Alegra's Homecoming

by Mary Anne Wilson

  “You’re from the island?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I’ve only been back there a few months, but I guess once an islander, always an islander.”

  “If you say so,” she murmured as her stomach churned anew.

  “And you’re here for the Bounty Festival?”

  You’re going there for revenge? She remembered Roz saying in disbelief when she’d told her the reason she was coming back: she was going to show the people who’d pitied little Al Peterson and made her life miserable that the little girl was gone, that she was now Alegra Reynolds—she’d taken her grandmother’s surname—successful designer and businesswoman.

  She’d denied Roz’s accusation

  Roz had studied her and finally said, “Honey, success is the best revenge.” But unless they knew who Alegra Reynolds was, they’d never realize how far Al Peterson had come.

  “So are you here for the festival?” he repeated.

  “Isn’t everyone?” she asked.

  “Well, not always,” he responded. “Some come over to visit friends and relatives.”

  “I have no friends or any family on the island,” she said, and hoped her tone sounded normal.

  “A true tourist?”

  She shrugged and the fur on her collar brushed her chin. “Just curious,” she murmured.

  Her phone rang and she opened it to see Roz’s number on the readout again. She hit the “ignore” button, just as another spasm of nausea clutched at her stomach. She hugged her arms around her middle and bent forward to try to minimize the discomfort. “Damn it,” she said.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Simple words. Yet they echoed in her mind, bouncing off the past, and pulling a day from eighteen years ago right into the present. She made herself look up. He still held her shoulder, and his head was cocked to one side, those blue eyes intently surveying her. The festival, Sean taunting her, humiliating her, then Mr. Lawrence standing between her and Sean, holding both of them back, his hand on her shoulder, him leaning over, looking at her intently, asking, “Are you okay?”

  Just like this stranger, but he was leaner and darker than Mr. Lawrence had been back then, maybe younger. Around forty or so, and Mr. Lawrence had been…well, to a child, old, maybe fifty. But the tone of the voice and those blue eyes, along with the strong hand on her shoulder, confused her. If she narrowed her eyes, blurred her vision, it could have been Mr. Lawrence talking to her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then straightened up. Thankfully he let go of her. She grabbed the rail with her left hand and exhaled. “I’m fine. It’s just so rough. The water and the wind and the cold.”

  “This is actually pretty nice for this time of year,” he said, and she knew it was true. “I’ve always thought it was crazy to have the festival in November. But it was November when Bartholomew Grace got back here safely from his pillaging and plundering, and celebrated. So who’s going to go against the tradition set up by one of the most feared pirates who ever sailed the seven seas?” The man grinned at Alegra, obviously enjoying his little explanation. “His ghost would rise up and make us all walk the plank if we dared to mess with his plans.”

  Pirates and ghosts, her wishing she could have gone on a pirate ship and gotten rich, then come back and made anyone who called her Al Peterson walk the plank. The past was alive around her, and her mind raced. Mr. Lawrence had a son. The boy had been in high school or maybe he’d just graduated and gone off to college around the time of Alegra’s run-in with Sean. She couldn’t remember much about the Lawrence kid, since he was so far ahead of her in school, but she thought his name had been Joe.

  “The old guy loved the celebration as much as he loved the pirating, from all accounts. It was a debauchery, to all intents and purposes. Now it’s a week full of art shows, crafts, wine tasting, sailing on the sound, parties and a parade, all topped off by a charity ball on the final evening. Not quite the definition of debauchery.” He went on as if reciting directly from a book. “A debauchery is a wild gathering involving excessive drinking and promiscuity. From what I’ve seen over the years, the label ‘festival’ is definitely more fitting. A festival is an occasion for feasting or celebration.”

  She smiled weakly. “Is your middle name ‘dictionary’?”

  “No, my middle name is Preston. Joseph Preston Lawrence.”

  JOE LAWRENCE watched the blond woman as he told her his name. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he stated all three names to her, but it certainly wasn’t to see those finely etched cheeks blush or those deep amber eyes widen. She recognized his name? That shouldn’t have surprised him, although being on the island for six months and being out of the limelight had certainly lessened the chances of anyone knowing him, other than the islanders he saw day in and day out. And none of them were too impressed by Joey Lawrence.

  Her tongue touched her pale pink lips, before she simply said, “Oh.”

  “And you’re…?”

  She stared at him, as if he was suddenly speaking a foreign language, then she swallowed and softly cleared her throat. “Alegra Reynolds.”

  Joe had spotted her at the booth where the ferry tickets were bought before they’d boarded for the trip to the island. She’d stood out in the sea of commuters getting on the ferry’s last run before it shut down for the night. Her clothes had certainly made her conspicuous: the thigh-length jacket with what he’d guess was politically correct faux fur at the collar and cuffs, to the pencil-legged jeans, and the narrow high-heeled boots.

  He’d watched her get her ticket, then climb into the car, a sleek black sedan, in front of his old truck. He’d guessed she was in her late twenties, with shoulder-length hair the color of rich cream, and a profile that hinted at a delicate beauty he wouldn’t have minded seeing full face. But she was in the car with its tinted windows, and out of sight by the time the ferry started loading.

  He’d been behind her on the deck, letting the truck idle to keep the heater going, and watched her exit her car. No islander would leave the comfort of his or her vehicle to stand at the rail and stare out at the dark waters of the sound. He’d watched her until she disappeared, then decided to go belowdecks to the small concession for some hot coffee.

  He’d been up since four that morning, taking the earliest ferry to Seattle, and he was starting to feel the effects of a long day in the city. But before he’d reached the stairs that led belowdecks, he’d passed the woman and heard her mutter, “Damn it all,” in a choked voice. He’d turned and she was there, looking decidedly green around the gills. He hadn’t thought twice about going closer and asking her if she was okay.

  Now he was standing facing her, seeing she was as beautiful as he’d thought she was. Alegra Reynolds. The name rang a bell, but before he could get a handle on where he’d heard it, her cell phone rang again.

  After reading the LED screen, she answered it. As he turned to look past them at the dock coming closer and closer, he heard her say, “What now, Roz?” Then a long silence before he heard, “Do it. Let me know when the tax attorney gets back to you.” As he glanced back at her, he saw her end the call, but still keep the phone in her hand. “Business,” she said.

  “I assumed as much. ‘Tax attorney’ doesn’t usually come up in everyday conversations with friends and family.”

  She smiled softly, another expression that was so damned endearing it made his breath catch. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “You lived here before and then came back?”

  He nodded. “Right.”

  “You commute to work now?”

  Despite her blush when he’d told her his name, she apparently didn’t have a clue who Joseph Lawrence was. “No, I work on the island. I’m a writer for the newspaper, the Beacon—it’s a small weekly for the island. We cover big stories like announcing the best peach preserves and counting the times the local drunk is locked up.”

  A spasm crossed her face and h
e was certain she was going to be sick, but she only exhaled. “You’re a reporter for the paper?” she asked.

  He nodded. “A reporter and the owner.”

  He could tell that surprised her. “Really?”

  “That’s what it says on the flag, owner and editor, at least it has for the past six months. The previous owner, Clive Orr, retired to Florida to sun and fun.”

  “Smart man,” she murmured as the wind picked up, bringing cutting cold with it.

  When her phone rang again, he heard himself asking, “Does it ever stop?”

  She took the device out, saw the LED and hit a button that shut off the ring. “When I turn it off.” She kept it in one hand, and tried futilely to get her hair under control and behind her ears. “It’s business. You know how that is.”

  He had a flashback to his other life, before he came home to Shelter Island. Back then cell phones had been his lifelines. Heck, he’d had three. One for business. One for personal calls. And one with a number he only gave a select few. He’d had an earpiece he never took out of his ear while he was awake. Now he still had a cell phone, but seldom turned it on, and truthfully wasn’t at all sure where it was right now. “It can eat up your life, can’t it?” he said.

  She took him off guard when she asked, “Why did you leave the island?”

  He shrugged. “You know, the old I’m-going-to-conquer-the-world attitude?”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “I got close, then came back here,” he said, not about to go into details of the twenty years he’d lived away from the island, or why he’d come back here six months ago with his three-year-old son, Alex, to make a life for the two of them where his own had begun.

  The ferry slowed even more, and an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Sorry, folks, we’ve got a bit of a problem docking, and it’ll take a few minutes.”

  “Riding the ferry can be an adventure,” he said as the big vessel lurched to a complete stop.

  Alegra grabbed the railing to brace herself. “This could be a huge story for your paper,” she said.

  “I guess so,” he said, aware of more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. It hit a nerve. “Not like gang shootings or bodies in the Hudson, though.”

  That made her smile. “Yeah, not exactly the big, bad city.”

  “Alegra Reynolds. You’re from New York.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and he could tell it surprised her. “Yes, but how—?”

  “The boutique. The one near downtown Manhattan. All black and silver, with headless mannequins in the windows?” He’d gone past that upscale store when he’d walked to work instead of taking a cab. He’d glanced at it more then once, and wondered how anyone could call those tiny pieces of silk and lace clothing. “You’re that Alegra.”

  She looked pleased that he knew of her. “You got it right, but how could you?”

  “In my other life, I worked at one of the big New York dailies, and our offices were about two blocks south of where your store is. I went past it a lot.”

  Her smile slipped, and her mouth formed a perfect O before she finally said, “J. P. Lawrence? You’re that Lawrence?”

  He nodded. “Used to be.”

  “But now you’re here?” She waved vaguely to the island nearby.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “But you…” She bit her lip, looking as if he’d said he was from Pluto but chose to live on Mars. She looked stunned. “You were the editor, weren’t you?”

  The ferry lurched forward again and the voice came over the speaker. “We’ll be docking in five minutes. Please be ready to disembark.”

  “We need to go to our cars.”

  It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “What are you doing here running a weekly newspaper?”

  So many had asked him that, and so many had gotten his stock answer. “I’m here for my son, to let him grow up where I did.” But a part of him wanted to tell her something that was more truthful than the first statement. “I told you I went off to conquer the world, but what I didn’t say was, it wasn’t worth it.”

  She stared at him, then a frown grew. “Oh,” she said. “I understand.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure it’s personal. Things happen, and—”

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t a drunk or druggie and lost it all. No.” He stood straighter. “I didn’t have a breakdown or punch the publisher in the face.”

  She held up both hands, palms out to him, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  He looked at her hands, the long, slender fingers, and realized something. She wasn’t holding her phone any longer. He didn’t remember her putting it in her pocket, either, though maybe she had. “Your phone?” he asked.

  She felt in her pocket, then looked back at him. “Oh, no!”

  Alegra must have dropped it when the ferry lurched. They both dropped to a crouch to search.

  Chapter Two

  “There it is,” Alegra gasped, spying it under the railing within an inch of the edge of the deck. She made a grab for it at the same time Joe did. There was a tangle of fingers, and then, as if in slow motion, Alegra saw her phone skitter to the edge and over.

  She straightened, grabbed the railing and looked down into the churning water. “Great, just great,” she muttered. “It’s got all of my contacts in it, and my calendar and…” She couldn’t stop a huge sigh. “Everything.”

  “It sounds as if it’s your lifeline.”

  That about said it all, she thought, but simply closed her eyes to try to regroup. Ever since she’d decided to return to Shelter Island, nothing had gone right. Her flight out of San Francisco had been cancelled, her luggage had been routed to Salt Lake City instead of Seattle. Now her phone. She should have let this place die out of her memories and never looked back.

  “Is there a cell phone store on the island?” she asked.

  “I really don’t know,” Joe said. He was frowning. “Why don’t you just let it die a natural death and take a break from it all for a while? Just think, no interruptions, no calls when you don’t want them. It could be a good experience.”

  He might have left his life behind in New York, but she didn’t want to. “That’s not a choice for me. I have things I need to take care of and—”

  “And you’re totally indispensable?”

  Why did he make that sound so bad? “Right now, I am.”

  “That’s quite a load to bear,” he murmured, and for a crazy moment she wondered if that was pity she saw in his eyes. Though why this man should look at her with pity made no sense.

  “It’s business. That’s not always fun and games.”

  “Why did you come for the festival if you have such pressing business matters?” he asked.

  He’d find out soon enough on the last night at the masquerade ball on what was left of the Bartholomew Grace estate. Maybe he’d cover it for his little newspaper. It would all be over for her then, and she could leave the island behind once and for all. “I can mix business and pleasure, despite the old taboos about it.”

  “Good for you,” he said, but he didn’t sound congratulatory at all.

  She suddenly felt their conversation had taken a turn into something combative. “Are you the welcoming committee, cross-examining people who come for the festival?”

  She thought her words hit their mark, but the next moment, he was almost smiling at her. “Now there’s a job that could be interesting, interrogating lovely ladies on the ferry.”

  She wasn’t ready to laugh with him, and her phone having gone to a watery grave only added to the tension of returning to Shelter Island. “Now there’s an employment opportunity that would beat the heck out of doing stories on peach picking or drunks.”

  She hated the sarcasm in her tone, but couldn’t help it. This man was starting to annoy her.

  “I’ll pass,” he said, and now she felt a chill between them. “And good luck finding a cell phone store.” />
  “Thanks,” she said. The silence that fell between them was beyond awkward. Before she turned and went back to her rental car, she found herself saying, “As far as doing business goes, I was told that you had fax machines, Internet connections and phone lines on the island.”

  “Thanks for filling me in. Now we can put away the hammer and chisel and the slabs of stone we use to write our stories for the paper.”

  She flushed, and then the bell sounded to let the passengers know they had to get back in their vehicles to disembark. She started to walk off.

  “Can I ask you something before we climb in our vehicles and ride off into the night?” he asked.

  She felt herself bracing. “What?”

  “It came across the wires just a week ago about you coming to the West Coast because you were merging with a competitor.”

  She never would have guessed that a story like that would end up in the offices of a small weekly paper. “We’re buying them out, not merging. They’ll become one of our Alegra’s Closet stores.”

  His next question was unexpected. “Are you here to open a new store on the island?”

  She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of his question, but simply shook her head. “No, definitely not. I have other things to do, not the least of which is looking for some art at the local galleries.”

  He studied her for a moment, then said, “Nice meeting you.”

  “Sure,” she said as she heard car engines starting, sending a low roar into the cold air over the sound of the idling engine of the ferry. She called out, “Goodbye,” and headed for her car.

  “Goodbye,” she heard him yell after her.

  She got into her rental, and as she settled, she glanced in the rearview mirror. She saw Joe open the door to a beat-up pickup truck parked right behind her. He caught her eye in the reflection, lifted a hand in a wave and climbed into the truck. J. P. Lawrence, now known as Joe Lawrence. “How the mighty have fallen,” she said to herself. She wasn’t sure she bought the reason he’d given—that he was here for his son. Why would anyone want their kid to grow up on Shelter Island?