Cynthia Thomason - Return of the Wild Son

Jenna leaned over the desk. “Won’t even show up, huh?”

Lucinda backed up a few steps. “Believe it or not, the original call came from somebody in Sutter’s Point.”

Bill beamed. “Hot diggety. This guy lives close. He’s got to know about the shape that building’s in. This is starting out to be a great day.” He glanced at Jenna and affected an expression of chagrin. “Sorry, Jenna. But it’s the wheels of progress, you know. If there’s a chance to get the lighthouse off this town’s back, I’m going to take it.”

She wanted to strangle him. Instead, she slammed the bag of doughnuts back onto his desk. It made her feel somewhat better to picture his arteries clogged with hundreds of grams of fat. And she decided to find out just exactly who from Sutter’s Point was buying the lighthouse out from under her.

J ENNA WAS BACK AT THE bakery by nine o’clock, mechanically refilling coffee cups. “Who could this buyer be?” she asked her mother.

Marion gave her a long-suffering look and began arranging clean mugs behind the counter. “He’s just looking, Jenna. We don’t know that he’s going to buy it. So why is it so important that you know his name?”

“Because maybe he’s a nice old man who just wants to do something for the community. Maybe I can talk him into donating the lighthouse back to us.”

Marion stared at her. “That wouldn’t make any sense. No one spends eighty thousand dollars on a lark—at least no one from around here. It’s more likely this guy bought it as an investment, and turning it over to you and your committee would be a ridiculous decision.”

“Then maybe he’s a developer interested in putting something new on that property. He might even like my idea for beautification.”

“Jenna, you have to stop concocting these ideas. If you really want to tackle a tough problem, think about what will happen if the place sells and we have to tell your grandmother.” Marion sighed. “I’m not sure this town is equipped to handle a rebellion at the seniors home.”

“She’ll be devastated,” Jenna agreed. “But no more than if she discovered my plans for the building.”

Marion nodded toward the front window of the shop. “Who’s that man across the street? He’s just standing there…Maybe he’s lost?”

N ATE STOPPED on the sidewalk and looked across at the grassy area that separated the two sides of Main Street. New businesses had popped up, but much about Finnegan Cove was familiar. The park benches were freshly painted. The flowers were just beginning to bloom. The brick buildings were solid and clean, their roofs in good repair. It wasn’t the sun-washed glitz of Southern California; here there was a sense of reverence for what had come before. For permanence.

Nate didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t thought about returning to this place since he’d headed his old pickup out of town two weeks after his father’s trial and pointed west. Even when he came to Michigan to visit his father, he never considered stopping in Finnegan Cove. There’d been no reason to. Those who’d once befriended the Sheltons had ended up condemning them, along with the ones who’d paid little regard to a struggling fisherman and his two sons.

Before the cancer took her, his mother had had friends. Everyone liked Cheryl Shelton. She’d been sweet and friendly and always offered a helping hand to anyone who needed it. When she died, each of the three Shelton men felt the loss deeply.

Nate looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. He had a half hour before he had to meet Mike at the lighthouse. He headed toward the red-and-white-striped awning over a wooden sign advertising a bakery across the street where there’d once been a dentist’s office. He was nervous about seeing Mike again. Even before their mother died, Nate and Mike hadn’t seen eye to eye on much. Probably caffeine was the last thing Nate needed before facing his brother, but what the heck.

T HE TALL MAN IN JEANS and a light jacket Marion had pointed out was approaching the shop. The sun glinted off his dark-blond hair. His bronzed complexion told Jenna he wasn’t from around Finnegan Cove. No one on Lake Michigan had the hint of a tan in April. This guy had to be a transplant from someplace exotic and sunny. Cool and confident—that’s what he was, with the emphasis on cool. Residents of Finnegan Cove were solid, dependable, but definitely not cool.

He came inside and looked around. The last customers had left several minutes ago. The sandwich crowd wouldn’t be in for lunch for some time.

“Are you open?” the man asked, coming up to the counter.

“Until two,” Marion said.

He sat on a bar stool. Something about the man’s voice seemed familiar. Jenna studied him closely. He looked familiar, too, as if he was someone she ought to know. But that was impossible. How would she know a guy whose jeans even looked expensive—as if custom-made to fit his long, lean legs? He wore a shirt with a button-down collar. Guys in Finnegan Cove wore Wranglers from Wal-Mart, and T-shirts advertising the local bait-and-tackle hut. She couldn’t look away. The stranger was intriguing, and not just because they didn’t see many strangers before tourist season.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” he said, and pointed to the chrome cake tray covered with a plastic dome. “And that raspberry Danish.”

Marion slid the pastry onto a plate and set it in front of him. She stood a moment, her eyes intent on his face. Then she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

Jenna rushed over from the coffee machine. “Mom, are you all right?”

Marion’s eyes widened. Her lips twitched, as if she didn’t know whether to smile or frown. “After all these years…”

The man stared hard at her mother, then sat back on the stool. “My God. Marion Malloy?”

She exhaled a long breath and said simply, “Nate.”

Jenna dropped the cup she’d been about to fill with coffee. It broke into a dozen pieces. He tore his gaze from Marion’s face to look at her, and the past came back in a nightmarish rush. He was Nate Shelton—older, more filled out, without the wiry toughness of youth, and with a few wrinkles around his unforgettable blue eyes.

Marion cleared her throat, hurried to help Jenna clean up the mess. After throwing the shards in the trash can, she broke the awful silence. “You remember my daughter, Jenna, don’t you, Nate?”

He gave her an intense appraisal, as if trying to find her in his memory bank. “Sure,” he said after several uncomfortable moments. “You were just a kid when I…left.”

You mean when you ran away rather than face what your father had done. “I was thirteen,” she said. “Not so much a kid. Old enough.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He picked up his fork, cut into the pastry and then let it sit there. After a moment he looked at Marion and said, “So have you stayed in Finnegan Cove all this time?”

“I never thought of leaving,” she replied. “This is my home. And I bought this shop with the money…” She paused, looked down at the counter. “With the money I got after Joe died. Anyway, this is a nice business. My daughter helps out. We get along just fine.”

He nodded, acknowledged the full cup of coffee Jenna placed in front of him. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.” He took a sip. “You know, I think about what happened a lot. I’m sorry for what you went through.”

“Forget it, Nate,” Marion said. “It’s in the past.”

Forget it? Jenna rested her hip against the counter and said, “What are you doing here, Nate? I heard you were on the West Coast somewhere. Why have you come back?”

He stared up at her with those blue eyes that used to make her adolescent knees weak. “It’s kind of strange, I guess, me being here again. And my reason for being here will seem even stranger.”