My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “At least he sent the letter….”

  “Yes, in which he also threatened me if I showed up at his inn uninvited!” The attorney barked out a laugh. “If I were his attorney, I’d have advised him the same thing.”

  Ben forced a chuckle.

  Hollingshead flipped through a file atop his desk.

  “Welling has been overseeing half the businesses for about ten years, maybe longer.” Hollingshead whistled. “I’d be mad, too.”

  Perhaps he could answer his journalistic question of where by offering a statement that the attorney could confirm or deny. “And all are on Mackinac Island.”

  “Exactly. So he couldn’t abandon them until this transition had taken place. But Welling won’t even respond to Robert’s requests. At least you’re here now. Why don’t we go over the main points again, and I’ll explain why I think your client won’t win if he takes us to court.”

  “Ja, very good.”

  “And may I remind you, the first point is that the judge on this circuit drew up this will and codicil for Mrs. Cadotte fifteen years ago. Thus, he’s unlikely to overturn his own handiwork.”

  An hour later, Ben’s mind was reeling. All of the properties Mr. Welling oversaw had belonged to his mother-in-law. Since his wife preceded him in death, per the codicil, Peter Welling didn’t inherit anything his wife received from her mother’s estate. All of a sudden it was like being back in Germany—his uncle having been tasked to care for his mother and her family. Then they were evicted from the property almost as soon as Grandmother was buried, and their belongings, what few his uncle allowed them to keep, were unceremoniously dumped on the ground in front of their home on the estate. Mother screaming and crying. Father begging. Sister despondent. And Ben in shock.

  He wouldn’t allow this to happen to the woman he was falling in love with. Ben could admit it now. Leaving the island without her would be like giving up breathing.

  “What will happen to Miss Welling?”

  The young attorney’s eyes narrowed. “Since she is of age, I’m unable to discuss her situation with you, of course.”

  The man stood, and Ben realized he was being dismissed. He rose. “Might I have your card?” The lawyer slid the file into his drawer and turned the lock then pocketed the key. “I’ll contact Miss Welling to obtain permission to speak with you.”

  He had a card all right. It said “Ben Steffan, Reporter,” not “Friedrich König, Faux Attorney, Fake Industrialist, and Generally Nosy Person.” He patted his pockets. “Afraid I don’t have one with me.”

  The man shoved a paper pad and pencil toward him, atop the desk. “Give me your information, then, so I have it on file.”

  Fraud. Had he just committed an illegal act? No doubt he had. He scribbled his full name so that it was almost indecipherable.

  A child’s wail interrupted the silence. “You can let yourself out, Mr. König. I think my wife needs help.”

  Ben departed, stepping onto the plank sidewalk. All along Main Street, bustling new shops touted their wares. Tobacconist, butcher, druggist, clothier, and a newspaper office. He was tempted to duck into the newspaper office, but he needed to find Jack. He checked his pocket watch. They were to have met at the Timber Pines.

  Seagulls ducked and bobbed, some squawking over a piece of roll a lumberjack had dropped near the bakery. The tempting smell of sugar cookies almost drew Ben into Jo’s Bakery, but he needed to fetch Jack.

  When he arrived at the cedar-sided barnlike building, Jack was seated at a table near the windows. He waved. “Come on—they’ve got the best whitefish here. I already told the lady to bring us some.”

  “How was your run?” Ben slid into his seat.

  “Well, I went around Robin Hood’s barn and was all the better for it.”

  Ben smiled at the quaint expression. “So all around, then? But you didn’t get lost?”

  “Found some kids my own age, and we had a few races.” Jack wadded his faded cotton napkin into a ball and tossed it into the air, leaning back in his chair so that it opened and landed on his lap.

  Ben chuckled at the boy’s antics and picked up his own napkin. “And?”

  “Well, I licked ’em all, so that wasn’t much of a challenge.”

  The coffee hostess, a rail-thin woman, poured Ben a cup of coffee.

  “Me, too!” Jack pointed to a spot in front of him.

  “What does your dad say?” The waitress pursed her lips.

  Ben folded and tucked his napkin so that it formed a sailor’s hat.

  The woman raised an eyebrow. He looked up, realizing the woman meant he, Ben, might be the boy’s father.

  Before he could correct the woman, Jack leaned back in his chair and announced, “He ain’t my dad.”

  The woman shook her head but poured the boy a mugful.

  He and Ben reached for the creamer at the same time. “You drink coffee at home?”

  “Yeah, Maude started drinking it about my age to help with her breathing. So I get to drink it, too.”

  “What do you mean for her breathing?”

  “The doc said the coffee might help with some of her breathing spells. That’s why she can’t come with us to the farm.” The boy grabbed the sugar tongs and dropped ten sugar cubes into his coffee.

  “Maude won’t go with you?”

  “Nah, she don’t do so good around farms—’specially if there’s any hay growing.”

  Ben sipped his coffee. Strong.

  How could her father be so cold? “What will she do?”

  “Don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes. “But I’m gonna miss her.”

  Did the boy really not know about his family’s tenuous situation? Did Peter Welling even realize that he couldn’t sell the inn? That because of the entailment, the codicil on the will, Robert Swaine stood to inherit all. In fact, at this point in time, Robert controlled the entire Cadotte fortune.

  “Jack, how does your father get along with your uncle Robert?”

  The boy scowled. “They used to be great pals. Uncle Robert used to live with us. Since Mom died, though …” When Jack’s eyes began to fill with tears, Ben ceased his questions.

  A different waitress stopped. “Everything all right here?”

  Ben handed the boy his handkerchief. “He lost his mother last year.”

  The round-faced woman squinted at Jack. “Aren’t you Robert Swaine’s nephew? Saw you in here once with him.”

  Jack blew his nose and nodded.

  The waitress harrumphed. “I’d be crying, too, if I was you.”

  The child looked up at her, his head cocked.

  “Did he already put you out of your home, boy? I can’t imagine he’d be that hard-hearted, but you just don’t know with some men.”

  Ben shot her a look that would have silenced the toughest Chicago thug, but she just shrugged at him. She departed and Jack frowned at Ben.

  “Why did that lady say that stuff, Friedrich?”

  “A busybody prattling on. Probably verrückt.”

  Jack cupped a hand around the side of his mouth and whispered, “Ya mean crackers?”

  “Ja. Pay her no mind, Jack.” If only he could do the same.

  Stifling a yawn, Maude finished dusting and wiping every surface in the Ladies’ Parlor. After extinguishing the lights, she crumpled into the low overstuffed chair inside the private sitting room. Here the ladies sat and chatted about their children and grandchildren and compared vacation locales. With this parlor housing the best piano besides the ballroom, some ladies also kept up their skills by entertaining the others.

  She should never have agreed to stay and take this double shift. Maude pressed her head back against the velvet cushion of the chair and sat in near darkness, with only the light from beneath the doors lending its glow. God, give me the strength to get home tonight. Although Father had assured her he was fine today, his skin had an ashen quality to it. She wanted to get home and check on him before he went to bed. And she’d have some explaining
to do as to where she was. She needed to resign. Her family needed her.

  The door to the room creaked open. A slit of light pierced the darkness from the hallway and then widened to a path of pale gold on the crimson carpet. She cringed. Maybe she shouldn’t have shut the parlor down so early. But it was after nine o’clock.

  One charcoal pants leg was followed by another as a tall man eased into the darkened room. Sulphuric scents bit at her nose as he lit a match and one by one ignited the tapers in the candelabra. She stiffened as the flare of fire lit his handsome features. Friedrich. Here in the dark corner, could he see her? What was he doing in the women’s parlor, in secret? Mesmerized, she watched him, not wanting to startle him. Should she speak?

  With only the pool of light to guide him, he slowly moved toward the piano, setting the candelabra atop it. He lit another short candle set in an old-fashioned brass holder and placed it in the receptacle on the side of the keyboard. He pulled the padded bench back from the piano and lifted the cover from the keys.

  Was the man going to bang out one of the silly songs the men enjoyed in their smoking room? If she heard one more rendition about Casey dancing with his strawberry blond, she’d scream and reveal her location. She leaned forward. She’d slip from the room once he began playing. He gently pressed on several of the keys. It was the beginning of a piece she knew well—one of Mother’s favorites. Maude relaxed back into the seat, holding her breath.

  Friedrich’s fingers seemed to barely brush the keys, yet soon Moonlight Sonata softly, gently, filled the room. Not a popular ditty.

  Instead, the soft notes sent chills up her spine. Maude straightened, as she always had when her mother played it for her. His fingers caressed and lifted the song with skill. With the music’s decrescendo, tears covered her cheeks.

  Friedrich’s rendition of the piece then turned, the staccato notes climbing an uphill celebratory sequence. She rubbed her tingling arms.

  As though sensing her presence, he stopped. “Wer ist da?”

  “It’s Maude….” She raised her fingers to her mouth.

  He was the finest pianist she’d ever heard—and the island had been blessed to have virtuosos perform at their music house. She began to cough.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes …” She raised her handkerchief to her mouth.

  Confident steps brought him to her side. He knelt on the floor beside her and took her hand. “What are you doing here so late, my liebchen?”

  Hope filled her. “Am I your sweetheart?” Longing lit in her heart, and she pushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

  His warm, masculine hand brushed against her hands and brought her fingers to his lips. One by one, he pressed a kiss to each finger of each hand. The warmth and the tenderness sent jolts of pleasure through her. Then he turned her hands over and gently kissed her wrists, the warmth sending heat through her blood. Her legs began to tremble beneath her petticoats. Friedrich set her hands in her lap and covered them with his own. He leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers. He smelled of spice and clean linen, intoxicating. Faint peppermint was on his breath as he leaned in closer yet. She leaned forward to meet him. His lips met hers, warm, firm, and inviting, and felt like nothing she’d ever experienced before. She wanted it to never end. This felt so right. She tugged her hands free and wrapped them around his neck grazing the tendrils of hair that covered his collar, drawing him closer, but he placed his hands against the armrest and held himself back from her.

  “Maude, I have something I must tell you.”

  She wanted another of those amazing kisses. “Yes?” Her voice came out husky and didn’t sound at all like herself.

  “I love you.”

  He loved her.

  “And I must tell you some other things, too, my darling.”

  The door to the hallway opened, framing Ada Fox. “My, my, isn’t this cozy?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben awoke with dead certainty. He was in love with Maude Welling, but he’d just gotten her dismissed from her job. And sometime in the night, he’d worked out in his dreams that Ada Fox was Adelaide Bishop. Which meant she may be the one working with Robert Swaine to take the inn from Maude’s family.

  After breakfast, he made his way to the housekeeping manager’s office and rapped on her door.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Fox’s tone was brittle.

  Instead of answering, he opened the door and allowed himself in. Ignoring her imperious gaze over the top of her teacup, he closed the door behind him then settled into the chair opposite her desk.

  “I know who you are, Mrs. Bishop.”

  She set the cup into its saucer with a clink. “Mr. Steffan, you have ferreted me out.”

  “What brings you here to the island?”

  “As you can see, I’m managing the staff at the Grand. And doing quite well, if I don’t say so myself.” She chuckled with satisfaction.

  “Agreed.” He quirked an eyebrow at her.

  The lines between her brows relaxed as she poured herself another cup of fragrant tea from the teapot nestled between a long yellow ledger and a small tray of muffins. “Tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “No, ‘ja, danke,’ then?” She laughed then opened her desk drawer and retrieved a matching cup and saucer, marked with the Grand Hotel insignia.

  Ben tugged on his tie. “German is my native tongue, but, ja, I normally only slip into it when I’m not thinking.” Or stressed, or in his sleep.

  “Cream and sugar with your tea?” Adelaide Bishop acted as though she’d invited him for this express purpose.

  “Two sugars, please.”

  She added two cubes of sugar to the cup, stirred it with a silver teaspoon, and passed it to him. Not even one crumb from the pastries marred the surface of her desk.

  “Danke.”

  “You are most welcome.” She raised her teacup to her lips and peered at him over the rim. “Have one of those poppy seed muffins you’re eyeing, Mr. Steffan.”

  He shook his head, not wanting to lose his focus. “I do wish to apologize for kissing Miss Welling.” He wasn’t sorry. “Well, for kissing her here while she was at work.”

  Her dark eyebrows rose behind her glasses. “So you’ve had contact with her outside of the Grand?”

  He gritted his teeth.

  “Tut-tut. Now what would your editor say? Mr. Banyon isn’t a very forgiving man. Thought he’d have me drawn and quartered when I made a bid to buy the newspaper.”

  Ben refused to be goaded. America’s wealthiest woman rose, looked at the watch on her chatelaine, and turned toward the window. “Why don’t we get right to the point?”

  “Agreed.” Ben set his cup back in its saucer and slid it onto the corner of the desk. “Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. Verstanden?”

  He’d not meant the words to come out so harsh, but if she got in his way, he may lose his story and his promotion.

  She nodded, as though approving his tactics. “I understand perfectly. I’ll assume you’re not here for an article about me or else you’d have been pestering me and the staff with questions, instead of dogging those horrid young men and simpering young women.”

  “True.” And in his heart, for some unfathomable reason, he was glad Banyon didn’t know Adelaide Bishop was managing housekeeping at the Grand. “I have another target.”

  “An islander.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You might be interested to know Greyson Luce was one of the young men under my care at the University of Detroit.” She drew in a deep breath. “And I’m afraid I did Miss Welling a great disservice.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “Can you believe it of me, the great manipulator of industrial boards, that I was naive? And at my age, no less.” She removed her spectacles. The eccentric woman probably didn’t need them. How old was she really?

  “Not from everything I’ve heard, but …” He splayed his hands and shrugged. “A
nything can happen, right?”

  “I’ll be paying a visit to Peter Welling today.”

  “Please, Mrs. Bishop, you mustn’t say anything about Maude and me—it would upset him.”

  “Are you more concerned about Maude or yourself?” She clasped her teacup in both hands, rocked it gently, and then looked down—almost as though reading tea leaves.

  “I’ve asked permission to court her.” He set his cup into its saucer. Of course, Peter Welling hadn’t said Ben could court her—he said Maude could benefit from a companion.

  “As yourself or as this König person?”

  His shoulders slumped, and he exhaled loudly. “If I can get a scoop on Greyson Luce and Anna Forham Luce, I have a shot at a promotion. I don’t think my other stories are going to stir enough interest—they aren’t scandalous enough.”

  “Well, I think we can both benefit from me sharing what I know about the matter.” She inclined her head.

  “I’m listening.”

  Maude didn’t awaken until after eleven. Thank goodness, Mrs. Fox insisted she take the day off. Or was it to be a permanent thing, as in fired? She cringed at the humiliation she’d suffer if Father discovered she’d failed. Bea came in and pulled back the drapes and opened the shades so that bright sunlight streamed into Maude’s eyes.

  “Get up, sleepyhead.”

  Maude stretched, unleashing a string of muscle pains from head to toe. “Oh.” She relaxed her body back into the feather bed, like a marionette suddenly released from performing. But whose tune had she been dancing to? Not God’s. Lord, forgive me.

  “Come on and I’ll help you.” Bea sighed as she began to pull back the coverlet.

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  “Suit yourself, but that good-looking Mr. König is downstairs waiting for you.”

  Maude tossed off the rest of her bedclothes and hopped from the bed.

  Bea bobbed up and down on the balls of her feet. “Thought that might put some rise in your shine!”

  She had so much child in her, still. She didn’t belong here working away what was left of her youth. What could be done?