Pirates and ghosts, her wishing she could have gone on a pirate ship and gotten rich, then come back and made anyone who called her Al Peterson walk the plank. The past was alive around her, and her mind raced. Mr. Lawrence had a son. The boy had been in high school or maybe he’d just graduated and gone off to college around the time of Alegra’s run-in with Sean. She couldn’t remember much about the Lawrence kid, since he was so far ahead of her in school, but she thought his name had been Joe.
“The old guy loved the celebration as much as he loved the pirating, from all accounts. It was a debauchery, to all intents and purposes. Now it’s a week full of art shows, crafts, wine tasting, sailing on the sound, parties and a parade, all topped off by a charity ball on the final evening. Not quite the definition of debauchery.” He went on as if reciting directly from a book. “A debauchery is a wild gathering involving excessive drinking and promiscuity. From what I’ve seen over the years, the label ‘festival’ is definitely more fitting. A festival is an occasion for feasting or celebration.”
She smiled weakly. “Is your middle name ‘dictionary’?”
“No, my middle name is Preston. Joseph Preston Lawrence.”
JOE LAWRENCE watched the blond woman as he told her his name. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he stated all three names to her, but it certainly wasn’t to see those finely etched cheeks blush or those deep amber eyes widen. She recognized his name? That shouldn’t have surprised him, although being on the island for six months and being out of the limelight had certainly lessened the chances of anyone knowing him, other than the islanders he saw day in and day out. And none of them were too impressed by Joey Lawrence.
Her tongue touched her pale pink lips, before she simply said, “Oh.”
“And you’re…?”
She stared at him, as if he was suddenly speaking a foreign language, then she swallowed and softly cleared her throat. “Alegra Reynolds.”
Joe had spotted her at the booth where the ferry tickets were bought before they’d boarded for the trip to the island. She’d stood out in the sea of commuters getting on the ferry’s last run before it shut down for the night. Her clothes had certainly made her conspicuous: the thigh-length jacket with what he’d guess was politically correct faux fur at the collar and cuffs, to the pencil-legged jeans, and the narrow high-heeled boots.
He’d watched her get her ticket, then climb into the car, a sleek black sedan, in front of his old truck. He’d guessed she was in her late twenties, with shoulder-length hair the color of rich cream, and a profile that hinted at a delicate beauty he wouldn’t have minded seeing full face. But she was in the car with its tinted windows, and out of sight by the time the ferry started loading.
He’d been behind her on the deck, letting the truck idle to keep the heater going, and watched her exit her car. No islander would leave the comfort of his or her vehicle to stand at the rail and stare out at the dark waters of the sound. He’d watched her until she disappeared, then decided to go belowdecks to the small concession for some hot coffee.
He’d been up since four that morning, taking the earliest ferry to Seattle, and he was starting to feel the effects of a long day in the city. But before he’d reached the stairs that led belowdecks, he’d passed the woman and heard her mutter, “Damn it all,” in a choked voice. He’d turned and she was there, looking decidedly green around the gills. He hadn’t thought twice about going closer and asking her if she was okay.
Now he was standing facing her, seeing she was as beautiful as he’d thought she was. Alegra Reynolds. The name rang a bell, but before he could get a handle on where he’d heard it, her cell phone rang again.
After reading the LED screen, she answered it. As he turned to look past them at the dock coming closer and closer, he heard her say, “What now, Roz?” Then a long silence before he heard, “Do it. Let me know when the tax attorney gets back to you.” As he glanced back at her, he saw her end the call, but still keep the phone in her hand. “Business,” she said.
“I assumed as much. ‘Tax attorney’ doesn’t usually come up in everyday conversations with friends and family.”
She smiled softly, another expression that was so damned endearing it made his breath catch. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “You lived here before and then came back?”
He nodded. “Right.”
“You commute to work now?”
Despite her blush when he’d told her his name, she apparently didn’t have a clue who Joseph Lawrence was. “No, I work on the island. I’m a writer for the newspaper, the Beacon—it’s a small weekly for the island. We cover big stories like announcing the best peach preserves and counting the times the local drunk is locked up.”
A spasm crossed her face and he was certain she was going to be sick, but she only exhaled. “You’re a reporter for the paper?” she asked.
He nodded. “A reporter and the owner.”
He could tell that surprised her. “Really?”
“That’s what it says on the flag, owner and editor, at least it has for the past six months. The previous owner, Clive Orr, retired to Florida to sun and fun.”
“Smart man,” she murmured as the wind picked up, bringing cutting cold with it.
When her phone rang again, he heard himself asking, “Does it ever stop?”
She took the device out, saw the LED and hit a button that shut off the ring. “When I turn it off.” She kept it in one hand, and tried futilely to get her hair under control and behind her ears. “It’s business. You know how that is.”
He had a flashback to his other life, before he came home to Shelter Island. Back then cell phones had been his lifelines. Heck, he’d had three. One for business. One for personal calls. And one with a number he only gave a select few. He’d had an earpiece he never took out of his ear while he was awake. Now he still had a cell phone, but seldom turned it on, and truthfully wasn’t at all sure where it was right now. “It can eat up your life, can’t it?” he said.
She took him off guard when she asked, “Why did you leave the island?”
He shrugged. “You know, the old I’m-going-to-conquer-the-world attitude?”
“And you didn’t?”
“I got close, then came back here,” he said, not about to go into details of the twenty years he’d lived away from the island, or why he’d come back here six months ago with his three-year-old son, Alex, to make a life for the two of them where his own had begun.
The ferry slowed even more, and an announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Sorry, folks, we’ve got a bit of a problem docking, and it’ll take a few minutes.”
“Riding the ferry can be an adventure,” he said as the big vessel lurched to a complete stop.
Alegra grabbed the railing to brace herself. “This could be a huge story for your paper,” she said.
“I guess so,” he said, aware of more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone. It hit a nerve. “Not like gang shootings or bodies in the Hudson, though.”
That made her smile. “Yeah, not exactly the big, bad city.”
“Alegra Reynolds. You’re from New York.”
It was a statement, not a question, and he could tell it surprised her. “Yes, but how—?”
“The boutique. The one near downtown Manhattan. All black and silver, with headless mannequins in the windows?” He’d gone past that upscale store when he’d walked to work instead of taking a cab. He’d glanced at it more then once,