woman on the ferry. She knew who she was. She was in control. She’d have a phone in an hour, one way or the other, and her world would be right again. Snap. Problem gone. He pulled out of the exit and headed farther north.
Just half a block later, he turned left and slipped into the last parking slot in front of the wood-fronted building that housed the Beacon. He’d only been gone since early morning, off to Seattle to look for a new press for the paper, though he’d soon decided against it. He’d let Boyd Posey, his right-hand man who knew the old press inside and out, take over and find its replacement. He didn’t want to waste time in Seattle.
As he got out of the truck and took the two steps up to the wooden walkway, then opened the half-glass door to the newspaper office, he thought about his attachment to Shelter Island.
When he’d left after graduation, he hadn’t looked back. He hadn’t thought he’d ever come back for more than just a yearly visit or so to see his folks. He’d been out to conquer the world, as he’d told Alegra, and he probably had by some people’s standards. Not his. His world was here, on the island, with his son and his son’s grandparents, a world to be lived in, not conquered.
His parents hadn’t asked too many questions when he came back. He was glad. He was home. That was it.
The Beacon hadn’t changed much since he’d been a kid. The furniture was old, dark and heavy, and the reception desk ran side to side, making a barrier between the entry and the back offices. Stacks of the current issue of the paper sat on the counter, fronted by a brass plaque that held an imprint of their banner—The Beacon, The Island’s Voice. Boxes of handouts from local businesses aimed at the tourists here for the festival were placed on the other end. Photos on the walls dated from years ago to the present, and headlines of their biggest stories were highlighted on a special board near the door. He liked the way the place looked, liked its smell of age.
He glanced at the man sitting behind the reception desk, and it was obvious Boyd was so intent on what he was doing on the computer he hadn’t heard Joe come in. Sixty years old and bald-headed, Boyd was thin to the point of emaciation, with hawklike features and skin so pale you’d doubt it had ever seen the sun.
“Boyd?” Joe said. Boyd jumped at the sound of his name and closed the lid on the laptop before he turned to look up at Joe, who knew he’d been playing a game. Boyd had been with the Beacon for almost thirty years, as much a fixture as anything else in the office, and Joe didn’t care what he did on his downtime, as long as he could depend on him to get the paper out.
“I thought you’d be gone more than a day,” Boyd said. “Does your quick return mean we have a new press?”
“Nope. It just means I’m back early.”
Boyd crossed his arms on his narrow chest and motioned with his head to the back of the space. “I knew they cost an arm and a leg, so I can understand if we have to nurse that beast along awhile more.”
“That’s not it,” Joe said. “I decided that you know a lot more than I do about what we need and so you should be the one to do the buying. Why don’t you go over during the festival and see what you can find?”
The man’s jaw dropped open. “Me, go and get us a new press?” He got to his feet, and for the first time in a long time, Joe saw color in his cheeks. “I get to pick it out?”
Joe nodded. “That’s about it, within reason.”
Boyd’s eyes narrowed. “How much are we talking about spending?”
Joe named a figure and Boyd exhaled on a low whistle. “That’ll do it. I can get you a terrific press for that.”
“Then make it happen.”
“Can’t say I’ll miss the opening ceremonies of the festival. All that damn cannon banging and explosions. Pirates were a noisy lot.”
“Bloody, too,” Joe murmured, then had a thought. “Do you know if Earl sells cell phones? I heard he did, but…”
“Yeah, that and them expensive white chocolates.” He looked quizzically at Joe. “You want a new cell phone?”
“No, a lady on the ferry lost hers and I told her I thought Earl might be able to help her.” Joe hesitated, then, “Have you ever heard of Alegra Reynolds?”
“Can’t say as I have, Joe. That’s the lady?”
“Yeah. She’s the founder of the Alegra’s Closet boutiques.”
That brought an instant smile to Boyd’s face. “She’s on the island? What’s she doing? Going to start one of those stores of hers around these parts?”
“She said she’s here for the festival and buying art.”
“Shoot, too bad. This place could use a little spicing up. Do you suppose she wears those little nothings that pass for clothes?” He leaned closer. “Is she hot?”
Something in Joe recoiled at the idea of someone talking about Alegra this way, and it didn’t help that Boyd’s words brought images to his mind that made his body start to tighten. “She’s not ugly.” A true understatement.
He went around the reception desk and across to his open office door, then entered his cluttered cubicle. He took his seat behind a desk almost hidden by stacks of paperwork. His old swivel chair protested when he turned in it toward the computer on the left. He booted the thing up and went straight to the Internet. He typed in Alegra Reynolds, then hit the enter key.
ALEGRA GOT TO Earl Money’s store just as he was closing, and thankfully, he’d been more than happy to stay open a bit longer to set her up with a cell phone that turned out to be an upgrade from her old unit. By the time she got back to her cottage at Snug Harbor, it was past dinner and she decided to just eat one of the energy bars she brought. She used the Internet access in her room, got in touch with Roz, and in a few hours, had all of the data from her old phone downloaded into her new one.
After that, she worked on her laptop, going over reports until just around midnight. When she was about to close down the computer, she reconsidered. She went to a search engine and put in the name of the high school on the island. She was a bit surprised to find that the Grace High School had its own Web page. Nothing fancy, just a picture of the school as it was when it started fifty years ago and one of how it looked now.
She saw the links on the left, tapped on the alumni link and entered the year she graduated. The screen flashed with an image of the yearbook, and she entered her old name, Peterson. Suddenly, there she was ten years ago, a head-and-shoulders shot of her with long, pale hair pulled back from her face with a headband. Anyone would have called her expression sober, but they’d have been wrong. It was desperation, the same desperation that drove her to leave a week later.
Under the photo with her name was the heading Predictions For Al’s Future, followed by a blank space, because she’d never given the editor anything to put there.
She clicked on an earlier year, then another, and on her third try, she found Joe Lawrence.
The man as a boy looked so young and thin, with a shock of dark hair falling over a smooth, earnest face. He was smiling, and it was the same boyish smile she’d seen on the ferry, though his adult face had a decided sexiness his young face hadn’t. She didn’t really remember him from the past, except once, at the lighthouse, she’d gone there to hide out
