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
