glanced at the predictions for his future: Pulitzer Prize winner by 30, a millionaire by 40, living in the south of France forever. He’d known what he wanted and hadn’t been afraid to see it in print. But as far as she knew there’d been no Pulitzer Prize, no millions—look at the old truck he drove—and Shelter Island was a long way from the south of France.
She closed her computer, then sat back in the chair and sighed. So much for a trip down memory lane.
She stood and crossed to the dresser to get ready for bed. In half an hour she was in the comfortable canopy bed, staring up at the shadows. Her yearbook picture flitted through her mind, then was replaced by Joe’s. As sleep tugged at her, the face changed to the man of the present….
Chapter Three
The dream was simple, nothing convoluted or strange, the way some of Alegra’s dreams could be. It was just Joe on the ferry watching her as she held her phone. He was coming closer, touching her hand with his, taking the phone, then saying she had to let it go and tossing it over the railing. In the dream she heard the splash when it hit the water, not like the reality that had played out hours earlier.
The dream started to repeat, and this time when he reached for the phone, she refused to give it to him. He shook his head, those blue eyes almost sad. She didn’t want his pity. He reached out again, but not for the phone. For her. Then she was in his arms, and his heat was everywhere….
Alegra woke to a room of hazy shadows and rolled onto her side. She was surprised that the illuminated hands of the clock showed nine-fifteen. Her “late” mornings normally were when she slept until seven instead of six. And she hardly ever remembered her dreams. But when she shifted onto her back and closed her eyes, the dream from last night was there. Joe grabbing her phone and tossing it, then her being pulled into his arms. Both dreams left her feeling oddly unsettled.
With a deep sigh, she pushed herself up. She couldn’t see any sign of sunlight in the long sliver of space between the drapes. Typical island weather—foggy. She headed to the bathroom, with its clawfoot tub and shower stall. She stayed under the hot stream of water for a long time before she got out and dressed simply in a long white shirt and charcoal-gray corduroy slacks. She combed her hair straight back off of her face and into a simple ponytail, and hesitated as she caught her image in the mirror over the pedestal sink.
She thought of her old yearbook picture. There was no desperation in her eyes now, just determination.
After logging on to her laptop and finding a slew of e-mails—mostly about a faulty supplier for the Houston stores—she got down to work trying to figure out what to do. By the time she had the problem settled, it was almost noon. She’d meant it when she said she planned to do some art shopping. A business associate had told her about Angelo’s gallery, said it had the best work on the island. Well, now was as good a time as any.
She tucked in her shirt, slipped on her brown leather bomber jacket, then grabbed her car keys, her wallet and new cell phone. She pushed them into her pockets, left the cottage and stopped on the veranda to glance at the view from the bluffs. If it had been clear, the view would be stunning, but right now it was blocked by the remnants of the fog that hung over the dark waters far below.
She went down the steps onto the crushed shell walkway that led toward the main house and parking lot. Despite the drab day, the old Victorian looked lovely, all cream and forest-green, with elaborate gingerbread trim on its multiple spires and in the corners of the supports for the wraparound porch. She got to her car, hit the remote and as the car locks clicked open, someone called out to her in an almost painfully cheery voice. “Ms. Reynolds!”
She turned to see at the side entry of the house a young woman of maybe eighteen, dressed in a ridiculously frilly apron over plain old jeans and a blue shirt. Martha, Melanie? Alegra couldn’t remember how the girl had introduced herself when she’d checked in yesterday. “Good morning,” she called back, keeping the car door open.
“I was just wondering if we can plan on you joining us for tea at four o’clock.”
An English tea in the main house with the other guests balancing fine china and conversation didn’t appeal to her at all. “No, I don’t think so.”
“How about dinner?”
She had to eat. “Okay, but I’ll take it in my cottage.”
“Just let us know what time, then.” The girl sounded disappointed. “Have a lovely day.”
The girl would have gone back inside if Alegra hadn’t called out to her. “Can you tell me where Angelo’s art gallery is?”
“Sure.” She motioned to the exit of the parking area. “Turn right, go down about a block or so, and it’s on the other side of the street. It’s the only two-story building on that block. There’re a couple more galleries a ways past it, The Place and Jenny’s Treasures. Also, they’ll be setting up an art show near the gazebo in the park next door.”
“Thanks,” Alegra called back, and with a wave climbed in her car. She drove out onto the main street, but didn’t follow the girl’s directions. She knew where Angelo’s was as soon as the girl had said it was a two-story building. But she also knew that she was procrastinating. She had more important things to do on the island. Important, but difficult. She’d find the gallery after she was finished.
She turned back toward the way she’d come from the ferry, then about halfway to the dock, she turned onto a road that went into the heart of the island. She hadn’t been on this road for ten years, but the deep gloom that shrouded it was very familiar.
She passed a scattering of orchards and old bungalows, then spotted her turn. She slowed to a crawl and for a moment thought of just turning around and going back to the gallery to look at paintings and do this later. But instead, she braced herself and turned onto a narrow lane choked by trees and overgrown brush trees.
She went up a small hill and knew the exact moment when she crossed the boundary into the land where she’d been born and lived for eighteen years. She saw the house right away, despite the untended vegetation that pressed all around it. The faded blue walls were chalky and weather-stained. The windows were blank, but unbroken, and the porch sagged precariously.
She pulled the car to a stop and just sat there staring at the house. Why had she dreaded this so much? There was no repeat of the ridiculous tears from the day before. This place meant nothing to her. It was just an old, neglected place that, now that she’d seen it, she could mark off her list and put up for sale, as she should have done years ago, after her father had died. She’d forget about it the way she would this island, forever. She pulled away and didn’t look back, just the way she hadn’t looked back when she’d walked away from the house after graduation with eleven dollars in her pocket.
By the time she drove back into town, her mind was on art. She’d taken up collecting a few years ago when she’d spotted a canvas in an art gallery in New York. It was just a simple work by an unknown artist, depicting a road that wound through a rocky countryside, going off into a horizon splashed with the rich colors of sunset. It drew her in, and she’d bought it on impulse.
Since then, she’d picked up a few paintings here and there with similar themes, roads or paths heading into the distance to an unknown goal. She never analyzed why she felt a connection to those scenes, but in every city she visited, she sought out more of the same. Sometimes she found something, most times she didn’t. But she was going to do the same thing on the island. It would be one spot of pleasure
