My Heart Belongs on Mackinac Island

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “So my uncle is legally responsible and must remain on the island?” The lawyer cleared his throat. “As I said, it’s not entirely clear if the stipulations apply to Robert Swaine or not. At present, we should assume that at the minimum he must reside at least a portion of the year on the island. If you or he wishes, action could be taken to have a judge determine his status.”

  Maude’s head began to ache. She held up a hand. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Not now anyway.

  “I’m at liberty to share that he has kept all profits from your businesses in a separate account for you or your brother to draw from as needed.”

  “Yet none for my father?”

  “I’m afraid we fear he cannot, at present, given the codicil in the will. Nothing other than the direct expenses of the businesses he manages.”

  Poor Father. No wonder he was so out of sorts. “So he’s been relying on Robert, since our mother’s death, to okay withdrawals?”

  “I’m not sure that Robert is requiring that of your father.” Mr. Hollingshead rotated his wedding band in a slow revolution. “He’s not happy with his mother’s stipulations.”

  “Is that why he’s been staying in St. Ignace?”

  “Pretty much.” The attorney glanced toward his tall oak filing cabinet on the far wall.

  “So my father truly has nothing from the estate?”

  “I imagine he had the good sense to pay himself a salary over the years. I would hope so.”

  “But he owned none of the assets.”

  “Correct.”

  And Maude, and eventually Jack, owned not only the inn but all the other businesses. Would this entire situation cause Father’s heart to finally give way?

  “There are some more legal requirements in the codicil, but as your family’s attorney I’m not sure we need to concern ourselves at this time.”

  “Such as?”

  “In the future—should there be another heir who came forward.”

  “My other two uncles died in the war.”

  “Can you be certain they had no children?”

  Maude blinked.

  He raised a hand. “Not to worry about these things now. I’ll meet with you later to spell out a few other contingencies.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  “You know where your accounts are held, Miss Welling, don’t you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You can’t change the accounts without your uncle’s permission, nor can you transfer amounts out of the accounts in excess of a set amount.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’d need to ask your uncle.”

  “I’ll do that. Good day.”

  He made to rise, but Maude dipped her chin at him as she stood. “I’ll let myself out, thank you.”

  She put on her coat and grabbed her umbrella then exited onto the street. For a moment, the sun peeked out from behind gray rain clouds. Maybe a hot drink and pastry would settle her nerves. She dodged small children tossing a ball to one another on the sidewalk. Finally, she paused by Jo’s Bakery, its glass windows smelling of a fresh vinegar cleaning. Maude opened the door and went inside, the scents of cinnamon, bread, and sugar enveloping her.

  “Help you, miss?” The auburn-haired woman behind the display case smiled at her and pulled a small plate from atop a stack.

  “I’d love to have one of those cinnamon rolls.”

  “Here’s a good fat one for you.” She slid a spatula beneath a large roll covered with cinnamon, white frosting, and butter. “Tea or coffee to go with that, dear?”

  “Coffee, please, with lots of cream and sugar.”

  The woman laughed. “That’s the way I like it, too.”

  Maude paid and carried her snack tray to a small circular metal table that faced a wall of various antique-framed mirrors. She took a seat but was startled by the reflection in the mirror. A wan-faced, red-eyed, frizzy-haired, and rumpled-looking young woman stared back at her, looking as though she’d lost her best friend. Pitiful. Maude looked pitiful.

  The bell to the bakery tinkled as the door was opened. In the mirror, Maude spied a dark-suited man standing behind her. Attorney Hollingshead. He headed toward her table.

  “Miss Welling?”

  “Yes?”

  He shifted from foot to foot like a small boy who’d done wrong. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Please join me.” She sucked in a deep breath and waved toward the empty seat. “But I’m not sharing my roll.” Maude gave a short laugh.

  “Yes, well, that’s fine.” He sat, his legs spread wide as he leaned forward. “I need to know if your father ever sent someone over to speak with me on his behalf.”

  “Not that I know of.” Greyson? Had he come to find out what Maude would inherit? Anger heated her face, and she hastily took a bite of her cinnamon bun, bending her head low over the plate.

  “I know this may sound crazy, but a gentleman made inquiries here a few weeks back but didn’t leave me his card.”

  Maude savored the tangy roll then swallowed and looked up. “Perhaps Father did, but I don’t know who that would have been.” She’d give Greyson a piece of her mind if he had come over.

  “Well, here’s the strange thing. He introduced himself as Friederich something. Cooney?”

  Friedrich König had been here. “Oh?” She kept her fork lifted over her treat.

  “The gentleman greatly resembled a reporter who I’d met at a lawyers’ conference in Detroit.”

  “What?” The utensil fell from her fingers and clattered onto the plate. “Who?”

  “Ben Steffan. But what connection does he have with your family?”

  “None.” None at all. Her stomach threatened to heave up its contents. Ben had confirmed last night that he was not Friedrich König and instead a reporter working undercover on an article, but now she was to understand that he was also investigating their legal affairs?

  “Well, then, I may have been mistaken.” He laughed.

  Hollingshead adjusted his bow tie. “I’m relieved. Do please let me know who your father sent so that I can get a good night’s rest, again, will you, Miss Welling?”

  “Certainly.” What about her? Would she ever rest well again knowing that Ben Steffan had weaseled his way into her family for a story and apparently may also be seeking to learn whether she possessed any fortune? Why would God allow this to happen?

  But something inside her begged her to trust Ben. She’d seen too many glimpses into the kind man he was. She had to trust God, too.

  Hours later, Maude arrived home with clothes still damp, although the weather had cleared up. The breeze on the boat had only intensified her chill. Now she stripped off her clothes and planned to don a simple-but-warm dress for dinner, after which she intended to speak with her father.

  Three sharp raps preceded Bea’s entrance. Maude hastily turned away from the door.

  “Let me help you, miss.”

  Bea freed her of the clinging garments. Maude dried off and whisked into her dry undergarments and a soft, light wool dress.

  “Mrs. Fox will be arriving about seven.”

  Maude groaned.

  “Don’t you like her?” Bea adjusted the dress’s collar. “She’s the best thing for your father.”

  “I like her just fine. But can you please stall her if she arrives early? I need to speak with Father, right after dinner.”

  An hour later, as she ate her last spear of lemon-glazed asparagus, Maude took assessment of her father’s mood. He seemed cheerful, joking during dinner, and he’d even allowed her brother to depart a few minutes earlier without eating all of his vegetables.

  “Father, I went to see Attorney Hollingshead today.”

  Jaw slacking, her father pinned her with his gaze. “And?”

  She blew out a puff of air. “He told me.”

  He harrumphed, but his cheeks didn’t grow red, as she thought they might. “Quite a pickle, isn’t it?”

  �
�It’s most distressing, Father. And I hope you know that I believe what Grandmother did was wrong.”

  “My dear, I lost my own mother at a somewhat young age, not much older than you.” Her father looked at her as though only just realizing she wasn’t a child anymore. “I was only in my twenties then. And to now have lost my wife, your mother, I can only say that nothing Jacqueline Cadotte Swaine did to me could have hurt more than losing them. Nothing.”

  Maude swallowed. “But it isn’t fair.”

  “No, it isn’t. But Jacqueline was a bitter woman.” He sliced his asparagus into minuscule portions. “Not that I blame her. I can’t imagine how shocked she must have been by your grandfather’s foibles.”

  Both sat in silence, the scent of the boiled ham dinner lingering in the air. What could she do? Father began eating one tiny morsel of asparagus at a time.

  Maude drew in a deep breath, wishing she could exhale the sudden sadness that had permeated the air. “I was wondering. Since you knew about the codicil, why did you not wish for me to run the inn?”

  “I didn’t want you running yourself into the ground like your mother did, managing this place.”

  “But—” Mother’s death wasn’t brought on by overexertion, and they both knew it.

  “My own mother worked so very hard on the farm. I sometimes wonder if that is what killed her, too. I don’t want you to have to have such a big responsibility.”

  “Father—”

  He held out a hand, silencing her. “And there’s more. Things you know nothing of, that have influenced my decision.”

  Someone cleared her throat. Ada Fox stood in the doorway. “Please excuse my interruption. There was no one up front, and I thought I heard your voices.”

  “Ada!” He rose and went to her, kissing each offered cheek. “Come in. You’re just in time for coffee and dessert.”

  Jack popped his head in. “Did I hear dessert?”

  “No vegetables, no dessert, young man.” Father wagged a finger at her brother.

  “Aw, Dad.” He ducked his shaggy head.

  Ada smoothed back a lock of Jack’s hair from his forehead. “Peter, why don’t you allow him, just this once? As a favor to an old friend. I remember the delicious pastries your mother used to make. And I don’t remember you ever being denied partaking of them.”

  He laughed. “You’re right.”

  Jack zipped around Ada and sat in his place, despite Maude’s warning glance that he should still be standing until Mrs. Fox was seated. “So you knew my other grandma? Grandma Welling?”

  “Indeed I did.” Ada turned her direction from Jack to Maude as their father pulled out her chair for her. “I understand you suffer the same affliction that killed your grandmother, Maude. I’m so sorry to hear about your asthma attack.”

  Father’s shoulders stiffened and he remained standing. “When did this happen, Maude?”

  Ada’s mouth slackened, but then she pressed her lips tightly together.

  Maude pushed her plate away. “I should have told you, Father, but I’m fine now.”

  “Children.” Father clucked his tongue. “What can you do with them, Ada?”

  “Love them, I imagine. That’s what I would do. Had I any.” A sheen of moisture glowed on the woman’s eyes.

  Father sat and shrugged his shoulders inside his coat as though uncomfortable. “Ada, what do you mean about my mother dying from asthma?”

  Jane entered the room pushing the coffee cart. She poured coffee and began adding sugar and cream. Maude startled at the realization that their maid already knew what Ada took in hers.

  “I received a letter from our old Sunday school teacher back home, informing me that your mother had succumbed to her asthma.” Ada leaned back as the servant slid coffee in front of her. “Thank you, Jane.”

  “Ye’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Father reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration that dotted his brow. “I thought her heart had failed her and she’d worked too hard.”

  “Oh, your mother did work hard—but the doctor said it was the hay that caused her final attack.”

  “Really?” Father rubbed his chin.

  “I’m sorry, Peter. I thought you knew.”

  “My father only said that she’d worked herself into the grave. I thought he meant her heart had given out.”

  So there was a reason Maude experienced these spells, despite François’s amateur psychiatrist attempts at diagnosing her as mentally unsound. The breathing issues seemed to run in the family. “Thank you for sharing that, Mrs. Fox. I’ll be sure to tell the specialist when I see him next month.” She’d finally made another appointment, and this time she’d keep it.

  Father sipped his coffee and tilted his head at her. “Might want to wait until haying season is over, dear.”

  “Good idea.” Ada accepted a piece of cherry pie from Jane. “If you can wait until they’ve brought it all in, you’ll likely have less difficulty. And I’d be glad to accompany you.”

  “What about me?” Jack eyed the pie as Jane slid a slice in front of him. “Can I go?”

  Ada and Father exchanged a pointed glance.

  “You’ll be traveling a great deal in the near future, son.”

  “I will?” He forked a huge chunk of pie into his mouth.

  “Yes.”

  Ada patted his arm. “I’ve heard all about your athletic abilities, Jack. I’m hoping that very soon you’ll be able to enter some competitions downstate.”

  Maude leaned back in her chair. “While I run the inn?”

  “Yes.” Father set his dessert fork down. “I’m not much on women working so hard, but if you, like your mother and Ada, insist …”

  “Oh, I never insisted.” Ada pressed her napkin to her mouth. “That was your mother who believed I needed training in a vocation.”

  “My mother?” He frowned.

  “She paid for it. I thought you …”

  From the looks being exchanged between Ada and her father, this looked like a conversation she didn’t need to hear.

  “Jack, if you’re done, let’s go play Parcheesi.”

  “Tiddlywinks first! And I want to finish my pie.”

  “We’ll bring your pie over to the parlor with us.”

  “Sure, then. But I’ll whip you and whoever else joins us.”

  “I know.”

  Ada’s eyes sent a silent thank-you as Maude led Jack from the room.

  Seemed there was more than one grandmother who manipulated and controlled people.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After breakfast spent at his typewriter, Ben strolled to the end of the Grand Hotel’s long porch, ignoring the young ladies clustered on either side. He gritted his teeth as he reached the far banister. End of the line. For both the porch and for him as Friedrich König. He’d blown his chances with Maude. He’d have to submit his story and be gone or lie low. Somehow. But how? He removed his hat and tapped it against his thigh.

  The concierge approached him, carrying several placards. Mark Twain’s visage and the date and time of his arrival were inked on the front. Ben had all but forgotten, so besotted was he with Maude Welling. Where Twain went, journalists were sure to follow.

  How many papers would send reporters up so far north and pay for hotel and food?

  “Mr. König, do you have a moment?”

  “Yes?”

  “Robert Swaine, the ship captain who is one of our shareholders, requested that you introduce Mr. Clemens, that is, Mr. Twain.”

  “Me?” Did Swaine want to expose him in front of everyone? Was that his plan? “I don’t think so.” But Clemens had been good to Ben over the years—sending him encouraging notes.

  “Also, when Mr. Twain arrived, he specifically stated that if you were here, he wanted you onstage to introduce him.”

  “I see.” Ben scratched his chin. Clemens hadn’t seen him without his beard since he was a young, wet-behind-the-ears reporter.

  “Quite an ho
nor, sir.”

  And a potential nightmare. “Are there many journalists coming for Twain’s event?”

  He pulled a small notepad from his vest pocket. “Only a few are staying here. A couple of owners’ sons who do columns as a hobby.”

  Oh no, that might include Anna’s brother. Ben’s stomach clenched. “I … will be leaving soon.”

  “You don’t say? A shame.”

  “I’ve enjoyed my stay.” And regretted it in many ways.

  “I heard a quote attributed to Twain that’s become one of my favorites.”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.’” The concierge laughed. “Don’t know for sure that it’s Twain’s, but I think whoever said it was right.”

  The things Ben hadn’t done. There had been many. But right now one musical instrument after another played so loudly in his mind that he couldn’t think straight. He began to sweat and tugged at his collar. He went to his room and remained there until after lunch—hiding from what was to come.

  Ben went downstairs to the ballroom’s entryway, where Twain would be giving his speech.

  A maid cocked her head at him. “You’re fine to go in, if you want, but we’re directing all those who aren’t guests to go to the public areas.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement and stuck his head inside the room before returning to the foyer.

  Noise carried down the halls. He recognized a flock of journalists who’d descended upon the hotel like seagulls looking for a tasty morsel. Ben ducked into an alcove near the hotel’s tea shop, when he heard his name being called.

  The desk clerk, Mr. Morris, caught Ben’s eye and motioned for him to come over. “We have a message for you from a Mrs. Luce.”

  Ben rubbed his chin, suddenly wishing he had his beard back. It was time to really be Ben Steffan again. “Mrs. Luce?”

  The man leaned over the shiny varnished counter. “Mrs. Greyson Luce.” The man’s pursed lips left no doubt that he believed Ben to be involved in some illicit activity.