Love and Trust

by Jean Oram

  “I asked you to help me. To do more than tell me things I already know, and write some lame letter.”

  He stood slowly, like a spring whose tension was gradually being released. “You asked for advice. I’m giving you advice. You can’t attack all of those things without engaging in a massive all-out battle that will overtake my life.”

  “You’re life?”

  “Yours, too. Dot’s. Everyone’s. You don’t have time to take that on. Taking this on is a full-time job for at least ten people with an incredible amount of knowledge and connections.”

  “You’re telling me to give up.”

  “I’m telling you how you can achieve small wins.”

  “You’ve underestimated me, Tristen Bell. I am in this for more than a cleanup day at Rubicore’s expense. I’m in this to play hardball.”

  “Rubicore plays dirty. They’re big, smart, and have done this so many times they know every loophole there is. Take my advice and look for ways you can win something against them.”

  “I’m not doing this to validate myself. I’m shutting them down, do you understand?”

  “Melanie, you can’t.”

  “Yeah, well, if you don’t believe…leave. I’m tired of people thinking I’m a nobody.” She pointed to the door, her muscles trembling with adrenaline.

  “You asked for advice and I’m giving it.”

  “You heard me. Commit to my plan to oust Rubicore or get out of my cottage.”

  “Listen to me.” He held her arms as though he feared she was going to run away. “A company like Rubicore has so much money and power behind them—”

  “I still believe in the power of grassroots movements, democracy, the legal system, and the power of right and wrong over money. I’m sorry you don’t. Now, I’ll ask you again. Please leave.”

  “You gave me a ride here.”

  She chucked her cell phone at him. “Call a water taxi.”

  “Melanie…”

  “I don’t want to hear it unless you are going to commit to showing these guys some teeth.”

  He lowered his brows, looking torn and broken. He stared at her phone for a few seconds, then with a sad shake of his head, carefully tapped in the number for the water taxi.

  * * *

  Melanie wiped the tears from her cheeks. She was silly, getting upset over Tristen, but as usual she’d expected too much, got her hopes up, and boom. There it was: a man who wasn’t that interested and wasn’t able to support her in the way she needed.

  Oh, but how his cheeks had created those dreamy lines on either side of his mouth when he’d frowned at her.

  Melanie smoothed her new dress over her knees—Simone had insisted she take it as a gift—and wondered what she should do next. Save the cottage? Figure out how to take Rubicore down?

  At least she and Tristen had discovered early on that they couldn’t work together. It would have been awful if she’d gone to lean on him and found he wasn’t there.

  Sitting on the floor, she opened the old steamer trunk they left behind the couch facing the fireplace, and inhaled its aged smell. History. So much history. She stroked its dinged metal edges, then reached in to pull out her favorite item. Old letters scented with dust and adventure. It had been years since she’d last looked through the trunk, and she placed the bundle of old letters addressed to her great-grandmother in her lap, ready to enjoy the guilty pleasure of reading someone else’s business and being swept away to another time.

  The sloping handwriting of her great-grandmother’s male pen pal had become familiar over the years and Melanie’s eyes quickly adjusted to its swirls and the faded ink, making it easy to decipher.

  She used to read the letters simply because they were a tie to her great-grandmother, Ada, and not because they made a lot of sense—not without her grandmother’s side of the story. Skimming the first letter on top of the stack, Melanie sighed. This was a man who was committed. He was discussing a project they shared and how they were going to break ground in the spring. The letter writer was likely from northern Ontario, as he kept calling what must have been a cottage a “camp.” Melanie flipped the envelope over, squinting at the postmark. Illegible. She read the signature again. That was tricky, because it looked as though it said Stewart Baker. But that was ridiculous. The only Stewart Baker she knew of had been an old Canadian movie star in black-and-white films—a man she’d heard about only recently. There would be no reason for a man like him to write to her great-gran about how they were building a cottage. Melanie laughed at the way her heart was racing. Ever the romantic.

  Despite feeling silly, she skimmed another letter for clues that the pen pal was the Stewart. Nothing. A slight reading on the Swoonalicious Scale, but that was about it. The next letter mentioned Muskoka and a weekend spent at Windermere House. Another needle bump on the scale, but no real clues. Was this man the father of her illegitimate grandmother?

  Melanie carefully set everything back in the trunk and stood, barely daring to breathe so she wouldn’t break the pieces that were trying to float together in her mind. Standing, she grabbed her purse and the boat key. There was one easy way to find out if Stewart Baker, the movie star, had spent time in the area. And if he had, then maybe, somehow, she could pin historical significance on the cottage and save them a few tax dollars.

  Relieved to see Tristen wasn’t still waiting on the dock for the water taxi, Melanie climbed into the family’s Boston Whaler and set out across the water. She docked at the island where the museum stood, and climbed the small hill to see what she could discover.

  “Stewart Baker, huh?” asked the curator, her longtime friend Christophe.

  “Yeah. Do you have anything on him? Did he vacation here?” She held her breath, knowing her hopes would be unrealistically dashed if the letter-writing Stewart was merely a random man. And she had only half an hour to find out before Christophe locked up for the day.

  “He did.”

  “For real? The movie star?”

  Christophe nodded, his floppy hair dropping into his hazel eyes.

  Melanie paused, thinking. She still needed proof whether the letters to her great-grandmother were actually from the movie star, especially since none of them mentioned movies, fame, or a career.

  “Do you have any letters with his signature, by chance?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’ll check the archives. I have a few photos of him in there that I can dig out, for sure. In the meantime, why don’t you start over there?” He pointed to a display a few feet away. “With last year’s short documentary on old-time movie stars, I put up a few of the better photos of him and some other celebrities.”

  “What documentary?”

  “It was on the CBC. It may be still viewable from their website.” Christophe adjusted his glasses on his long nose. “Say, are you putting anything in the antique show this weekend? Daphne told me your collection is rotting in cardboard boxes.”

  “It’s not rotting.”

  “I could sell a few things at my table if you’d like.” He gave her a wink, tucking his shirttails into his droopy trousers. He’d been trying to curb her “hoarding habit” for years, telling her that antiques were valuable only if you sold them.

  “Ha, ha.” She gave a weak smile, trying to work through the tightness that had developed in her chest. If she sold her antiques collection she might be able to foot her portion of the tax bill for Nymph Island, but it wouldn’t be easy parting with the old friends. And yet she knew she would do it without barely a second thought. Poor Hailey had carried the burden of their cottage for too long. It was time to step up and help out in any way she could. If Melanie had to declutter in order to do so, then so be it. It would be worth it. Her sisters and the memories held on Nymph island were worth more than any antiques. There would always be more to collect. There wouldn’t always be a cottage that brought them all together.

  “Yeah, I might,” she said, finally.

  Christophe’s eyes widened and h
e hurried off to the archives, taking a second glance over his shoulder as though she was something to fear. It almost made her laugh.

  “Yeah, I know,” she called. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

  The curator disappeared through a door and Melanie turned to find Tristen standing close, his phone held up for her to see.

  She took a step back, hand on her chest.

  He waved his phone, saying nothing.

  She peered at the encyclopedia page displayed there, trying to stay as far away from the man as possible.

  Stewart Baker. Tristen had looked up the man she was investigating? Was that creepy or charmingly helpful? And why hadn’t she thought to pop the movie star’s name into a search engine? Unsure, she glanced at Tristen, but found his expression unreadable. Grabbing the phone so she could scroll, she read about Stewart’s life, death, and career.

  “It was at the right spot,” Tristen said. “Before you scrolled.” His hazel eyes were flecked with a gold she only ever saw on the rims of her antique teacup collection. He gave her a tiny smile, as though they were having a secret conversation. Then he gave a small nod, at her questioning glance, and she knew. Tristen understood. What, exactly, she wasn’t sure, only that he understood.

  She handed him the phone, not finishing the article. “Why are you here, eavesdropping on my conversations?”

  “I wasn’t ready to go home.”

  “So, you followed me?”

  “Actually, I was here first. I thought maybe you were following me. Came to apologize, perhaps?”

  She let out a snort, her cheeks burning with sudden anger. “A little full of yourself, perhaps?”

  His lips thinned. “Look. I know what I’m doing with this. You want me to help, then do it my way. Don’t waste my time because your pride sits in the way.”

  “My pride?” She threw her head back and laughed. “You are such a big chicken it isn’t even—”

  He grabbed her cheeks in his roughened hands and pressed his lips to hers, hard. Her eyes flew open, heart racing. He was kissing her. Tristen Bell was kissing her, and my word. It felt good. Really freaking good. She reminded herself to shut her eyes, and once she did, she was lost. Her body fell against his, her palms mirroring the way he was holding her face, latching him against her until she was ready for him to stop. Which would probably be never. The kiss deepened and her hands drifted down from his face to his chest. Her fingers stopped when they hit his belt. He was a trim, lean, solid piece of rock from the neck down. As hard as the rocks Dot said he worked with. And Melanie wasn’t even talking about that something between his legs that was nudging up against her thighs.

  Holy macaroni.

  Tristen stepped back, breaking their kiss. Her eyelids fluttered, unable to fully open after having her circuits blown.

  “I’m willing to help you, Melanie, but it has to be on my terms. I can be a valuable member of your team.”

  Team. She didn’t even have a team. Well, she had Dot who was eager, but inexperienced. Daphne, who seemed less and less interested in charging off after Rubicore in regards to the environmental impact, and Maya spouting off about economics, and Hailey lost behind her camera, thinking photos would save the day. Melanie sucked as a leader, if that was her team. They didn’t even have a game plan and she was not taking Tristen’s, which was to play helpless and get steamrolled.

  “Do you want me to be part of your team, Melanie? Yes or no?”

  There was an edge to his voice that made her turn her back to him. She threw up her hands, wondering if kisses would be part of his terms. “Whatever. Okay, whatever. I don’t care, just don’t ask me to roll over and play dead.”

  “Stewart Baker built one of the cottages on Baby Horseshoe Island.”

  “Heritage Row?”

  “It didn’t say, but maybe the curator knows.”

  Melanie studied Tristen. “Would you have told me this if I’d said no?”

  “It sounds as though the man spent a lot of time in the area.”

  “Why are you being so helpful?”

  “I’ll be helpful with Rubicore, Melanie.”

  “I didn’t mention Rubicore.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Christophe joined them, handing Melanie an envelope full of black-and-white images. “I’ve got special gloves over at my desk that you can wear when you look at these.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you happen to know which cottage Stewart Baker owned?” Tristen asked.

  “JoHoBo.” The curator winced. “Sorry, Missy’s Getaway, now.”

  “Stewart owned JoHoBo?” Melanie perked up.

  “Back then it was the Rusty Pelican. His family had it built in 1900, if memory serves. Stewart would have been about ten at the time, but he had quite the fortune already. He was the baby or small child in the first silent films. The cottage doesn’t look anything near the same since renovations. Can’t believe the council allowed that.” Christophe tsked quietly. “By the time I heard they’d applied for a permit to gut the place, it had already been approved. Anyway, Stewart’s production company really came into its own during the First World War. When he passed away in the fifties he was an icon. And rich as sin.” The curator winked and, with a nod, backed away to his desk.

  Melanie paused. There was something wrong with the timeline. Maybe Stewart wasn’t the clue she was looking for.

  “What?” Tristen lightly touched her elbow. “Is something wrong?”

  “I felt as though I was close to something.”

  “Maybe saying it out loud will jog your mind into making the connections.”

  Melanie pushed her glasses up her nose, wondering why he was being so helpful. She’d kicked him out of her cottage less than an hour ago. And men thought women we confusing.

  “Ages ago, my great-grandmother was given Nymph Island, which included the cottage, Trixie Hollow. But we don’t know by whom, or why. I was thinking it was Stewart and that maybe they’d had a relationship, but there’s a twenty-year age difference. It’s just…I can’t imagine my great-grandmother being a mistress or having a sugar daddy.”

  “That was her photo on the mantel at your cottage?”

  Melanie nodded.

  “She was pretty. Like you. I could see it.”

  There was a fondness in his eyes that made Melanie’s heart swell, even if she didn’t quite believe the compliment. Why was he buttering her up? She ran a hand through her curls in frustration and bent to read the caption under a black-and-white photo. Something about a governor at a grand opening.

  “Who is that?” Tristen pointed to the picture.

  “Some governor.”

  “No, beside him. In front of the steamship.”

  Melanie shot straight up, then bent to stare at the grainy image. It was hard to pick details, so she leaned back, squinting at it.

  “Isn’t that your great-grandmother? And Stewart Baker?”

  Melanie placed her fingers over her mouth. It couldn’t be. She snapped a photo of it and the caption to text to her sisters, careful not to use the flash. “You know how many times I’ve been in here and never noticed that?”

  Her great-grandmother had known the movie star. The letters were the real deal. But what was the story? The tale she could use to claim heritage status? Everything had lost its story, like the teacups she’d found stashed in a dusty old box in the back of a Parry Sound antiques shop. Those cups had to have a provenance. They were black-and-white nymphs, fashioned in a style that was tacky yet fascinating. Commissioned. Rare. Priceless.

  Why was she thinking about her cups?

  Because she didn’t know their story, either, and she’d always felt they should be connected to their island somehow.

  “Why would someone give her a cottage? Was she keeping secrets for someone important? The governor? Stewart?”

  Tristen listened, leaning against the display, arms bulging under his shirtsleeves, pulling at the material.

  Who
was her great-grandfather? Melanie had always imagined him as a World War II hero who went off to war and didn’t come back to his pregnant girlfriend, as story that was common enough. But what if it was one of these men? What if her grandmother had been a secret, illegitimate baby?

  “What mystery are we trying to solve?” Tristen asked.

  Everything.

  “If Trixie Hollow has heritage significance we can get a tax break, and we won’t have to sell it to Rubicore.”

  “Wait. Sell it to Rubicore?” The air crackled around Tristen.

  “They made an offer, but we’re not going to take it.”

  “Were you going to tell me this?”

  “We’re not taking the offer, so it doesn’t matter. I’m going to save the cottage.” Somehow. Teacups.

  Why did they keep popping up whenever she thought about the cottage? Was it the nymph connection? So many mysteries. So few solid clues.

  “But they want something from you,” Tristen said. He was standing close, his eyes digging into hers. “That changes everything. You fighting them will be a personal affront. This is dangerous.”

  “It’s not dangerous. You’re being dramatic.” She pulled him farther along the display, glancing at photos. “Come on, help me. If we can find something we can pin on Heritage Row, too, then Rubicore can’t destroy it. See? Everything is connected.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Melanie gave him a disgusted look.

  “You’ve got to hit them in the pocketbook,” he said. She could tell he was trying to be gentle. He was also trying to tell her how to fight Rubicore again, and hinting she couldn’t win. “Stories about long-gone lovers isn’t enough to stop these guys. It has to be something that drives fear into the masses, like public safety.”

  “And is it fear that finally made you want to help me and my sisters?”

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met, neither of them blinking.

  “And?”

  He remained silent for a moment, then sighed. “Look, Dot got hurt. She almost drowned.” Tristen sagged, his strong frame suddenly seeming smaller, his expression exhausted. He let out another sigh, eyebrows furrowed. “Do I need another reason?”