St. Ignace, Michigan
WHERE WERE THE NEW RENTERS? Megan Benton parted heavy
drapes designed to shut out the cold, and for the
umpteenth time in half an hour scanned the street below
her top-floor Victorian rental. The thermometer she'd set
in her window box said twenty-six degrees. Practically
balmy compared to the minus fifteen that had gripped
Michigan's Upper Peninsula at her arrival on New Year's
day. Last week, March blew in and the ice had finally
begun to break up in the channel and harbor.
Steam rising from her cup of hot chocolate obscured her
view of the marina at the bottom of the hill. She let the
drape fall, then made her way into the bedroom to dress in
her Coast Guard uniform. As she struggled into long johns
and skier-weight overalls, she thought enviously of her
last duty station in Mobile, Alabama. Having been born and
raised in northern Missouri, she never would've guessed
that her Midwest blood could have thinned so much in the
few weeks she'd spent in Mobile's helicopter training
school. After a scant two months in the northland β and as
the only woman at this station β crew mates who were like
a mob of brothers still ribbed her mercilessly about how
she bundled up whenever they had to navigate the Mackinac
Straits.
A knock sounded at her front door just as she downed a
last swig of chocolate. Leaving off her jacket, Megan
pasted on a smile to welcome the new folks her landlord
had said would be moving in downstairs.
The house owner, crusty old Hank Meade, was off fishing
warmer waters. He'd phoned to ask if Megan would mind if
his rental agent left a key with her to make it easier for
the renters to pick up. A family, Hank had indicated. With
kids. Megan loved kids. Nevertheless, she had mixed
feelings about acquiring neighbors. For two months she'd
had Lady Vic, as she called the place, to herself. Usually
she ran five miles every morning for exercise. But because
it was so cold, she'd fallen into the habit of an early
a.m. aerobics program in her bedroom, where she cranked
hip-hop music up high to get her blood moving. Neighbors
meant she'd have to use earphones, she lamented, yanking
open the door.
The face staring down at her wasn't one she expected.
Stunned, she gaped at Mark, her brother. Two years younger
than her twenty-five, Mark had shot up and surpassed her
skinny, five-three frame when they were still in high
school. She wondered now if she was hallucinating.
This past Christmas, she'd spent a week at home. Mark had
remained at his university in Western Missouri,
determined, according to their mom and stepdad, to
graduate in January with his master's in psychology. When
Megan had last called home, their mom had said Mark would
walk straight from school into a job at the college in
Columbia, where their folks lived and worked. Yet here he
stood. "Hey, did you take a wrong turn in St. Louis, or
are you just plain lost?"
Grinning, Mark blew on red-chapped, gloveless
fingers. "Invite me in and I'll tell you my sad story.
It's colder than a coal miner's patootie out here."
Whooping with delight, Megan launched herself into his
arms and let him swing her around and around until they
both stumbled inside, punching each other happily. "I can
offer you a cup of something warm. And shut the door, you
goof. You weren't born in a barn. Wait β do the folks know
you're here?"
"Yeah, they know." Shrugging out of a Gore-Tex ski jacket,
Mark Benton removed his knit cap and tossed both on his
sister's flowered couch before following her into a bright
yellow kitchen. Using his hands to bring order to his
unruly auburn hair, he propped a hip against the counter
as Megan darted from cupboard to stove, where she lit the
gas burner under a well-used saucepan.
"Something in your tone tells me all isn't well in little
ol' Columbia. Okay, brother, out with it. I have to leave
for the station in fifteen minutes. When we talked after
the holidays, you told me you were flat broke. Mom said if
you finished your dissertation on time you were a shoo-in
for a counseling job at Wellmont. So what's up?"
Mark wrinkled his lightly freckled nose. "Right! Mom's
campus. Where she's head of women's studies, and our
stepdad teaches history. Where Aunt Sherry's in charge of
the crisis center, and Uncle Garrett's just been made vice-
chancellor. On top of that, there's a whole danged wing at
Wellmont named for our great-grandfather."
"Campbell Hall is a dormitory, not a wing."
"So? It's intimidating," he mumbled, watching Megan pour
steaming water over mounds of cocoa she mixed with a dash
of salt. Once the mixture had heated through, she added
sugar and milk, and let it come to a boil, stirring
absently. Then she removed the pan from the burner and
dumped in a splash of vanilla, poured a crockery cup full
and topped it with two fat marshmallows. Megan thrust the
mug into her brother's hands with a frown.
"And...you're here because you don't want to join a place
where most of the family works? Where you're guaranteed
good pay and benefits? Have you seen the U.S. jobless
stats for new grads, Mark?"
He fished out a gooey marshmallow and popped it into his
mouth. "Now you sound like Mom and Camp," he said. Both of
them had long ago begun calling their stepfather, Nolan
Campbell, by his nickname. "I just... well, thought you'd
understand, since Mom did her level best to steer you into
education. Yet, here you are, a Coast Guard officer."
"That's different. I made up my mind to go into search and
rescue the summer I fell off that cliff and Camp risked
his life to save me...." She let her statement trail
off. "That fall I joined ROTC. My career choice shouldn't
have shocked anyone. But you, Mark, have spent the better
part of six years getting a master's in child psychology.
You interned for a year. And starting at Wellmont doesn't
mean you have to stay there forever."
Mark stepped over to a window, staring out as he sipped
his hot chocolate. "I wish I could say that counseling's
what I want to do for even part of my life, Meg. If you
recall, Gina Ames got me hooked on photography the same
summer. Last year, at her urging, I sent one of my photos
to a contest. I won! I'll be doing a one-man show in New
York City."
"Gosh, a one man show sounds impressive, but β"
"It is," he hastened to say. "Yet Mom dismisses
photography as a silly hobby. What I'd like," Mark said,
turning and sounding eager for the first time in their
discussion, "is to try my hand at freelancing. Gina has
contacts. All I have to do is create a portfolio of
worthwhile photos."
"Oh, wow! I see your dilemma. Mom and Camp paid for your
schooling, and you're thinking of taking off in a whole
different direction."
"If photography works out, I'll pay them back. For now,
Gram volunteered to grubstake me until the show in New
York this fall."
"Gram? As in Mona Gram? You took Benton money?" The Benton
wealth had caused a serious rift between their mother and
her former in-laws.
"Mona can spare the bucks. Did you get the news article I
sent outlining her net worth after Grandpa Toby died? He
left Mona a millionaire twice over."
"That's not the point. Mom will have a cat-fit if you take
one red cent from her."
Mark's temper flared. "Mona's our blood grandmother,
Megan. And she's getting on in years. It hurt her that you
were home at Christmas and never drove seventy miles to
visit her. Since Toby died, she rattles around in that big
house."
"I only had a week at home. I bought and wrapped a
cashmere sweater, signed both our names like we agreed and
sent it for her Christmas." Megan tucked her thumbs under
her bright orange suspenders and twisted her lips to one
side. "She smothers me, Mark. Plus she makes snide
comments about Mom marrying Camp. It's been eleven years.
Why can't she let it go?"
"Then she'd have to admit Dad was a jerk. She'll never do
that. Dad was their only child. Their pride and joy. But
Megan...we're her only relatives now. I'm not like you, I
can't flip a switch and erase the fact that I'm a Benton."
Megan didn't want to argue. "So, uh, how long can you stay?
A week? Two? Longer?" The last sounded hopeful.
Mark's eyes grew guarded. "Is a month too long? Maybe two?
I'd like to stay for a while to see if I can produce
quality photos. I figure the landscapes around here should
be pretty interesting."
Megan broke into a wide grin and smacked his arm. "You
stay two months, buddy, you're no guest. Starting
tomorrow, we split household chores. Cooking, cleaning,
laundry. The works."
"Speaking of cooking, I'm starved. You got anything to eat
around here?"
"Peanut butter cookies that I made this morning." She
hauled out a fat pink pig-shaped cookie jar. "I probably
have cheese and crackers on hand. If the cheese isn't
moldy."
From his superior height Mark gazed on her with amused
affection. "Some things never change.You always had
terrible eating habits. Point me toward the local grocery
store. After I unpack, I'll make a list and shop. If you
don't object to me using Mona's money, that is."
"I'll pay," Megan said quickly. "I make a good salary. I
don't want Mona's handouts. If you're willing to split
chores, I'll gladly feed you, Mark."
"Okay," he said. "But I wish you wouldn't be so hard on
Gram."
"Uh...come with me. I'll show you where you can bunk.
Isn't this a great old house? I have more space here than
we did in that dinky duplex Mom rented after Dad died. Oh,
say, will you do me another favor? I'm getting downstairs
neighbors." She pointed to a key lying on her kitchen
table. "They were supposed to be here already, but they're
late. I'd planned to leave them a note and take the key
across the street to Mrs. Ralston. She's a busybody, so
I'd rather leave it with you. Will you hold off going to
the store until after the new family puts in an
appearance?"
"Sure. They got a name?"
"Don't know what it is." She shook her head, then
laughed. "But who else will come asking for a key?"
STERLING DODGE PAID the toll and eased his dirt-streaked
black four-wheel drive Land Rover onto the five-mile
suspension span of Mackinac Bridge, which connected
Michigan's Upper and Lower Peninsulas. Below, the wind
whipped angry whitecaps into a froth across a broad
expanse of blue so dark that in places the water looked
black.
"Je-zus. It's the ends of the earth," spat Sterling's
fourteen-year-old brother-in-law, Joel Atwater. A comment
seconded by Joel's older sister, Lauren, who jammed a
pillow behind her head.
"Joel," Sterling snapped. "I'm not telling you again to
watch your mouth. Next time it'll affect your allowance."
Sterling called attention to his son, the youngest of his
three passengers. Tyler was kicking rhythmically against
the back of his dad's seat. At four, he mimicked the older
kids, who'd lived with Sterling and his wife, Blythe,
since their wedding. Now with Blythe gone, Sterling was
left the sole guardian.
His wife's siblings had gotten out of hand back on Long
Island, and he knew that was primarily because of Blythe's
inattention. The kids had cultivated bad friendships and
worse habits. That was the catalyst for Sterling's seeking
this new job. He hoped it wasn't too late to turn their
lives around.
The teens were angry about the control he had over them
and their trust fund. He couldn't blame them, as thanks to
Blythe's resistance, he'd never taken a hand in raising
them before. This wasn't a situation he'd ever envisioned.
At the time he married Blythe, he would never have
believed life would change so drastically that he'd uproot
everyone and move to a state miles away from where they'd
all been born.
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