As Waters Gone By Read online

She wandered past the gazebo, stirred by a sound stronger than waves. Laughter. Children’s laughter.

  Two boys, maybe four and five, chased each other down the spiral slide, giggling when they landed on top of one another at the slide’s end. A woman tough enough to be their mother warned them to leave space between them—one at a time—or someone would get hurt.

  The mother stood at an odd angle, like a runway model thrusting her hip to the side. She wore a pink and purple little one on that hip and a striped shirt stretched over the baby Emmalyn guessed to be no more than two months away from making its appearance.

  Bayfield was not the place to come.

  Too much laughter.

  She returned the young mom’s wave but angled herself toward the water again, focusing on the lapping water, the ceiling of dryer lint clouds, the curve of the harbor to her left. Motionless masts hid her view of the ferry dock.

  How much time did she have left to kill?

  According to Max’s sentencing, another eight months.

  * * *

  Five years, Max?

  Emmalyn remembered chanting the question so often after he went to prison, it wore a divot in her vocal cords.

  “My lawyer warned me it could be worse.” Max’s voice—emotionless—had used my and me as if the sentence affected only him.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “What do you mean?” He’d barely paused. Barely paused. “Go on with your life.”

  Who had he turned into? This wasn’t the Max she’d lain next to every night, his fingers tracing the curve of her arm until she fell asleep, the Max who made other women jealous for how good Emmalyn had it. The Max who could have taught seminars on how to treat a woman . . . before.

  The phone connection from prison had crackled in her ear while she tried to cobble together an answer to his, “What do you mean? Go on with your life.”

  Go on? Incredulity was invented for moments like those.

  She’d try. Contrary to her mother’s opinion, she was no wimp. But Max had to know how ridiculous his words sounded. This isn’t how life was supposed to turn out.

  When the “go on” conversation faded—unresolved and hollow—Emmalyn told herself, for the first time ever, that she was grateful not to be pregnant. Going on alone would be hard enough.

  More than one doctor informed her the sensations she’d felt were emotional, not physical. Women can’t feel a womb shrinking. Emmalyn swore she could. It shrank by half the night Max told her to go on with her life.

  * * *

  A grocery store’s produce mister rained harder than the light drizzle that started. But Emmalyn left the water’s edge and headed back to her car. The ferry ticket lady suggested she get her vehicle in line a good ten minutes before departure. That still left a vacuum of an additional ten minutes.

  The young mom from the playground herded her littles into a rust-bucket minivan parked a half block in front of the Prius. A man exited the driver’s side, his neck hunched against the drizzle, and loaded the stroller into the back. He’d been there all along? Sitting in the van rather than engaging with the kids’ play? Missing the laughter?

  His mother didn’t raise him right.

  Not catching the next-to-the-last ferry made her regret having stopped at the orchard for a small bag of apples before finding her way to the landing earlier. She forgave herself for that when her stomach complained it hadn’t been fed for hours, as insistent as a terrier nudging his stainless steel bowl across the kitchen floor in a not-so-subtle hint.

  She reached for a Cortland in the bag on the passenger seat, polished it on her jeans, and bit through the taut red skin. If she chewed slowly, she could fill the time gap without rousing a memory or a longing.

  As if they ever napped.

  She closed her eyes and groaned with brief pleasure. The apple’s flesh was sweet yet tart, juicy. A good year for Cortlands. Max preferred Jonagolds. She’d bought only Cortlands since he left.

  Left? Since he was taken away.

  The orchard sales person must have thought it strange Emmalyn stood so long staring at the bin of Jonagolds. The teen had asked, “Want a sample?”

  Emmalyn had shaken her head no.

  “Would you like me to carry them to the checkout for you? Five pounds? Ten pounds?”

  Another head shake.

  “Jonagolds are more versatile than either the Jonathan or the Golden Delicious from which they’re derived. Are you looking for an eating apple, pie apple, making applesauce . . . ?”

  Smooth sales pitch. No to all of the above. “I’ll take a bag of Cortlands,” she’d said, pointing two bins to her right without losing her eye lock with the Jonagolds. “Five pounds. For now. I’m . . . I’m moving to the area.”

  “Welcome. You just missed Apple Festival. It gets a little crazy around here, but a lot of fun.”

  “Not much of a fun-seeker.”

  That sounded pathetic. True, but pathetic. One of these days, she’d fix that. As soon as she figured out how.

  She held the apple in her teeth and put the car into Drive. Twelve minutes early was better than three minutes late for the last ferry of the day.

  * * *

  Almost ten years ago, she would have tugged on Max’s sleeve, coaxing him to let her weave among the fabric threads of this town. He’d accompany her through the first four or five specialty shops before she noticed that look in his eyes—pained patience—and suggest he wait for her at the coffee shop. Had he brought a book? He’d be fine if it took her another hour to see more, to ooh and aah over more artwork, more history, more children’s books they didn’t need yet.

  And remarkably, he would be fine. Genuinely. A coffee shop armchair, a strong African brew, and uninterrupted time in a biography or legal thriller—ironic now—seemed a gift to him, not a concession to his wife’s lack of shopping fatigue. One of the things she’d appreciated about Max. At her side, sharing the experience for a while, then content for them to be engaged in their own interests. Could they ever gain that back? So much distance between them, not to mention the razor wire.

  She could almost see him standing at the counter in the coffee shop she passed on her way down Rittenhouse Avenue toward Front Street and the ferry landing. He’d gaze up at the chalkboard of choices as if they mattered. He always ordered the tallest and strongest they had.

  She turned left at the L in the road that swung past the public pier, Apostle Islands excursion launch, and the lighthouse shop. Ahead to her right, in the spaces between harborside buildings, she could see glimpses of the lumbering ferry approaching with its load of vehicles returning from the island. Tourists done exploring the island for the day? Mainland residents finished with their workday on Madeline or Madeline residents heading toward their evening shifts on the mainland?

  She’d paid for a single round-trip ticket. But at those prices, she’d have to soon check into a resident discount. Was that possible? She doubted the few stores on Madeline Island could provide the furnishings she’d need to change Max’s hunting cottage into what would have to pass for a home. If she were frugal, she could survive on what the court costs and restitution hadn’t taken, and the abysmal proceeds from the sale of the Lexington house. For a while longer, anyway. But the ferry fee for everything but the barest minimum of supplies—from what she’d heard—could be an uncomfortable drain.

  Her cell phone rang. How bizarre would it be if Max’s first call from prison in nearly four years came just as she left everything about their old life behind?

  The phone slithered out of her hands and dropped between the seats before she could answer it. She fumbled for it, found it, and answered before the call could switch to voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “Emmalyn Victoria Walker! Where are you?”

  “It’s Ross, Mother. You were there at the wedding.” Emmalyn restarted the engine and turned on the air conditioning. October, but the car had grown stuffy in the last ten seconds.

 
“You didn’t smart-mouth like that when you were younger.”

  Saved it all up, Mom. Saved it all up. “Did you want something?”

  “Yes! I want to know where in the continental United States you are, since you’re not at home. I checked.”

  “The house sold.”

  The gasp Emmalyn heard was likely accompanied by her mother’s hand slapped to her chest to cover the stab wound. “You didn’t tell me!”

  “I didn’t tell anyone else.”

  “Obviously. We’ve been talking about what to do with you.”

  “We?”

  “Your sisters. Honestly, Emmalyn, you’re making this so difficult for everyone.”

  Me. I’m making things difficult. For them. What does a person say to that?

  “Emmalyn? Are you there?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’m here.”

  “And where is that? I’ll meet you. Where do you think you’re going to stay until you find someplace new? Use some logic.”

  “I had to jettison the logic. It was weighing me down.”

  “What?”

  Emmalyn held the phone at arm’s length, breathed in through her nose and exhaled to the count of ten. Another breath in. “I already found someplace. Mom, I have to go. They’re about to load the ferry.”

  “Tell me you didn’t.”

  “But I did.”

  “Emmalyn! Not that rattle-trap cottage. You gave up that beautiful house in Lexington for an outhouse?”

  She checked her rearview mirror. A truck pulled in behind her. “I didn’t exactly give up the house, Mom. I was days away from it being taken from me if it hadn’t sold. And the cottage does have indoor plumbing.” She was pretty sure.

  “You could have been working.” The words held an untamped tension.

  Sixty hours a week wasn’t enough for her?

  “At a job that gave you an actual income, I mean.”

  “It wasn’t a job, Mom. It was my business.”

  “Still didn’t pay the bills.”

  The apple she’d eaten churned in her stomach. “Mom, I love you,” she squeezed out, “but I have to go now. I’m hanging up.”

  “This is not over. What is Max going to say about all this?”

  “Hanging up now.”

  “Emmalyn!”

  “Mother, he gave me power of attorney in case I had to sell while he was in prison. And I had to. End of story.”

  The ferry attendant tapped her window and motioned for her to put away her phone before pulling forward. Emmalyn would explain later why she hadn’t had time to say a proper good-bye.

  Hers was the third vehicle in the “outbound” line. The fourth had pulled tight behind her—a power company truck. Emmalyn wondered about the weight limit for the ferry now secured to the dock, letting down its heavy steel tailgate, emptying its contents into the “incoming” lane like a toddler dumping Matchbox cars from the coffee table onto the family room floor.

  She watched them pass, wondered about their stories. Where on the island had they come from? Where were they headed? Did they have mothers like hers? What dream, expectation, or nightmare made them choose this spot on the planet—woods and rocks and water and little else?

  This undeniably beautiful spot.

  Step into the water.

  It wasn’t a “drive through a bridge guardrail” kind of impression. It seemed an invitation to an adventure a twenty-minute ferry ride away, an adventure she hadn’t felt because it hadn’t started yet.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll ride on top of the water instead.”

  No one answered. No one had spoken.

  A bearded deckhand swung his arm to direct the line of cars to board the vessel. She followed obediently, riding the brake, certain the hand’s encouragement to inch farther forward would end in a bumper tap. Forward. Forward. Stop! His raised clenched fist made that direction clear.

  Emmalyn locked the transmission in Park and turned off the engine. Twenty minutes, once they got underway. Twenty minutes to a new life. She balanced the apple core on the console, wondering for the hundredth time if moving to Madeline Island was an Eve-like bad decision. She’d never hear the end of it if it were.

  2

  Without fanfare, the Prius tires rolled onto island asphalt. Emmalyn glanced left and turned right onto the aptly named Main Street, signs pointing toward the marina and the Madeline Island Golf Club, neither of which was her destination. Her online search told her the room she’d reserved for the night lay no more than a few buildings from the landing. There. The Wild Iris Inn and Café. Interesting. Two stories, painted the violet-blue of wild irises. Shutters the vibrant green of iris leaves. Every other bright, wild color showed up somewhere in the window boxes, the patio tables and chairs, and in the fence separating the patio area from the sidewalk.

  Even in the shadows of dusk, it made a statement.

  Emmalyn parked on the far side of the building, grabbed her purse, and dodged the fading efforts of the drizzle on her way to the only obvious entrance—through the narrow path between the patio tables and across the apron of concrete to the—squinting didn’t change it—melon-colored front door.

  A small foyer held a demure lime green dresser that sat along the right wall, a staircase Emmalyn assumed led to the rooms, to her room, and a massive glass door leading into a darkened café. The Wild Iris Café.

  “And the office would be . . . ?”

  She shifted her purse strap on her shoulder and planted her hands on her hips, the international sign for frustration. Despite the Closed sign pressed against the café door glass, Emmalyn reached for the knob and twisted. Nothing. Among the brochures for local attractions, a violet-blue envelope with an inked iris running on the left side—hand-sketched?—and a single letter—M—leaned against the base of a lamp.

  M.

  Her? Emmalyn?

  She picked up the envelope. The flap was tucked, not sealed. She slipped a finger under the flap. What’s the worst that could happen? Embarrassment? She had a lock on that already.

  The note inside, also addressed to M, said: Broom’s in the corner. Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me. Glad you’re here. B

  Seriously? The ceiling?

  She let her head drop back. A stenciled iris and the words “Yes, here,” marked the spot high above her.

  No.

  Her head dropped forward. She found no clearer answer on the floor.

  Emmalyn reached for the broom handle. Tap-tap-tap.

  She replaced the broom in the corner and looked for a tiny red light. She’d been caught on a hidden camera. That had to be the—

  Footsteps sounded overhead. No way. The doorbell really was on the ceiling.

  “M? Is that you?”

  Emmalyn leaned into the stairway. “It’s . . . I think . . . I’m Emmalyn Ross.”

  “You either are or you aren’t.”

  She took the three steps to the first landing. “I’m Emmalyn Ross. I wasn’t sure if the M meant me.”

  “Come on up. Your room’s ready. Did you eat? How was your trip? First time on the ferry? Quite a rush, isn’t it? Welcome to Madeline Island. Oh, look at you! Aren’t you cute!”

  The look Emmalyn was going for was sophisticated. Crisp. Tailored. Classy. She’d managed to give the impression of cute.

  The voice came from high above Emmalyn, straight up two landings, from a pixie-faced young woman whose lion-mane hair—same color, same style—bounced as she talked. The young woman brushed it out of her eyes with her forearm and repeated, “Come on up.” Then added, “I’m Boozie.”

  Really? You had to announce it?

  “Boozie Unfortunate,” she said as Emmalyn reached the second landing.

  Oh. It was her name. A stage name? An . . . unfortunate . . . name, at best.

  The last ferry had sailed. Comfortable or not, Emmalyn and Boozy or Boozie or whatever were sleeping under the same roof tonight. She extended her hand. “Emmalyn Ross. Pleased to meet you.”


  “If you were staying more than one night, I’d make you put that thing away.” Boozie nodded toward Emmalyn’s outstretched hand. “In favor of a hug.” She shook briefly. “Hugs are more my style. Pirate Joe says I can be too forward.”

  Not all sentences warrant a response.

  “Room Thirty-Seven. Here you go.”

  Emmalyn felt her eyes widen like the aperture of a hand-crank camera. “The Wild Iris Inn has thirty-seven rooms?” It looked the size of a large family home from the outside.

  “Goodness, no! Six rooms. Five, if you don’t count mine. I picked random numbers for the rooms. Thir-ty sev-en. Very rhythmic, don’t you think? Four-teen. Nine. Twen-ty-two. Fif-ty-eight, for obvious reasons. And my room.” She gestured with arms wide. “Three. Beautiful number, isn’t it?”

  A headache poked at a dime-sized spot on the back of her neck. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump.

  “Go on in,” Boozie said, standing back from the open door. Random Number 37.

  The room was as calm as Boozie was animated. As simple as she was complicated. A corner room. One of its windows overlooked the curve of the Village of LaPointe as it hugged the shoreline. The other looked out over the expanse of water between where she stood and where she’d come. The lights of Bayfield twinkled like a lit Christmas village at the Hallmark store.

  A painted-white wrought-iron double bed dominated one of the windowless walls of the room. A white down comforter and white pillows served as a canvas for one of three spots of color in the room. Tucked into the corner between the two windows was a light teal-and-white toile wing chair and reading lamp. A reclaimed dresser in a darker shade of teal sat nearby. And one of the many pillows on the bed sported a pale teal ribbon belt and saucer-sized wood button with HOPE burned into its face as the belt closure.

  “Serene,” Emmalyn said.

  “That’s the idea.” Boozie smiled. Her freckles danced with each other when she did.

  “Bare isn’t always serene.” Ten minutes on Madeline Island, and she’d already said too much. She felt the pull of the hallway at her back, the pull of the stairs, the road. But it dead-ended at a silent ferry crossing. At least until morning.

  Boozie laughed, the sound of unadulterated joy. She raised one hand above her head, tucked the other across her tiny waist, and twirled once, her tea-colored skirt—or was it an antique petticoat?—swirling like a petunia petal. The unlaced army boots detracted from the ballerina effect, but somewhere within the young woman was the heart of a dancer. Or insanity.