d suffered at the hands of Greyson Luce.

  Stepping back, he bumped into a budding azalea and almost fell.

  Maude raised her parasol to shield her eyes from the strong sun reflected by the lake. Who was Mr. Chesnut speaking with by the street? She’d heard the groundskeeper when she’d come around from the back of the house and through the side garden, where she’d paused to inhale the scent of the lilacs. He was talking with a man who had a low voice, and she hoped it wasn’t one of his drinking buddies. Their gardener had finally sobered up long enough to come back and perform his job adequately again.

  Rounding the brick walkway and raising her umbrella to protect her skin from the sun, she spied a tall man whose wide shoulders perfectly filled out his expensive suit. Slicked back dark hair circled above his collar and beneath his bowler hat. Maude pressed a hand to her chest. The man from the docks.

  A gust of breeze brought a heady mix of all the perfumes of the flowers Gus cultivated for them. Heavenly. She inhaled deeply as she joined the two men.

  Gus looked up. “You know this fella?”

  Cringing, she lowered her parasol and leaned on it for support. “I’m afraid I quite literally ran into him at the docks.”

  The stranger’s eyes met hers as a gentle smile tugged at his lips. “I’m glad to see you looking better today.”

  Had she looked so awful, then? She pressed a hand to her cheek.

  A rosy tint tinged his high cheekbones. “Ach, I did not mean that as it sounded. I mean—you looked very upset, Miss …”

  “Maude Welling. And thank you, I was having a … difficult day.”

  Gus snorted then scuffled off toward the side garden. She thought she heard him mutter something about Greyson, but she wasn’t sure.

  “I’m Friedrich König.” The newcomer touched his fingers to his hat brim.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. König.”

  “And very nice to meet you, Miss Welling.” His lips twitched as though he hesitated to say something.

  “I’m off to my uncle’s shop. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, but I’d be happy to escort you.” His voice dropped into a lower register.

  What would people say if they saw her strolling with a man so soon after Greyson’s marriage and their broken engagement?

  She met his direct gaze. “I’m afraid I must decline. But I do thank you for your kind concern, Mr. König.” It was entirely improper for a stranger to call upon her. But the thought made her want to beam. This island visitor was someone she’d like to know better.

  When disappointment flickered over his fine features, a twinge of regret pierced Maude’s reserve. She chewed on her lower lip lest she blurt out that she’d love to stroll with him.

  “Miss Welling, I regret if I have caused you any discomfort by stopping to share my regards.”

  A niggle of apprehension worked through her. Mr. König spoke with a touch of German that thickened and then trailed into a strong Midwestern speech pattern—as though he was making an effort to appear more European than American. More fashionable, at the Grand, to be from the Continent. If he was affectatious, perhaps a dose of Pastor McWithey’s sermons might help cure him.

  “Mr. König, if you are looking for a church to attend while you’re on the island …”

  “Ja, I am.” His affirmation caused her heart to skip a beat.

  “Mission Church is where my family attends.” Surely tongues wouldn’t wag over a stranger being invited to services. Or had she just offered more fodder to the island gossips?

  He tipped his hat. “Until then.” With a rueful smile, he departed.

  Maude watched as he strode down the boardwalk—in the exact direction she was headed.

  As she walked, Maude silently berated herself for not allowing the dashing stranger to walk with her. That would have shown Greyson, wouldn’t it—if she had?

  After arriving at the soda shop, Maude climbed up high on the stool and peered over the counter at the proprietor. “I wish you’d hire Sadie.”

  Maude blew out a puff of air. She couldn’t bear her friend working at Foster’s awful tavern.

  “Nope.” Uncle Al dried the last soda glass and set it on one of the long shelves on the wall behind the counter.

  “Why not?” Maude accepted the lime sarsaparilla that her uncle set before her as she accepted his daily log sheet.

  “She’d be in the way.”

  “Sadie could make things easier for you.” Thirsty, Maude slurped her drink, embarrassed at the loud noise she made doing so.

  One of the Islander Hotel’s groomsmen, seated nearby, laughed and jerked a thumb in her direction.

  Maude glared at him. He wasn’t from the island. The hotel must have brought him in for the summer. Handsome in the extreme, with his chestnut hair and a thick handlebar moustache, but not so distinguished-looking as Mr. König. Maude stared the smirking young man down until he turned his attention back to his own drink. The other fellow seated beside him guffawed.

  Uncle Al shook his head. “That’s why—for one thing. Sadie’s too pretty for her own good.”

  “I can’t tolerate these insufferable men who come to the island for the season to work and then think we island girls are easy pickings.” Maude drew in one last loud slurp for effect, noting, with satisfaction, that the good-looking fellow ignored her this time. His buddy, however, leaned forward and winked at her.

  She frowned. These gawking men made her feel as furious as she had when the soldiers, formerly at the fort, trailed her and Sadie around. But the man from the Grand somehow brought other sensations to her. She shrugged her shoulders, the chilly sarsaparilla sending shivers through her. Or was it from thinking about Mr. König?

  Her uncle resumed his chore.

  “Do you really think Mr. Foster’s is a good place for her? You know what people say about him.”

  “Maude …” Uncle Al sighed, exhaling loudly. “Right now, you need to concern yourself with your own affairs.”

  “What do you mean?” She leaned back on the stool.

  Al rubbed his forehead. “Maude, there’s rumors …”

  She raised her hand to stop him. “Please, no rumors, just facts.” Mother had firmly instilled in her to avoid listening to gossip.

  He reached beneath the counter and pulled out what appeared to be a calling card. He passed it to Maude. “Get the details from this man. I don’t know the specifics, but he will.”

  She glanced at the bold black type font. STEVEN HOLLINGSHEAD, ESQUIRE, ATTORNEY AT LAW, ST. IGNACE, MICHIGAN.

  For her uncle to push this on her, he must have his reasons. Ma
ude tucked the card into her reticule, her hands trembling as she snapped the latch closed.

  Already off kilter, her world seemed to have dipped even further askew.

  Ben pretended to read the notices in the island post office, as he listened to several islanders converse with the postmaster.

  A young clerk held an envelope aloft. “Sir, this letter is marked ‘private,’ but the recipient lives at an inn. What do I do with it?”

  Ben’s ears perked up.

  “Who’s it addressed to?” The silver-haired man continued to pull envelopes from a box and sort them into piles on a nearby table.

  “Miss Maude Welling.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ben saw the postmaster look up. “Well, she’s often at the soda shop, which her great-uncle owns.”

  “Should I run it over there then, sir?”

  Ben resisted the urge to offer to deliver it to her.

  “Looks like it’s from an attorney, sir.”

  “Oh, just put it in the inn’s box.” The postmaster cleared his throat. “Can I help you with anything, young man?”

  Ben turned to face the counter. “Yes, please, two stamps.”

  After receiving the stamps and his change, Ben made his departure out into the fresh island air. He crossed the street and headed toward the stores near Cadotte’s establishment.

  Soon he was leaning against the whitewashed wall of the tobacconist’s, beneath the shadow of an overhang. Ben watched as Maude made her way from the soda shop across the street to the wharf. He jingled the coins in his pocket. Time for a Coca-Cola and a chat with the shop owner.

  Time for Ben to get to know Mr. Cadotte better. And then, his beautiful great-niece. As he entered the soda shop, the silver-haired man behind the counter turned to face him. He wore a heavy white apron tied at the neck, over a black-and-white-striped shirt, the far-too-long sleeves pushed up by his armbands. A black bow tie was affixed perfectly straight beneath his narrow collar. And his blue eyes, as Ben approached, remained steady.

  Sliding onto a high, counter-height chair, Ben met the man’s wary gaze. He offered what he hoped was a charming grin, but this Al, of Al’s Soda Shop, wasn’t returning the smile. Ben averted his gaze to the board behind the slender man.