Authors: Belleporte Summer
Bess shook her head. “Love. Ain’t it grand?”
Her tone, more sardonic than humorous, alerted him. He concentrated on scrubbing out the grease-encrusted turkey roaster. “You don’t sound convinced. Is everything all right?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, he turned to study her. She stood, hands braced on the countertop, head down, her auburn hair falling across her face and obscuring her features.
He dried his hands, then took hold of her shoulders and gently made her face him. “Sis?”
She collapsed against him, her back rigid, fingers clenched against his chest. Finally she drew back. “It’s Darren.”
“What about him?”
“I haven’t said anything to anyone. Please don’t tell Mom. The last thing she needs today is something else to worry about.” Bess’s face was ravaged. “I think he’s an alcoholic, Ben.”
If she’d told him Lake Michigan had suddenly dried up, he couldn’t have been more surprised.
In a small voice she said, “I’m finding bottles hidden around the house.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Of course, till I’m blue in the face. He claims he’s not drinking on the job. That he’s got everything under control. But how can I be sure? Would you talk to him, Ben? He’s always admired you.”
Merry Christmas.
“I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I’ll give it a try.” Someone was coming up from the rec room. He leaned close and said, “Bess, you know I’m here for you. Any time.”
She looked up, her eyes misty. “Thanks, Ben. I don’t know what I’d do without you. What any of us would do. You’re our rock.”
When one of the exchange students walked into the kitchen, Ben renewed his attack on the roaster, regretting that family problems could not be so easily cleaned up.
A rock.
So that’s what they thought. He hadn’t had a clue what was in store for him when his dying father asked him to assume the role of head of the family.
It was a heavy responsibility. One Ben didn’t begrudge. But there were truths to be faced. Take Laurel Eden, for instance.
His obligations didn’t leave much time for personal relationships, and that reality saddened him, because Laurel deserved so much more than he could give right now.
T
RYING IN VAIN
to curb her excitement, Laurel drove straight to the cottage when she returned to Belleporte. Arlo Bramwell, bent to his work, barely acknowledged her, but when she breathed an ecstatic, “Wow!” he laid down his screwdriver and turned to observe her reaction. He’d transformed the second-story attic into one large combination living room-kitchen-bedroom with a bathroom tucked into one corner and a built-in desk in another. Shelves, still smelling of stain, lined one wall, and the refinished hardwood floors looked like new. He’d even built window-seat storage units.
“It’s wonderful, Mr. Bramwell. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
He shrugged. “Don’t rightly know if this is how you wanted these cabinets, but this is the only way they’ll go.” He stood back for Laurel to inspect his work on the apartment kitchen.
“I trust your judgment.”
He harrumphed, but Laurel noticed a nearly imperceptible gleam in his eye.
“How soon can I move in?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you want hot water. Plumber’s comin’ tomorrow.”
“I’d like to talk with you about the work I need done downstairs. When would be a good time?”
“Now’s as good as any.”
While he went on working, she outlined her ideas for the first floor, explaining that she wanted to open by April fifteenth.
When she finished, all he said was, “Reckon I can handle it.”
She spent the rest of the afternoon selecting miniblinds, getting set up for trash pickup and ordering phone service. Until her apartment was ready, she planned to stay at Primrose House.
Later, at the drugstore, she ran into Janet Kerns, who greeted her by saying, “Welcome home.”
Laurel beamed. “How did you know? That’s exactly what it feels like.”
“I could boast it’s woman’s intuition, but, sweetie, the bounce in your step is a dead giveaway. Best of all, you’re back just in time for Twelfth Night.”
“Twelfth Night?”
“Tomorrow is January 5. Those of us who stick it out here for the winter get together for our annual Christmas-tree-burning party. It’s how we celebrate the official end of the holiday season. It will be a marvelous way for you to meet some of the year-round residents.”
“I’d love to come.”
Janet gave her the details, then, with a cheery wave of farewell, said, “Hope to see you then.”
Laurel paid for her merchandise and strolled back to Primrose House. Would Ben be at the Twelfth Night festivities? They hadn’t seen each other since their dinner at the Dunes Inn. Maybe she’d romanticized their kisses. Laurel shook her head. No way. There was something there—definitely.
B
EN CLOSED THE BLINDS
, donned his parka and left his office. The cold, clear night air fairly crackled. Christmas lights on homes and storefronts twinkled merrily, and in the distance he made out a glow in the city park. Then he remembered. Twelfth Night. He’d been so buried in work, he’d totally lost track of time. He checked his watch. He was supposed to meet his mother fifteen minutes ago.
Setting off at a jog through the light dusting of snow, Ben headed toward the park. He didn’t want to miss this long-standing Belleporte tradition, especially the refreshments afterward at the community center.
Clustered around the bonfire were children bundled in snowsuits, adults in boots and parkas, and old-timers with hats pulled low over their ears. Mike, bareheaded, stood with some of his buddies, and Ben spotted Megan huddling close to a tall blond kid in a Lake City letter jacket. The burning Christmas trees, now fiery skeletons, sent smoke spiraling into the sky. He sidled up to his mother, who was chatting with Mrs. Arlo, as everyone called Bramwell’s wife. “Did I miss much?”
“The traditional torching and singing of ‘We Three Kings.’ We could’ve used your baritone. Working late?”
There were never enough hours in the day. Not if he wanted to keep his practice afloat. “Yeah.”
“You young people,” Mrs. Arlo said with a shake of her head. “You work too hard. Never enjoy the simple things.”
“Ellen’s here,” his mother remarked, her nonchalance unconvincing. “Why don’t you go say hello?”
“You trying to get rid of me, Mom?”
“Never. But you need to have some fun.”
Fun? The last time he could remember fun involved Laurel Eden. Maybe he would go talk with Ellen, after all. She might have news about Laurel’s return.
In her bright blue coat and purple hat, Ellen stood out in the crowd. Her eyes lit up when he walked toward her. “Hi, Ben. I was hoping you weren’t going to miss the festivities.”
“No way.” He stood beside her, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his ears burning in the cold. When a couple of teenagers threw the last of the trees onto the blaze, a man with a strong voice began singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” and soon the crowd joined in.
Without looking at him, Ellen slipped her arm through his, her warm, rich alto blending with the others. It was uplifting to see the community come together on occasions like this, their petty squabbles left behind. But as Ben knew, things were seldom what they seemed.
Take Bess and Darren, for instance. To the casual observer they were a happy, upwardly mobile family. Yet Darren’s defensiveness when Ben had tried to talk to him about his drinking had raised all kinds of red flags. He didn’t want to think about the man driving with his kids if he was under the influence. Ben had encouraged Bess to try Al-Anon. Darren, on the other hand, hadn’t even wanted to discuss AA.
The last chorus died away and firemen began dousing the smoldering ashes. “Heading for the community center?” Ellen asked.
“Have you ever known me to turn down food?”
They followed the crowd toward the lighted building at the end of the park. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his mother’s approving smile. He could swear she’d been born part matchmaker.
Breaking the silence, he said, “Have you heard from Laurel Eden?”
He detected a momentary hesitation before Ellen answered. “Yes. She got back yesterday. Any particular reason for asking?”
“Just curious.”
“She’s up to her ears in the remodeling project, but I imagine she’s here tonight. She wouldn’t want to miss her first Twelfth Night.”
They had reached the door of the hall. She still clung to his arm. “Can I get you a piece of cake, Ben?”
He scanned the crowd, admitting to himself he was looking for a head of curly black hair. “That’s okay.” He nodded toward Megan. “My sister needs to introduce me to that teenage heartthrob she’s with. See you later.”
It wasn’t the most gracious exit line, but he didn’t want to give Ellen any false hopes. Besides, he really should meet Megan’s latest boyfriend.
Most of all, though, he wanted to find Laurel.
L
AUREL HUNG
at the back of the crowd gathered around the bonfire, delighted she’d arrived in time for the ceremony. Already she’d greeted the Bramwells, the florist and Janet, who had introduced her to her family. She was eager to meet some of the others, especially the Nolans.
Was Ben here? She craned her neck, but couldn’t see over the people standing in front of her. Finally, when the crowd dispersed, she spotted him. Arm in arm with… Her jaw dropped. Ellen. They stood close together, and there was no mistaking the adoring look on the woman’s face. Laurel felt sick.
She watched as the two sauntered toward the community center, still arm in arm, Ben’s head bent close to catch whatever Ellen was saying.
Laurel liked Ellen—valued their new friendship. Why hadn’t Ben said something that night on the beach?
Carpe diem,
indeed. She’d seized the day all right—or, more accurately, the night. She’d kissed a man who appeared to be already taken.
She was tempted to flee to Primrose House. But why deprive herself of the pleasure of the celebration? After all, she hadn’t come to Belleporte because of Ben Nolan. He’d merely been an added attraction.
Arlo Bramwell’s wife grabbed Laurel’s arm when she entered the community center and ushered her around, introducing her to everyone she encountered. Finally she directed Laurel to the refreshment table, where they each picked up a slice of cake and a mug of hot chocolate. “Now—” Mrs. Arlo looked around “—where shall we sit?” Then she waved across the room and nodded her head. “There. By Maureen.”
They shouldered through the crowd and settled at a long table by the window. “Laurel, this is my friend Maureen—she runs the village day care.”
A friendly-looking woman with russet hair and sad green eyes smiled. “I’m delighted to meet you.”
Mrs. Arlo practically bounced in her chair. “You must know about Laurel. She bought the old Mansfield place. For a gift shop.”
“Of course. I’ve heard about you from my son Ben.”
Laurel nearly dropped her fork. “Yes, he introduced me to Ellen, who handled the sale for me.”
“Ellen’s a great real estate agent and a wonderful person,” Maureen Nolan continued. “She and Ben have known each other ever since grade school.”
Approval echoed in every syllable. Laurel’s heart sank, but she did her best to recover, asking the two women about the history of the Twelfth Night observance.
“Part of the fun is the cake,” Mrs. Arlo said. “Whoever finds a pea in their cake will be crowned king or queen.”
“Of what?” Laurel asked.
“Misrule,” Maureen responded. “It all goes back to an old tradition. We do it here for fun.”
“In just a minute there will be the announcement,” Mrs. Arlo said.
Sure enough, the mayor hushed the crowd, then held up a pasteboard crown. “Okay, folks, who has the pea?”
A jaunty silver-haired gentleman with a military mustache stood and made his way to the front. “Quincy Axtell, I declare,” the mayor said, “this is about the fifth time you’ve been king.”
“Wouldn’t you know it would be Quincy,” Mrs. Arlo whispered to Ben’s mother, but Laurel noticed both women gazed on the man with affection.
After the coronation, Laurel politely excused herself and headed for the door. She had taken only a few steps when she stopped dead.
From the other side of the room, walking directly toward her in a yellow sweater and gray flannel pants, was the man who’d filled her thoughts for weeks now. Someone jostled against her, but she didn’t move.
Ben wasn’t looking at the mayor nor at the new king.
Nor was Laurel looking at anyone else.
Despite the press of the crowd and the hearty conversations raging around them, they may as well have been alone—the only man and woman on a moonlit, windswept beach.
B
EN STRODE
toward Laurel, ignoring those in his path. It would’ve been so much easier if his memory had idealized her or if, at this moment, he felt ambivalent about seeing her. But when her dark eyes met his and she smiled in welcome, relief washed over him.
As others turned away to finish their refreshments or head for home, Ben said quietly, “I’m glad you’re back.” Talk about understatement.
“Me, too. I wish you could see the wonders Arlo’s worked on my apartment. Monday he starts on the shop itself.”
He smiled. “Still think you haven’t undertaken too much?”
“For your information, Mr. Pessimist, I’m more convinced than ever that I made the right choice. Just wait till you see some of the merchandise I’ve lined up. Really, it’s all coming together nicely.”
What was the matter with him? He had no right to discourage her. But that didn’t stop him from worrying. “I’d like to drop by so you can show me.”
“Anytime. I’m almost always there.” He couldn’t read her comment. She hadn’t set an exact time. Maybe the kiss on the beach had meant little to her. Maybe she hadn’t spent these intervening weeks reliving it, the way he had. Before he could respond, he felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder.