she opened her eyes, she saw Eric’s curious glance raking over her.
“So are you going to keep me in suspense or what?” he asked as he pulled onto Route 6.
“What do you mean?” she asked warily, still under the influence of the carnal memory.
Eric gave her a bewildered glance. “I’m wondering what you think of the property, Mari.”
“Oh!” She laughed in relief. For a second there, she’d thought those physician’s eyes of his had x-rayed straight into her skull and read her thoughts. “I do like the office space. Very much. It’s in a private area, and I love all the sunlight. It’s nice that it’s so close to the woods and the lake. There’s plenty of room for The Family Center to grow as we get new funding and programs. Thank you so much for doing all the preliminary groundwork before I got here, Eric. You and Natalie have done a hundred times more than I’d expected.”
“It wasn’t that much, especially with all the research and ideas you sent us. Plus, you’d already compiled most of the paperwork for the state.”
“Most people will think I’m nuts for doing this—a cello player opening up a facility for victims of substance abuse,” she muttered.
Eric’s dark brows quirked upward. “Good thing the Reyes aren’t most people then.”
Mari smiled. Of course the Reyes weren’t most people. Eric and Natalie had been just as impacted by the effects of substance abuse as Mari and her brother, Ryan, had.
And the Kavanaughs…
It’d been fifteen years since a drunk Derry Kavanaugh, Marc’s father, had gotten behind the wheel of his car. Marc’s father had caused a three-way crash that night, killing himself, both of Mari’s parents and Eric’s mother. The accident had left Eric’s sister, Natalie, scarred—damage both physical and psychological.
This was the old wound that Mari had felt compelled to return to Harbor Town and try to heal. Not just for herself or Eric or Natalie or Marc, but for anyone who had ever been impacted by the devastating effects of substance abuse.
Eric grabbed her hand as he drove. “Nat and I are right here in Harbor Town, and we’re one hundred percent behind you on this. Are you sure you don’t need any of the money from the lawsuit? Do you really think it was the best idea to transfer all of it over to a trust for The Family Center?”
“Of course I’m sure. You know I’ve planned to start this project with money from the lawsuit for years now. I never could touch that fund for anything else. It just seemed like—” she paused, trying to find the right words “—that money was meant for something bigger than me. I just haven’t had the time to get things moving until now. Besides, I’m selling the house on Sycamore Avenue. That’ll give Ryan and me a nice nest egg.”
She glanced out the window at the rows of perfectly maintained lakeside cottages. Each and every one looked to be occupied with vacationers. The population of Harbor Town swelled in the summer months.
She smiled wistfully as she watched a little girl with a dark ponytail run around the corner of a house. She’d sported a pink bikini and an inflatable green dragon around her waist.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever have the time I need to do what needs to be done,” she murmured.
Eric wiggled her hand in his before he let go. “You know what I think you need? I think you need a little fun and relaxation, Harbor Town-style.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“The Fourth of July festivities, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the downtown parade.”
Mari laughed warily. “How could I forget such a spectacle?”
“Let’s go have a peek, get an ice cream, goof off. There’s plenty of time later to sit down and talk about the plans for The Family Center.”
“Eric…” Mari hesitated, hating the idea of being seen in such a public place. Marc had mentioned five weeks ago that he rarely returned to Harbor Town, but she knew that his sister, Colleen, still lived here, as did their mother, Brigit. At the thought of running into either of them—especially Brigit—dread rose.
“Mari,” Eric said gently. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Isn’t that one of the reasons you wanted to start up The Family Center, to get past the pain of our history, to make something positive come of it? You can’t do that by hiding in your house the whole time you’re here.”
Her eyes felt moist as she stared blankly out the window. Eric was right. Surely it was part of her own healing to remember not just the bitterness but the sweetness associated with the quaint lakeside community.
“All right,” she replied softly. “Let’s go to the parade.”
Mari stood next to Eric on the curb of Main Street. A boisterous crowd of locals, vacationers and day-trippers surrounded them. A trombone blared off-key, startling her. She glanced up at Eric, and they shared a smile.
A huge sailboat float, surrounded by the smiling, waving men and women of the Arab-American Business Council, followed the marching band. Harbor Town was one of many quaint Michigan towns that lined the lakeshore, drawing vacationers from Detroit and Chicago and everywhere in between. A small population of Arab-Americans had settled in many lakeside communities over the past several decades. Harbor Town was often held up as a banner example of how a minority group could not only blend with a community, but enrich and improve it. Her parents had belonged to a Lebanese faction of eastern orthodox Christianity—the Maronites. Despite the minority status of their religion among Arab-Americans, Kassim and Shada Itani had taken comfort in having others around who shared so many common cultural elements.
“Oh, look! It’s Alex Kouri,” Mari exclaimed as a distinguished man in his sixties marched past. His eyes widened incredulously as his gaze landed on her, and he waved and mouthed her name.
Mr. Kouri had been one of her father’s closest friends. Both of them had been Detroit-based businessmen who had brought their families to Harbor Town for summer vacations. Mr. Kouri and her father would frequently drive back and forth together from Harbor Town to Dearborn, Michigan, on Friday and Sunday evenings, leaving their families to idle away the hot, summer weekdays while they worked at their corporate jobs.
Mari noticed how gray Mr. Kouri’s hair had become. That’s how her father would have looked, had he lived.
She saw a woman standing at the curb, her rapt attention on Mari and Eric, not on the parade. Still as nosey as ever, Mari thought with a flash of irritation, recognizing Esther Fontel, the old neighbor from Sycamore Avenue. The woman had once ratted her out to her parents when she observed Mari sneaking out her bedroom window and down the trusty old elm tree to join Marc on his motorcycle one hot summer night. Mari still recalled how angry her father had been, the hurt and the disappointment on her mother’s face.
Until she’d turned fifteen, Mari hadn’t fully understood the impact that her parents’ ethnicity and religious views would have on her. Her brother had dated and enjoyed any number of summertime, teenage dalliances in Harbor Town. When Mari became a young woman, however, she’d learned firsthand that Ryan and she would not be treated the same when it came to dating. Especially when it came to Marc Kavanaugh.
Marc and Ryan had been close friends since they were both ten years
