Alegra felt his lips, his heat, the hardness of his body against hers

Almost of their own volition, her arms rose and slipped around Joe’s neck. She moved closer to him and felt his strength as his arms closed around her. In the next heartbeat she experienced the strange feeling of coming back to something.

He’d said she had more reasons to be here than the ones she’d given him. She could have sworn he’d been wrong, but now she wasn’t so sure.

It felt like a homecoming, a returning—but that made no sense, not any more than her next thought.

That maybe he was the one she’d come back for.

Dear Reader,

Going home means different things to different people, and “going home” to Shelter Island in Puget Sound, an island that still holds the legacy of Bartholomew Grace, who was an infamous pirate from the past, is totally different for Alegra Reynolds and Joe Lawrence.

Alegra goes back home to prove that a small child who was ridiculed and pitied has become a success beyond anyone’s imagination.

Going home to the island for Joe Lawrence is leaving his position as the editor of a major New York daily, and a life that has lost most of its meaning, to return to his roots and make a life for his son and himself.

When Alegra meets Joe, she thinks he’s a failure, that he’s given up everything she’s worked so hard to get herself, and Joe thinks that she’s so much like the way he used to be that it’s almost painful for him to watch. Neither one knows that their lives will change irrevocably when they start to fall in love and find that lost part of themselves in the other person. They’ll discover that “home” isn’t a physical location but the place where love binds people together forever.

I hope you enjoy the first book of the SHELTER ISLAND STORIES, and watch for the other two stories in the series—Home to the Doctor and Home for a Hero.

Mary Anne Wilson

Alegra’s Homecoming

Mary Anne Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mary Anne Wilson is a Canadian transplanted to Southern California, where she lives with her husband, three children and an assortment of animals. She knew she wanted to write romances when she found herself “rewriting” the great stories in literature, such as A Tale of Two Cities, to give them “happy endings.” Over her long career she’s published more than thirty romances, had her books on bestseller lists, been nominated for Reviewer’s Choice Awards and received a career nomination in Romantic Suspense. She’s looking forward to her next thirty books.

Books by Mary Anne Wilson

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

1003—PREDICTING RAIN?*

1005—WINNING SARA’S HEART*

1009—WHEN MEGAN SMILES*

1062—DISCOVERING DUNCAN**

1078—JUDGING JOSHUA**

1092—HOLIDAY HOMECOMING**

1105—JACK AND JILLIAN**

For Joanine Hold on to your dreams and don’t let go. You deserve every good thing. Love you lots!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

November—The Bounty Festival

Shelter Island, Washington

The pirate slipped into the crowd attending the last day of the Bounty Festival and no one noticed. Of course, every third person who attended the week-long celebration that commemorated the pirate Bartholomew Grace’s historic return from his summer of pillaging and plundering in the South Pacific, was dressed like a pirate. So one more didn’t stand out.

Ten-year-old Alegra moved through the throng, paying little attention to the parade that was almost done moving up the main street of the town of Shelter Bay. Other years she’d ignored the festival, but this year, after her father had brought home a pirate costume, complete with a hat, full-sleeved black leggings and plastic boots, she’d decided to walk the mile from her home in the center of the island and see what was going on.

No one gave her more than a passing glance. The hat was too big, riding low on her face, but that was fine by her. She trudged along the wooden boardwalk of the town, passing familiar stores and seeing people she’d known all her life mingling with the strangers who took the ferry from the mainland to attend the festival.

An announcement about music at the square in town where the statue of old Bartholomew stood watch was made over a loudspeaker, but before she could head in that direction, someone stepped right in front of her. As she pushed her hat back and looked up, her heart sank.

The one person she didn’t want to see was blocking her path, his band of cohorts with him. “Oh, it’s little Al Peterson,” Sean Payne drawled.

Sean was two years older than she was and one of the island kids who enjoyed taunting her, never letting her forget who she was. Alegra Peterson, the daughter of a man who was drunk more than he was sober and a woman who’d walked out five years ago and never come back.

In the failing light, she stared up at him. Tall and skinny, he was in costume, too, but a far more elegant version than hers, with a billowing silk shirt, high leather boots with shiny buckles and a long white plume of a feather stuck rakishly in his hat. His narrow face was pale, the freckles that went along with his blond-red hair standing out starkly on skin that was just starting to get the first traces of teenaged acne.

His gaze traveled over her, too, then his dark eyes met hers. “Some costume, Al,” he said. “What’re you supposed to be?”

“A pirate,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he said mockingly.

“I am a pirate,” she said emphatically, lifting her chin and standing her ground. She wasn’t going to cry and run away. She’d done that once, and it had only made Sean and his friends make fun of that, too.

“No, you’re a garbage picker.” Sean moved closer.

Kids had taunted Alegra for as long as she could remember, but Sean was different. To the others, she was an afterthought. To Sean, she was a target. Now he reached out and grabbed her arm, leaning down until his face was in hers.

“Garbage picker,” he sneered. “That’s a costume my dad threw out because it was a mess. He put it in the trash bin behind his office, right near the Ship’s Rail Bar.”

She hadn’t questioned where her dad had found the costume for her to wear. He’d just said that it fell in his lap. Now she knew. She also knew her face was flaming, and she hated her dad and Sean in equal measure.

“So, you or that drunk dad of yours had to be garbage picking to get it,” Sean continued. “Trash for trash.”

She was aware of everyone watching them and listening, even passersby, and anger raged through her. She narrowed her eyes and hissed back at him loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’d rather wear a stupid old costume than have zits all over my face.”

“Ooohhh,” rose in a chorus from his pals, and it was Sean’s turn to grow beet-red, which made his blemishes even more vivid. The instant he let her go and raised his hand, she made fists and held them up the way her dad had shown her boxers fought. “Come on, come on,” she yelled at Sean. “Hit a girl. Just try and I’ll beat you up.”

But Sean didn’t get a chance to do anything. Someone else was there, an adult who had the boy by the arm, pulling him back and putting his tall, solid body between the two youngsters. Alegra grabbed at the man’s jacket, trying to get him out of her way, and the next thing she knew, his other hand gripped her shoulder and held fast. “Hey, calm down,” he said.

That was when she looked up and recognized an islander, Mr. Lawrence. His son was in high school. Ignoring Sean’s shouts of outrage, he crouched and fixed his dark blue gaze on Alegra. “Aren’t you Peterson’s girl?”

She refused to answer. He was looking at her with the same expression most of the town used. She wasn’t sure what to call it, but she knew how it made her feel. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She’d never been okay, and as long as she was on this island, she never would be. She jerked and must have caught him by surprise, because she was free. Without missing a beat, she turned and ran blindly away from both him and Sean, ignoring the shouts of anger when she bumped into people. She finally broke free of the crowd and, breathing hard, kept on going.

She ran into the night, through the darkness where huge pines canopied overhead, blotting out any light that might have come from the rising moon. But she didn’t need light to know where she was or where she was going. She reached the old lighthouse—out of commission for as long as she could remember—skirted the fence around it, then scrambled down rough stone steps to the beach below. She stopped at the water’s edge.

Fog was rolling in over the dark waters of Puget Sound, blotting out the distant lights of Seattle. Alegra pulled off the boots and stripped off everything down to the jeans and thermal shirt she’d worn under the costume. Then she picked up the costume pieces and waded into the chilly water, not stopping until she was up to her thighs and shivering cold. She dropped the pieces into the shallow waves.

She waded back to shore and headed to a huge rock embedded in the bluffs below the lighthouse and scrambled up onto it. She sat as far back as she could, still shaking from the cold, but not caring. “I hate you all,” she screamed. And then she cried.

No one heard her sobs or the moment when they stopped. Why weren’t there still pirates like Bartholomew Grace? Why couldn’t she stow away on his ship and sail away? Why couldn’t she pillage and plunder with him, until she came back here fabulously rich? She’d throw the money in their faces and if anyone so much as called her Al, she’d make him walk the plank.

She liked that idea very much. And before she nudged an offender into the briny deep, she’d make him bow to her and call her Alegra.

“I am Alegra,” she called into the fog, and heard a vague, muffled echo come back to her. “Alegra,” she said more softly, alone in her world.

Chapter One

Eighteen years later

“I am Alegra,” the woman said softly to herself.

She stood at the railing of the lumbering car ferry as it broke free of the docking area to make the trip across Puget Sound to Shelter Island. She stared at the distant dark blur of the island that was all but lost in the mists of the late-November day. “I am Alegra,” she said again.

The cold dampness brushed her skin, and she pulled her cashmere jacket more tightly around her. Tucking her chin into the faux fur collar, she never took her eyes off her destination. The island certainly didn’t look welcoming. She was the only one at the rail, the other passengers opting to stay in the warmth of their vehicles, but then again, they weren’t coming back here after ten years. They were mostly commuters who were just going home. She wasn’t.

She heard the muffled chimes of her cell phone and reached into her jacket pocket for it. Flipping it open, she glanced at the caller ID, then said into the mouthpiece, “Hey, Roz, what’s wrong now?”

Her assistant, Roz Quinlan, said brightly, “Calm down. All’s clear on the Alegra’s Closet front, or as clear as it can be at this time of year.”

The upcoming holidays increased the sales of their product—women’s intimate apparel—at their stores and through the mail. Nothing was simple with her business this time of year, but it kept going. So if Roz’s call wasn’t a business problem, what was it? She had no family, and her friends were all involved in the company. “Did you call just to hear my voice?” she asked.

“Not even close. It’s Beach Boy Ken.”

Alegra grimaced. Roz didn’t like Ken Barstow, the junior partner in the law firm Alegra’s Closet Inc. used, and although she was polite to him, when she spoke about him to Alegra, Ken became “Beach Boy Ken.” When Roz first met him, saw his tall, blond, tanned good looks and pronounced ingratiating manner, she’d decided he was “plastic and phony.”

“What about Ken?” Alegra asked.

“He’s been calling and leaving messages on your cell, he told me, and you haven’t picked up or returned his calls.”

Alegra had dated Ken Barstow off and on for almost a year, but whatever he’d thought might come from it was fading fast. She was too busy with her company to have time for a serious relationship, which in fact was the way it had been since she’d left Shelter Island. College had taken up four years of her life, design school a few more years, then there were the years spent getting her business up and running.

And, she hated to admit it, but Roz was partially right about Ken. He wasn’t plastic and phony, but he was on the fast track and doing everything he had to do to further his ambition. Sort of the way she was, she conceded to no one but herself. And she’d been pulling back ever since. “Tell him I’m swamped and I’ll contact him as soon as I can.”

“You got it,” Roz replied, then added, “So where are you now?”

“On the ferry,” Alegra said as the outline of the island became clearer, and she could see the ribbon of beach below the towering bluffs, a pale strip between the dark water and the darker land. Now she could even see lights from houses twinkling to life in the coming dusk. And there, silhouetted against the darkening sky, was the old lighthouse. She felt a knot grip her stomach at the sight.

“Well, good luck to you,” Roz said, which only made the discomfort in Alegra’s middle worse.

Roz had been with Alegra since the day her lingerie designs first went into production. She’d been there when the first Alegra’s Closet had opened in New York, and stuck with Alegra all through the struggles to get going and expand. Roz was as close as a sister in some ways, but even she didn’t know everything about Alegra’s past, just a general impression that it wasn’t great and that she was going back to her childhood home to settle a problem before she headed back to San Francisco.

Alegra cleared her throat before she murmured, “Thanks,” and flipped the phone shut.

She narrowed her eyes on the lighthouse, standing like a dark sentinel on the northern end of the island. Suddenly the past two weeks of checking on stores in California, Oregon and now Washington, seemed like another life. All the years she’d been gone were merely a blink in time.

She found herself gripping the railing with both hands, so tightly that her fingers whitened. She was back to the day, after her high school graduation, she’d packed a bag and finally had made her escape. She’d walked the two miles to the ferry landing in the pale light of a June morning, taken the ferry away from the island and found a new life. Now the old life was rushing up to meet her.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself of the reason she was coming here: the need to put Al Peterson to rest. But now that she was getting closer and closer to the island, her eyes started to burn, then her lashes became damp. “Damn it,” she muttered and swiped at her tears. She never cried. She wouldn’t cry. And, as her stomach began to churn, she vowed she wouldn’t throw up, either.

She closed her eyes as she pressed her hand to her middle. She breathed deeply a few times and the urge to be sick subsided, though she still felt a bit nauseated.

“You shouldn’t stand out here on the deck when it’s this rough and this cold,” a masculine voice said by her right side.

Her eyes flew open and she turned to see the man who had spoken to her. The first thing she noticed were his eyes, a deep, true blue. He was tall, over six feet, dressed in what she used to call “island traditional.” That meant a flannel shirt, jeans, the more faded the better, and heavy boots. His dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, didn’t look styled at all. He wore it straight back from his angular face, longer than was fashionable, and now it was ruffled in the breeze off the water. The shadow of a new beard roughened a strong jaw, and grudgingly she had to admit that he was attractive enough to catch any woman’s attention. That sexy outdoorsman look…

“Excuse me?” she asked when she realized she’d been staring.

He leaned on the rail with his right arm and narrowed those blues eyes on her. “Are you seasick?”

That did away with having to explain why she’d started to cry. “A bit,” she confessed.

He shook his head. “That’s a shame. But it takes a while to get your sea legs.”

Her only response was a small smile. She turned back to the view of the island. The ferry was about halfway there now, and she was able to see the outline of the huge pines on the ridges and the stark rocks in the bluffs.

“At least the trip’s short,” he said.

It felt like an eternity since she’d driven her rental car onto the deck of the ferry to begin the journey back. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.

She thought he’d leave, that if she didn’t say any more, he’d drift off and leave her alone. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward with both arms on the rail and stared down into the dark water. “Twenty-two minutes,” he said.

She frowned in confusion. “What?”

“The trip, it takes twenty-two minutes, if the weather’s good and the water’s smooth. If the weather’s like this, and the water’s choppy, it can take half an hour.”

She shifted to look at him. “And you know this because you’re a regular on this run?”

He cast her a slanted look. “A regular? I was, way back. I’ve only taken the trip a few times lately, though.” He turned toward her and tucked the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his worn jeans. “But some things never change.”

“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 he 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?

JOE DROVE HIS OLD TRUCK off the ferry and onto the gravel of the landing right behind Alegra’s sleek black sedan. When he’d come back to the island with Alex, he’d bought the truck from his father, instead of having his car from New York shipped out. The pickup didn’t look like much, but everything worked. Besides, the Jaguar would have been totally impractical for use on the island.

As he watched Alegra inch out of the parking area behind the other cars, he thought about what he’d heard about her founding a string of high-end boutiques that sold intimate apparel on the East Coast, then setting up franchises across the country. It was a fast rise for any business, and seemed only set to grow more.

He followed her car past a small cluster of service buildings, then up the steep driveway to the highway that ran around the perimeter of the island. Most of the cars crested the rise and funneled north, and as they did, one by one, they turned off, heading for their respective homes.

He didn’t turn and neither did Alegra. He thought about the cell phone falling overboard and her horrified reaction. He would have laughed if she hadn’t looked so stricken. Those amber eyes had been filled with anger, frustration—and a touch of sadness.

He hadn’t expected that, not when she seemed to be so successful. But then again, he knew someone could have great business success, but be totally lacking in a life beyond that. He had been a prime example of that in his other life. He shrugged that off as they entered the town, passing under the banner hung high above the road proclaiming Ahoy And Welcome To Any And All Who Enter. The Gothic lettering had a skull and crossbones on either side.

With the festival so close, the main street of Shelter Bay was fully festooned with wood and brass everywhere, street signs all displaying a Jolly Roger overlaying a silhouette of the island, and pirates aplenty in windows and on signs. The park at the center of town, laid out on a piece of land that jutted out toward the sound, had its huge pavilion decorated to look like a huge crow’s nest on a galleon. The lush grassy area, rimmed by wind-twisted trees and bushes, was being filled with booths and food areas, in preparation for the mainlanders who would descend on the island in two days. A life-sized brass sculpture of old Bartholomew Grace, complete with raised sword and a patch over one eye, which had been donated by members of the Grace family still on the island, stood at the entry to the park.

The sedan in front of him slowed just after the park, and the right turn signal came on. Alegra Reynolds was going to the most expensive and exclusive bed-and-breakfast on the island, the Snug Harbor Cottages. A fully restored, three-story Victorian was the original building, and it fronted a series of luxurious cottages built out on the bluffs. Immaculate rose gardens separated the cottages, and strategically placed trees and shrubs added to the sense of privacy in each.

Joe had intended to keep going, but instead he pulled into the lot behind her, slipping into the parking spot next to hers. She got out when he did, and he could see that she’d confined her hair in a clip at the base of her neck sometime during the drive. The style served to emphasize her elegant features and huge amber eyes.

“Hey, there,” he called. “I just remembered something.” She waited for him by the door to her car. “There’s a store farther down the street on the right as you go north. It’s called Farrow Place. It’s a secondhand store, mostly, a consignment sort of arrangement. Earl Money owns it, and he’s the original diversifier around here.” Joe held up a hand when he saw her frown. “I know, I know, that’s not a word, but it describes Earl’s business bent. A bit of everything. I remembered that I heard someone mention that Earl was going to be selling cell phones and pagers.”

“Really? That’s great,” she said with obvious relief. “I’ll check it out as soon as I can. I thought I was going to have to go back to Seattle to get a replacement.”

Doubting it would go over with her, he said, “If he can’t help you, maybe you could consider being phoneless while you’re here. It could be liberating for you.”

She grimaced. “You make it sound as if the phone is a millstone around my neck.”

“Isn’t it?”

She exhaled. “No, it’s a terrific convenience, and a necessary one.”

“Sure,” he said. No point arguing. “Good luck with your phone hunt.” He went around to get in the truck, with a quick glance at Alegra as she strode confidently toward the wraparound porch of the Victorian. He must have imagined any vulnerability in the woman on the ferry. She knew who she was. She was in control. She’d have a phone in an hour, one way or the other, and her world would be right again. Snap. Problem gone. He pulled out of the exit and headed farther north.

Just half a block later, he turned left and slipped into the last parking slot in front of the wood-fronted building that housed the Beacon. He’d only been gone since early morning, off to Seattle to look for a new press for the paper, though he’d soon decided against it. He’d let Boyd Posey, his right-hand man who knew the old press inside and out, take over and find its replacement. He didn’t want to waste time in Seattle.

As he got out of the truck and took the two steps up to the wooden walkway, then opened the half-glass door to the newspaper office, he thought about his attachment to Shelter Island.

When he’d left after graduation, he hadn’t looked back. He hadn’t thought he’d ever come back for more than just a yearly visit or so to see his folks. He’d been out to conquer the world, as he’d told Alegra, and he probably had by some people’s standards. Not his. His world was here, on the island, with his son and his son’s grandparents, a world to be lived in, not conquered.

His parents hadn’t asked too many questions when he came back. He was glad. He was home. That was it.

The Beacon hadn’t changed much since he’d been a kid. The furniture was old, dark and heavy, and the reception desk ran side to side, making a barrier between the entry and the back offices. Stacks of the current issue of the paper sat on the counter, fronted by a brass plaque that held an imprint of their banner—The Beacon, The Island’s Voice. Boxes of handouts from local businesses aimed at the tourists here for the festival were placed on the other end. Photos on the walls dated from years ago to the present, and headlines of their biggest stories were highlighted on a special board near the door. He liked the way the place looked, liked its smell of age.

He glanced at the man sitting behind the reception desk, and it was obvious Boyd was so intent on what he was doing on the computer he hadn’t heard Joe come in. Sixty years old and bald-headed, Boyd was thin to the point of emaciation, with hawklike features and skin so pale you’d doubt it had ever seen the sun.

“Boyd?” Joe said. Boyd jumped at the sound of his name and closed the lid on the laptop before he turned to look up at Joe, who knew he’d been playing a game. Boyd had been with the Beacon for almost thirty years, as much a fixture as anything else in the office, and Joe didn’t care what he did on his downtime, as long as he could depend on him to get the paper out.

“I thought you’d be gone more than a day,” Boyd said. “Does your quick return mean we have a new press?”

“Nope. It just means I’m back early.”

Boyd crossed his arms on his narrow chest and motioned with his head to the back of the space. “I knew they cost an arm and a leg, so I can understand if we have to nurse that beast along awhile more.”

“That’s not it,” Joe said. “I decided that you know a lot more than I do about what we need and so you should be the one to do the buying. Why don’t you go over during the festival and see what you can find?”

The man’s jaw dropped open. “Me, go and get us a new press?” He got to his feet, and for the first time in a long time, Joe saw color in his cheeks. “I get to pick it out?”

Joe nodded. “That’s about it, within reason.”

Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “How much are we talking about spending?”

Joe named a figure and Boyd exhaled on a low whistle. “That’ll do it. I can get you a terrific press for that.”

“Then make it happen.”

“Can’t say I’ll miss the opening ceremonies of the festival. All that damn cannon banging and explosions. Pirates were a noisy lot.”

“Bloody, too,” Joe murmured, then had a thought. “Do you know if Earl sells cell phones? I heard he did, but…”

“Yeah, that and them expensive white chocolates.” He looked quizzically at Joe. “You want a new cell phone?”

“No, a lady on the ferry lost hers and I told her I thought Earl might be able to help her.” Joe hesitated, then, “Have you ever heard of Alegra Reynolds?”

“Can’t say as I have, Joe. That’s the lady?”

“Yeah. She’s the founder of the Alegra’s Closet boutiques.”

That brought an instant smile to Boyd’s face. “She’s on the island? What’s she doing? Going to start one of those stores of hers around these parts?”

“She said she’s here for the festival and buying art.”

“Shoot, too bad. This place could use a little spicing up. Do you suppose she wears those little nothings that pass for clothes?” He leaned closer. “Is she hot?”

Something in Joe recoiled at the idea of someone talking about Alegra this way, and it didn’t help that Boyd’s words brought images to his mind that made his body start to tighten. “She’s not ugly.” A true understatement.

He went around the reception desk and across to his open office door, then entered his cluttered cubicle. He took his seat behind a desk almost hidden by stacks of paperwork. His old swivel chair protested when he turned in it toward the computer on the left. He booted the thing up and went straight to the Internet. He typed in Alegra Reynolds, then hit the enter key.

ALEGRA GOT TO Earl Money’s store just as he was closing, and thankfully, he’d been more than happy to stay open a bit longer to set her up with a cell phone that turned out to be an upgrade from her old unit. By the time she got back to her cottage at Snug Harbor, it was past dinner and she decided to just eat one of the energy bars she brought. She used the Internet access in her room, got in touch with Roz, and in a few hours, had all of the data from her old phone downloaded into her new one.

After that, she worked on her laptop, going over reports until just around midnight. When she was about to close down the computer, she reconsidered. She went to a search engine and put in the name of the high school on the island. She was a bit surprised to find that the Grace High School had its own Web page. Nothing fancy, just a picture of the school as it was when it started fifty years ago and one of how it looked now.

She saw the links on the left, tapped on the alumni link and entered the year she graduated. The screen flashed with an image of the yearbook, and she entered her old name, Peterson. Suddenly, there she was ten years ago, a head-and-shoulders shot of her with long, pale hair pulled back from her face with a headband. Anyone would have called her expression sober, but they’d have been wrong. It was desperation, the same desperation that drove her to leave a week later.

Under the photo with her name was the heading Predictions For Al’s Future, followed by a blank space, because she’d never given the editor anything to put there.

She clicked on an earlier year, then another, and on her third try, she found Joe Lawrence.

The man as a boy looked so young and thin, with a shock of dark hair falling over a smooth, earnest face. He was smiling, and it was the same boyish smile she’d seen on the ferry, though his adult face had a decided sexiness his young face hadn’t. She didn’t really remember him from the past, except once, at the lighthouse, she’d gone there to hide out and three boys had been there before her. She glared at them until they’d gone.

She glanced at the predictions for his future: Pulitzer Prize winner by 30, a millionaire by 40, living in the south of France forever. He’d known what he wanted and hadn’t been afraid to see it in print. But as far as she knew there’d been no Pulitzer Prize, no millions—look at the old truck he drove—and Shelter Island was a long way from the south of France.

She closed her computer, then sat back in the chair and sighed. So much for a trip down memory lane.

She stood and crossed to the dresser to get ready for bed. In half an hour she was in the comfortable canopy bed, staring up at the shadows. Her yearbook picture flitted through her mind, then was replaced by Joe’s. As sleep tugged at her, the face changed to the man of the present….

Chapter Three

The dream was simple, nothing convoluted or strange, the way some of Alegra’s dreams could be. It was just Joe on the ferry watching her as she held her phone. He was coming closer, touching her hand with his, taking the phone, then saying she had to let it go and tossing it over the railing. In the dream she heard the splash when it hit the water, not like the reality that had played out hours earlier.

The dream started to repeat, and this time when he reached for the phone, she refused to give it to him. He shook his head, those blue eyes almost sad. She didn’t want his pity. He reached out again, but not for the phone. For her. Then she was in his arms, and his heat was everywhere….

Alegra woke to a room of hazy shadows and rolled onto her side. She was surprised that the illuminated hands of the clock showed nine-fifteen. Her “late” mornings normally were when she slept until seven instead of six. And she hardly ever remembered her dreams. But when she shifted onto her back and closed her eyes, the dream from last night was there. Joe grabbing her phone and tossing it, then her being pulled into his arms. Both dreams left her feeling oddly unsettled.

With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up. She couldn’t see any sign of sunlight in the long sliver of space between the drapes. Typical island weather—foggy. She headed to the bathroom, with its clawfoot tub and shower stall. She stayed under the hot stream of water for a long time before she got out and dressed simply in a long white shirt and charcoal-gray corduroy slacks. She combed her hair straight back off of her face and into a simple ponytail, and hesitated as she caught her image in the mirror over the pedestal sink.

She thought of her old yearbook picture. There was no desperation in her eyes now, just determination.

After logging on to her laptop and finding a slew of e-mails—mostly about a faulty supplier for the Houston stores—she got down to work trying to figure out what to do. By the time she had the problem settled, it was almost noon. She’d meant it when she said she planned to do some art shopping. A business associate had told her about Angelo’s gallery, said it had the best work on the island. Well, now was as good a time as any.

She tucked in her shirt, slipped on her brown leather bomber jacket, then grabbed her car keys, her wallet and new cell phone. She pushed them into her pockets, left the cottage and stopped on the veranda to glance at the view from the bluffs. If it had been clear, the view would be stunning, but right now it was blocked by the remnants of the fog that hung over the dark waters far below.

She went down the steps onto the crushed shell walkway that led toward the main house and parking lot. Despite the drab day, the old Victorian looked lovely, all cream and forest-green, with elaborate gingerbread trim on its multiple spires and in the corners of the supports for the wraparound porch. She got to her car, hit the remote and as the car locks clicked open, someone called out to her in an almost painfully cheery voice. “Ms. Reynolds!”

She turned to see at the side entry of the house a young woman of maybe eighteen, dressed in a ridiculously frilly apron over plain old jeans and a blue shirt. Martha, Melanie? Alegra couldn’t remember how the girl had introduced herself when she’d checked in yesterday. “Good morning,” she called back, keeping the car door open.

“I was just wondering if we can plan on you joining us for tea at four o’clock.”

An English tea in the main house with the other guests balancing fine china and conversation didn’t appeal to her at all. “No, I don’t think so.”

“How about dinner?”

She had to eat. “Okay, but I’ll take it in my cottage.”

“Just let us know what time, then.” The girl sounded disappointed. “Have a lovely day.”

The girl would have gone back inside if Alegra hadn’t called out to her. “Can you tell me where Angelo’s art gallery is?”

“Sure.” She motioned to the exit of the parking area. “Turn right, go down about a block or so, and it’s on the other side of the street. It’s the only two-story building on that block. There’re a couple more galleries a ways past it, The Place and Jenny’s Treasures. Also, they’ll be setting up an art show near the gazebo in the park next door.”

“Thanks,” Alegra called back, and with a wave climbed in her car. She drove out onto the main street, but didn’t follow the girl’s directions. She knew where Angelo’s was as soon as the girl had said it was a two-story building. But she also knew that she was procrastinating. She had more important things to do on the island. Important, but difficult. She’d find the gallery after she was finished.

She turned back toward the way she’d come from the ferry, then about halfway to the dock, she turned onto a road that went into the heart of the island. She hadn’t been on this road for ten years, but the deep gloom that shrouded it was very familiar.

She passed a scattering of orchards and old bungalows, then spotted her turn. She slowed to a crawl and for a moment thought of just turning around and going back to the gallery to look at paintings and do this later. But instead, she braced herself and turned onto a narrow lane choked by trees and overgrown brush trees.

She went up a small hill and knew the exact moment when she crossed the boundary into the land where she’d been born and lived for eighteen years. She saw the house right away, despite the untended vegetation that pressed all around it. The faded blue walls were chalky and weather-stained. The windows were blank, but unbroken, and the porch sagged precariously.

She pulled the car to a stop and just sat there staring at the house. Why had she dreaded this so much? There was no repeat of the ridiculous tears from the day before. This place meant nothing to her. It was just an old, neglected place that, now that she’d seen it, she could mark off her list and put up for sale, as she should have done years ago, after her father had died. She’d forget about it the way she would this island, forever. She pulled away and didn’t look back, just the way she hadn’t looked back when she’d walked away from the house after graduation with eleven dollars in her pocket.

By the time she drove back into town, her mind was on art. She’d taken up collecting a few years ago when she’d spotted a canvas in an art gallery in New York. It was just a simple work by an unknown artist, depicting a road that wound through a rocky countryside, going off into a horizon splashed with the rich colors of sunset. It drew her in, and she’d bought it on impulse.

Since then, she’d picked up a few paintings here and there with similar themes, roads or paths heading into the distance to an unknown goal. She never analyzed why she felt a connection to those scenes, but in every city she visited, she sought out more of the same. Sometimes she found something, most times she didn’t. But she was going to do the same thing on the island. It would be one spot of pleasure in this ordeal.

She drove slowly along the main street, which was a lot busier than the day before. She passed the Snug Harbor B&B and spotted Angelo’s gallery on the other side of the street another block down. She pulled into what appeared to be the only available parking spot and climbed out of the car.

Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Hey, Roz, what’s going on?”

She turned to head up the two steps to the wooden walkway. Just as Roz started to tell her about a distribution meeting that had been called for the next day, someone ran into her left side. She would have gone right off the edge of the walkway if a hand hadn’t grabbed her by her upper arm.

A voice was saying, “Oh, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” The voice was familiar. As familiar as the deep blue eyes she met when she turned toward the voice. Joe.

Seeing him right by her, holding her, startled her as much as the collision moments earlier had, and she found herself acting without thinking, jerking back and free of his touch. “You almost knocked me into next week!” she said.

Joe let her go, but didn’t move back. Instead, he hunkered down, then quickly straightened up. He had her phone, was offering it to her. She stared at it, knowing she must have dropped it when they collided, then she heard Roz yelling through the earpiece, “Alegra? Alegra! What’s going on?”

She took it quickly from Joe and pressed it against her ear. “Roz, I’m sorry, I dropped the phone. I’ll have to call you back.” She flipped it shut, then turned the phone over in her hand. It had a scuff mark, but other than that, looked okay.

“You didn’t kill it,” Joe said.

“That’s all I’d need.” She pushed it into her jacket pocket. “It took me ages to download all my information into it.”

His eyes flicked over her, then back to her face. “I bet it did.”

Was that sarcasm? She felt a touch of heat in her face. “I’m fully connected now.”

That brought a crooked smile to his lips. “I take it that’s a good thing?”

It occurred to her that he, for some reason, had come back here whipped and beaten, and because of that, resented anyone he saw as successful. The man was handsome and sexy, but he was an islander and obviously a loser. It was a combination that should have killed any attraction she felt for him. But it didn’t. “Whatever.”

He frowned. “You know, that’s truly annoying.”

“Excuse me?” She frowned right back at him.

“The word whatever. It’s annoying. It shows indifference to something, maybe even scorn. It’s a lousy word that gets used far too much. People should just say, ‘I don’t give a damn.’”

The heat in her face now wasn’t entirely a product of being irritated by his penchant for defining words, good or bad. It was because she was anything but indifferent to this man. Instead of arguing, she said with exaggerated pronunciation, “Whatever.”

To her surprise he chuckled roughly and held his hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay, I give up.”

“Good decision,” she said.

He cocked his head to one side and considered her for a long moment. “Were you coming here to see me and give me a good human-interest piece for the paper? I can see it now. ‘Alegra Reynolds of Alegra’s Closet fame, visits our island for—’?”

She cut that off with a fast, “No,” as she realized she’d parked right in front of the Beacon. He must have been coming out of his office. But as the single word hung between them, she had second thoughts. She’d planned to avoid all the islanders until the time was right to tell everyone who she’d been and who she was now; she hadn’t wanted anyone to stumble over her past identity until she was ready. But maybe there was a better way.

Joe, no matter what he’d been in the past, ran the only newspaper in town. What if she let him see Alegra Reynolds, what she accomplished, where she was going, the things that would provide background to the story that would surely be front page news? For when she went to the ball on the last night of the festival, when she finally stood up in front of the islanders and handed them a check to go into a fund for town improvements, an amount that would stun most of the people there, it would be a big story. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for one person to know what she’d accomplished in the years since she’d left the island.

He’d seen her hesitation and continued, “Nothing too intrusive. Just a ‘Guess who’s at the festival’ sort of story.”

“Sure, why not?” she asked.

“Great. If you have time later on, maybe we can—”

“I was on my way to Angelo’s art gallery. I had to park here—it’s packed by the gallery.”

“Parking’s pretty tight with the festival starting tomorrow. That’s why Angelo has a parking area behind his building.”

“Good to know for future reference,” she said, and had an idea how to start passing information to Joe. “Since you’re a local, is there any secret about approaching Angelo if I want to buy something?”

“You mean, to get a deal?” he asked with a crooked smile.

She nodded. “It never hurts to save money.”

“One thing to keep in mind is, Angelo Paloma is very protective of the artists he shows. He likes haggling and selling the product. The only suggestion I’d have is, don’t accept the first price he gives you.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nodded. “I’ve got a bit of time on my hands at the moment. Why don’t I go with you and introduce you to Angelo and we can get started on the story?”

If she’d learned one thing in business it was that if you wanted something, you never acted too eager, whether it was buying a painting or getting your facts to the right person. “I don’t want to take you away from big stories you have to cover.”

“That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

“You said you run this newspaper, and there have to be stories that need your attention.”

“Not at the moment, at least, not beyond the preparation for the festival. A good story about Alegra Reynolds visiting the island, maybe thinking of expanding here, now that’s important.”

He was so far off the mark for why she was here that it wasn’t even funny. “That isn’t going to happen.” Opening a store of hers in this place was as unlikely as a five-headed alien kidnapping the mayor of the town. “This island isn’t ready for an Alegra’s Closet.”

“How do you know that?” he drawled. “We’re more progressive than you might think.”

“No hammer and chisel, not anymore, from what I’ve heard.”

“See? Exactly my point. We grow with the times, and if that growth means an Alegra’s Closet right here on the main street, well, so be it.”

“Hey, boss,” a voice said as the door to the offices of the newspaper opened.

Alegra looked past Joe at another man, and while she hadn’t seen him since he’d been at their house drinking with her father, she recognized Boyd Posey right away. He’d been skinny, pinched and balding back then, and now he was skinny, pinched and completely bald. He’d worked at the Beacon all those years ago, and he obviously was still working there.

Joe turned to him, but the man was looking past his boss at Alegra. His eyes narrowed and for a second she was certain he remembered her as well as she remembered him. But she knew how misplaced that paranoia was when he spoke again. “Oh, sorry, Joe. I didn’t see you were talking to a beautiful woman.” He never looked away from Alegra when he went on, this time talking to her. “Ma’am, I’m Boyd Posey, assistant editor at the Beacon.”

“I’m Alegra Reynolds.”

His mouth formed a silent O. She had seen the reaction many times before. Recognition—but not because he recognized her as Al Peterson, but rather, he knew her as the woman whose “empire was built on lace and underwiring,” as a gentleman with the same expression had once told her. “Alegra Reynolds of Alegra’s Closet fame? Well, isn’t that something,” he drawled with a slightly lascivious glint in his pale eyes. “My wife’s got your catalogs.” He laughed. “Not that she can wear the stuff, but she can dream.”

Joe cut in. “What was it you needed, Boyd?”

Boyd let his gaze linger on Alegra for a long moment before he turned back to Joe. “You didn’t say if you’re coming back.”

“I don’t know. I’ll check in later.”

Boyd met Alegra’s eyes again. “Do you model your clothes?”

She didn’t remember liking or disliking Boyd in the past. He’d been a drinking buddy of her father’s and he hardly even noticed her. But now she was edging toward not liking him. Forcing a “business as usual” expression that she had mastered over the years, she shook her head. “I just design and sell my stock.”

“Too bad,” Boyd murmured, then went back inside.

She felt Joe by her side, and heard him say on a sigh, “Should I apologize for Boyd?”

“Don’t bother. It goes with the territory,” she said, looking down the street to the building she knew housed the gallery. “Everyone has a reaction to what I do, and sometimes it’s less than complimentary.”

“Believe it or not, Boyd was complimenting you.”

“Whatever,” she said as she turned back to him.

He smiled at that. “A good use of that word for a change.”

That was when he touched her arm. “Come on. Angelo is waiting to dazzle you with his inventory of brilliant art.”

She wanted Joe to go with her, but that didn’t mean she wanted contact with him. She moved away from his touch as she took off toward the gallery. He fell into step beside her.

The bottom level of the gallery was framed by brick and the upper level by silvered wood siding. The roof showed spots of green moss, and it was pitched high in the middle over the entry.

The building had been a feed store when she’d lived here, with rough wooden floors and huge beams overhead that had held winches to lift hay bales in and out of the lofts. The place looked very much as it had back then, except there were deep windows now where the loading doors had once been, and a new entrance had been fashioned between them with carved double doors. Joe took a step ahead of her, grasped the heavy-hasp latch and pushed the door back for her.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I can promise you that Angelo won’t give you any grief over your choice of careers.”

She stepped inside. Glancing around, she saw that all remnants of the feed store were gone, except for what was retained for decorative impact. The subtle scent of woodsy incense hung in the air. The space still soared through both stories, but now it was a grand area to display paintings and sculpture. The floors were highly polished hardwood, and stairs, fashioned of wood and iron, swept up in the middle to a second display space upstairs. Soft harp music drifted around them, and the peace in the place was palpable.

A disembodied voice with a very British clip to it cut through that softness, coming from somewhere near the rear of the building. “Greetings! Please, help yourself to tea or coffee from the table by the windows, and I’ll be right there.”

“Angelo? It’s me, Joe,” Joe called.

“I’m talking to London. Give me a minute.”

“You got it.” Joe motioned to an oval table that held tea things, along with some shortbread cookies. “Like anything?” he asked.

“Oh, no, thanks,” she said, and looked at the nearest grouping of paintings.

“Then why don’t we just browse until Angelo’s free. Anything in particular that might strike your fancy?”

She couldn’t explain to him what she was looking for, because she didn’t know until she saw it. “I’ll just look around,” she said.

“I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind, and you can tell me about the art you already have.”

What would she tell him? I collect roads that go nowhere? She didn’t think so, but she spoke softly, “Okay,” and went into a large alcove formed by three floating walls butted up against each other in the shape of a U. When she saw an elegantly simple gold plaque on a slim stand by the three prints, she stopped and stared at it.

Works by Sean Payne—Local Artist.

Her past hit her with such force the room started to swim. She took a deep breath, and the room settled, but the pain in her middle didn’t ease. Sean, skinny and mean and taunting her. She had to struggle not to rush out of the gallery.

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