She sat with an old leather-bound photo album on her lap. It was open to a page that had a large black and white photograph taped to it. The album paper had yellowed and a few words had been written in below the picture in pencil. In an elegant cursive hand, the caption read, Emily, age 17, on the EmmaLee– Charlevoix, Mi. 1941. The picture had been taken of her mother leaning on the rail of the ship, smiling widely at the camera. She was dressed in a knee-length white skirt and white buttoned blouse. On her head, she wore a large-brimmed straw sunhat that shaded her face. Behind her were the main cabin of the ship and a glimpse of the Charlevoix docks and buildings along Bridge Street.
Sally stared down at the picture. She was always struck by how much she resembled her mother. Her hair was a different color, but their facial features were so similar. Her mother and father had been gone now for many years. This had been their house and Sally had grown up here. They left it to her in their will and she had never moved away.
Turning the pages of the album slowly, she had seen all of the photos many times before, but today’s events on the EmmaLee gave the images a new and special feeling. She came to a photo of her grandparents and their three children on the front porch of their old home over on the hill above Round Lake. The picture was taken from the street, showing the entire façade of the house. It was a large Victorian style home with a porch that wrapped around both sides. Its trim was ornately decorated in the style from that time. The house was painted all in white with dark shutters that Sally had been told were green in those years. There were two spruce trees planted on both sides of the front walk that made its way up the front lawn to the center of the porch.
Her mother stood on a step with her two brothers on each side and her parents stood behind them. A caption read, Going to church – August 1939. Her two uncles were still alive; one was out in Los Angeles, retired from the real estate business. The other was in New York. Neither had returned to Charlevoix in over twenty years. They had sold her grandparent’s house soon after Sally’s mother had passed away. One of her uncles had spoken to her before they put the home on the market. She was quite comfortable here in this house and had told them she had no interest in buying the family’s old place, or having it stay in the family. She had received a check for a third of the selling price a few months later.
On the next page there were several smaller photos. One was of her mother with her Irish Setter, Blaze, on the beach down on Lake Charlevoix. Another showed her mother beside a long Packard convertible with the top down and a young man at her side. She remembered her mother telling her about the car and her first romance with a boy from Chicago named Connor.
Sally closed the album and placed it on the small table beside her. Reaching for a glass of cold tea, she sat back and looked out over the lake. Thinking back on her own time in this small town, it had always given her all she wanted from life. She had good friends during her childhood and through high school. She kept very active with school activities and an occasional boyfriend, and also found time for her painting which turned out to be her true passion.
She had left to attend college for four years out East and studied art. The first summer she was back after graduation, her parents helped her open her gallery down on Bridge Street. She had been in the business ever since, selling her own work and that of other area artists.
Then, she had met Matthew Thomason. He was from Chicago and came to Charlevoix each summer to stay at his parent’s place down on the lake in Oyster Bay. They had met at a dance held down at the old Casino at the Belvedere Club. A summer romance continued for a couple of years until he was out of college. They continued to see each other, she occasionally going down to Chicago to see him at his parents’ house in Lake Forest.
When she was twenty-four, he had asked her to marry him on Christmas Day. She said yes and he agreed to move his investment business up to Charlevoix. He could continue to cultivate clients back in Chicago and from the more wealthy residents “Up North.”
The marriage worked well for the first few years. They had a beautiful daughter that fourth year, before Matthew was away in Chicago much more. Before she knew it, they had been married seven years. The relationship had continued to grow more distant and less loving. They weren’t the type that fought often, or had ugly scenes. Their love and the relationship just seemed to slowly fade.
She remembered the night Matthew had called from his apartment in Chicago. They spoke most evenings at around nine if he was out of town. She always felt a shudder from inside when she remembered hearing another voice in the background. It was a woman laughing. Matthew had tried to cover it up by saying it was his assistant from down at the office dropping some papers off. She asked him about it again that weekend when he had come up to Charlevoix. He finally admitted he had been seeing another woman in the city for nearly three years.
He left town that night and never returned. Their divorce was final about a year later. She hadn’t wanted anything from him and she kept her parent’s house and her own money. When it was over, she continued on with her daughter and friends, the business with her partner Gwen and her painting.
She had set up a painting studio on the second floor of the house with several large windows looking out across the lake. While she painted, she easily slipped away to other places in her mind. She liked to paint scenes from around the North Country, lakes and rivers, the homes and boats, and occasionally the people. There was a large painting of her mother in the front entry of the house. Several more pieces of her work were displayed in other rooms.
As she sat there, it occurred to her she now had an opportunity to paint the EmmaLee. She would have to remember to take her camera with her to the party. She had already taken many pictures as the ship had come into Charlevoix this morning. I should have more than enough reference, she thought.
She got up, remembering she had to get ready to go down to the Clark’s party on the boat. She took her glass and the album inside and set them on the kitchen table. Walking through the old house, she thought how much the place felt like a comfortable old bath robe. She had redecorated most of the rooms after her parents were gone. It wasn’t that they weren’t tastefully done before, but she wanted to make the house truly hers.
She went upstairs to her bedroom and pulled another dress from the closet. It was a print dress she had planned to wear for the evening’s event. Walking into the bathroom, she held it up to her shoulders in front of the mirror. She shook her head. It just didn’t feel right, so she hung it back in her closet and looked through the racks of clothes, not finding exactly what she was looking for.
“What difference does it make?” she said aloud to herself in frustration.
She took off her blue dress and hung it on a rack, then went back to the mirror and let her hair down to assess the face and body staring back at her. In the soft afternoon light, her face still looked young and firm. Her blonde hair was cut evenly just below her shoulders and it hung across the side of her face. She pulled it back behind her ear and felt some sense of satisfaction that her body was still trim for the most part in her middle years. She touched up her makeup and went back to the closet and grabbed the original print dress.
Alex and Megan Clark had finished their walk through the small shopping district of Charlevoix. The streets were jammed with visitors in town for the festival. There was a carnival set up on one of the back streets and Megan rode a small Ferris wheel and a carousel. They shopped for sweatshirts that read “Charlevoix” as a souvenir of their trip and Megan couldn’t resist as they walked by a fudge shop. They came out a few minutes later with four different flavors.
Walking back down to the docks across a large park that fronted Round Lake, they stopped to listen to one of the many bands playing this week in the quaint stone band shell that had been built years ago. As they listened, Alex marveled at the beauty of the little town. Out on Round Lake beyond the docks there must have been over 100 boats moored or cruising around. The small lake w
as ringed with magnificent homes, condominiums, boathouses and docks. He tried to imagine what it must have looked like back when the EmmaLee had first sailed here. George Hansen had sent a few photos and he remembered he had to make time to get over to the city library and the Historical Society while they were in town.
He found himself looking forward to visiting Sally Thomason and seeing some of her old family albums. He was intrigued by the history of the ship and the stories Hansen had related. He definitely wanted to learn more about Sally and her family.
“We need to get back to the ship and make sure everything is ready for our guests, Megan.”
“I’ll let them have some of my fudge,” she said as they walked down the grass lawn to the docks.
“If any of that fudge is left by dinner time, I’ll be amazed,” he said and laughed as he held her hand, walking down the hill.
Guests began arriving promptly at four. Everyone seemed most anxious to get a closer look at the EmmaLee and to meet the famed Mr. Clark. Sally Thomason arrived about a half-hour later. She had seen Alex Clark briefly when she arrived and she was now standing on the rear deck with several friends from town including the Mayor, Martin Holloway. He was a loosely kept man in his sixties with clothes coming out at all angles around his portly frame. He had been mayor for many years and he also owned the restaurant and bar next to Sally’s gallery. He sipped on a Bloody Mary as Sally reached over to straighten his tie.
“Look Martin, you’ve got tomato juice on your shirt here. You’re such a mess,” she said with a grin.
“Wait ‘til I get through the hors d’oeuvres table, then you’ll see me fully decorated.”
“This is definitely a ‘who’s who’ gathering for our little town, isn’t it?” she said, taking a sip from her glass of wine and looking out over the crowd.
The Mayor finished his drink looking for a waiter. “Yes, we seem to be well represented,” he answered. “What do you think of the billionaire guy?”
“He certainly seems like a normal person and his little daughter is a doll,” Sally said. She saw Alex and Megan standing across the deck speaking with George Hansen and his wife Elizabeth.
“I wonder if he wants to buy a restaurant,” the Mayor said. “I’m ready to retire and head to Naples.” He held his glass up to a passing waiter who was carrying a tray of drinks. He helped himself to another Bloody Mary. “I’d give him a good price.”
“You’re like me, Martin. You’ll never leave this place. You get two miles out of town and you run out of anchor chain and get pulled back,” Sally said and smiled at her friend.
“God, I hope you’re wrong. Here comes our host. I wonder if he has his checkbook on him.”
Sally elbowed him in his ample middle. She watched Alex Clark approaching. He looked different in some way from the magazine photos she had seen of him. She couldn’t quite figure what it was. Maybe it was the tan and his hair seemed to be longer. She pushed her thoughts aside.
“Hello Sally, thanks for coming,” Alex said, taking her hand.
Introductions were made. The Mayor pulled in his stomach and in his most dignified voice, welcomed the visitor, “Let me officially welcome you to our town of Charlevoix. On behalf of my constituents, let me say you have brought a true treasure back to us.” He raised his glass in a toast and the group joined him touching glasses. “You also make damn good Bloody Mary’s!”
From across the deck, Sally noticed the approach of another town resident.
“Oh, this should be interesting,” whispered the Mayor under his breath as he also noticed the approach of Mary Alice Gregory. Mary Alice was the daughter of the Gregory’s from Grosse Pointe. They summered here each year and were leading benefactors in the community. Their daughter had been through two husbands in her brief thirty years and she had been clearly working all summer on finding number three. She was an absolutely stunning woman with a “Palm Beach” look and requisite dark tan. Her clothing and jewelry were immaculate and her jet-black hair was pulled back tight, seeming to almost stretch her face.
The Mayor made room for Ms. Gregory. “Alex, this is one of our town’s fairest flowers, Ms. Mary Alice Gregory.”
The usual pleasantries were exchanged. Sally watched as Mary Alice slid in close to Alex Clark. She had known Mary Alice for many years, although they didn’t run in the same circles. She stopped by the gallery occasionally looking for another piece for their summer home. Sally had always wondered about how friendly she had been to her ex-husband Matthew before the divorce. The woman often gave less than subtle hints that perhaps she knew Sally’s former husband just a little more intimately than people might otherwise think.
Mary Alice was oozing with charm. Either Alex was being extremely gracious, or he was actually falling for it.
Sally watched her monopolize the conversation for several moments before she quietly interrupted, “Excuse me for a moment, I need to say hello to the Hansen’s.”
The Mayor gave her a knowing look and Alex wasn’t able to say anything before Mary Alice started in with him again.
Sally walked across the deck, saying hello to a few acquaintances as she passed. She stopped at the far rail, looking out across Round Lake toward the east channel into Lake Charlevoix. It was a scene worth painting. The Coast Guard Cutter Acacia was now at dock down at the Coast Guard station along the channel. There was some talk she was going to be decommissioned. It would be sad to have her leave after all these years, Sally thought.
Down to her right on the south side of the harbor was the old boathouse that had been owned by her grandparents. The docks there had been the summer home for the EmmaLee. The big building had been transformed into several condominium units.
In her mind, she could see the old photos with the EmmaLee tied up in front of the boathouse. There were always several other large motor yachts and sailboats moored in the harbor in those pictures. She could also see the giant Great Lakes cruise ships that used to come into port here, transporting passengers to different resort cities up and down the coast. It had been many years since those cruise lines had been shut down. Automobile travel and private planes became much too convenient. Even the railroad no longer ran through town. An old draw bridge used to cross the channel down by the Coast Guard station with tracks running north to the depot. The train depot was still there, recently refurbished by the Historical Society. The massive Inn at Lake Charlevoix had once sat on the hill above the depot with a grand view of Lake Charlevoix.
Sally felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to see George and Elizabeth Hansen.
“Lost in thought?” he asked.
“Just thinking back to what this scene must have looked like sixty years ago,” she answered. “Hello Liz. It’s nice to see you.”
“It was a much different time and place, as you can imagine,” George said. “I wish your mother and father were with us here today. I don’t mean to upset you, but your mother was such a lovely woman. I feel like she’s standing here with us on the deck of the EmmaLee anyway.”
“It is sad George, but I understand how you’re feeling. You’ve told me so much about those times over the years. I always appreciate you sharing those memories with me.”
“She was one helluva lady, if I may say so. Your father was a lucky man,” George said.
Chapter Four
I was seventeen years old that summer of 1941. My father was trying to convince me to learn the carpentry trade. I was more interested in fishing and girls. I had one more year to go in high school and I was just beginning to think about college and maybe even law school. On days when I wasn’t working on a job with my father, I would spend time with my friend down on Horton Creek. We would either ride our bikes out to the lake road, or take a boat if Jonathan could borrow one from his dad’s boatworks.
There were still a lot of trout in the creek back then. They say Hemingway used to fish there. I’ve seen pictures of him taken down at Horton Bay where the creek runs into Lake Charlevoix. He’s hol
ding some damn nice trout. His first wedding was held there in the little village, the first of many for him, I guess. Hemingway was long gone from these parts by the time Jonathan and I found the creek.
“Can I be excused now? George and I want to get out to the creek tonight to fish?” Jonathan pleaded, as his family finished with their dinner.
His father finished his coffee, sitting at the head of the table in the small kitchen. “You’ll want to take the old Higgins I suppose? That boat’s still got a hitch in the engine. Listen to it and let me know what you think.”
The boy turned to his brother, “Luke, do you want to come along?”
The eldest brother, Luke McKendry, was twenty-two years old, still living at home and working in the boatyard with his father. He sat slumped at the table, pushing what was left of his dinner around his plate. His face was an older version of Jonathan’s and they could have easily been twins if they were closer in age. Luke had let his beard grow in the past months and it made him look even older now. Gray circles under his eyes sagged like loose sails.
“I don’t have time for any damn fishin’.” He pushed his chair back.
“Luke, that’s enough of that kind of talk!” his father answered back in frustration.
“I got to be somewhere.” He started walking out of the room.
Samuel McKendry got up quickly and followed his oldest son out the back door. The rest of the family could hear heated words as they disappeared around the corner.
Jonathan got up and helped his mother clear the table. “Really, can I go now?” Jonathan pleaded.
His mother nodded. He was out the door before anyone could change their mind, or come up with a chore for him. He ran down to the door to the storage shed. Inside he found the bamboo fly rod his grandfather had made for him before he died. It was one of Jonathan’s most prized possessions. He also grabbed an old vest that held a box of flies and a few other assorted pieces of gear. He ran down the hill to the docks. The Higgins was floating smoothly on the calm waters of Round Lake. George was already sitting in the boat with his fly rod propped in the back.
The Seasons of the EmmaLee: One grand ship. Two love affairs, decades apart. An idyllic summer resort town torn apart by betrayal, murder and shattered dreams. (The Charlevoix Summer Series Book 1) Page 3
