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glanced from the grizzled old fishing guide to the batting of dark clouds unfolding across the sky.
She and Patrick had spent the better part of the afternoon roaming through the sleepy little town of Willoughby, trying to find someone with a boat who was willing to take her across. With a major thunderstorm in the forecast, no one seemed eager to go out on the water. Or maybe it had something to do with the reason for Meghan’s trip to the island.
Judging from the closed expressions on the faces of the locals whenever Meghan and Patrick mentioned the name Halloway, it was clear the family wasn’t going to win any popularity contests. Meghan didn’t want to speculate as to the reason why.
Close to giving up, they’d settled into a booth at the local diner to discuss their options when a shadow fell across Meghan’s laminated menu.
The man standing beside their table was short and wiry, with features that looked as if they’d been carved from a piece of teak. Dressed from head to toe in field khaki, the only thing that prevented him from looking like a game warden was the Hawaiian-print handkerchief casually knotted at his throat.
He flicked the brim of his hat, which was studded with fishing lures. “Hear you’re looking for a boat to the island. We better get there before the rain does.”
Meghan barely had time to kiss her dad goodbye before Verne Thatcher tossed her suitcase into the back of his rusty pickup and hoisted her into the cab, where she found herself wedged between two damp, liver-spotted spaniels named Smith and Wesson.
Now, close enough to the island to see the dock jutting out from the gentle contours of the shoreline, a fresh crop of doubts stirred up the butterflies in Meghan’s stomach. Just as a raindrop splashed against the back of her hand.
“Someone expecting you?” Verne barked the question as he eased back on the throttle and the boat agreeably slowed down.
“Yes.”
It was the truth. They just weren’t expecting her to arrive a full week before the wedding.
She’d talked to Parker Halloway’s wedding planner, a young woman named Bliss Markham, on the phone the day before and told her that she wanted to come a few days early to find the best spots for a photo shoot. Bliss thought it was a marvelous idea. She’d even repeated the word marvelous several times. In the same sentence.
Listening to the woman’s fake British accent fade in and out, Meghan thought it was a good thing her father had drafted her for the mission instead of Caitlin. Caitlin would have made mincemeat out of Bliss Markham.
According to Bliss, she wouldn’t be the only one on the island. The caretaker, a man the wedding planner had simply referred to as “Bert” and who apparently lived on the estate year-round, was also expecting a landscape team hired to spruce up the grounds and a cleaning service to tackle the inside of the house.
Verne muttered something under his breath. “When I pull up to the dock, jump out and grab your stuff.”
Meghan blinked. “Why?”
Verne pointed to the sky, where lightning flickered in the underbelly of a dark bank of clouds. “That’s why.”
Meghan quickly judged the distance between the dock and the house now visible through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat as she got a close look at it for the first time. She’d never believed in love at first sight. Until now.
For some reason she’d expected the Halloway estate to be a typical north-woods vacation home hewn from rustic logs. Instead it looked as if someone had plucked a château out of the French countryside and deposited it on an island in the middle of a chilly Wisconsin lake.
Meghan forgot about the rain as her eyes absorbed the two-story house painted a sleepy blue, with faded poppy-red shutters and a multicolored slate roof.
Smith and Wesson roused from their nap and lifted their noses, sniffing the air. Then looked accusingly at Meghan.
She figured out why a few seconds later when the heavens opened up.
“Mr. Thatcher, you should come with me up to the house until the rain stops,” she shouted over the pelting rain.
Verne’s eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “No, thanks. I’ll take my chances on the water,” he shouted back.
Before Meghan could respond to the cryptic remark, her suitcase sailed out of the boat and bounced onto the dock. She had no choice but to follow it. When she turned to thank Verne for his trouble, the boat was already spearing a path through the waves toward the opposite shore.
Meghan lifted the suitcase and held it over her head. The lopsided old boathouse built on stilts over the water wasn’t nearly as charming as the château, but it was probably dry.
The light show dancing in the clouds above her head helped make up her mind. Meghan tucked the camera bag under the hem of her shirt and made a break for it.
Fumbling with the rusty latch, she shouldered the door of the boathouse open and tossed her suitcase in first to protect the bag of Oreos she’d stashed inside of it.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the boathouse more quickly than her nose adjusted to the musty smell emanating from a mound of moldy life jackets stacked in the corner.
From the sound of the rain battering the window, Meghan guessed she’d be stuck here awhile. She wrung the water out of her hair, wrestled a sweatshirt out of the bottom of the suitcase and pulled it on over her wet T-shirt. Picking through a mishmash of garden furniture, she unearthed an old wicker rocking chair. Minus the cushion.
Meghan settled into it and tucked the headphones from her iPod into her ears, while she attacked the first row of cookies, vowing to stop after four. Or five.
Closing her eyes, Meghan let the praise music wash over her. If she couldn’t work in her studio, music was the next best thing to guide her thoughts back to God. And at the moment, she knew she needed a long conversation with Him so she wouldn’t unravel at the seams.
I don’t have a clue what you have planned, Lord, but here I am. Or here am I, as Isaiah would say. I’d rather photograph animals than people, but I want to help out Dad. For some reason he thinks Ms. Bonnefield is a wounded soul—and you know Dad can never turn his back on a wounded soul.
Something she and her father had in common.
Meghan’s “Amen” came out in a yawn, reminding her she’d been up since dawn. She pushed aside the package of Oreos and decided to rest her eyes for a minute. When the rain subsided, she’d find the caretaker and explain why she’d shown up a week early.
The lightning had moved inside the boathouse.
Meghan’s eyelashes fluttered and she realized she must have dozed off for a few minutes. Confused, she blinked at the bright beam of light aimed directly at her face. It wasn’t lightning. It was a flashlight.
Panic suddenly slammed her heart against her chest.
Because on the other end of the flashlight was a…man. The shadows obscured his features but she could see the broad outline of his shoulders as he loomed above her.
She struggled to sit up, shielding her eyes with one hand.
“Are you the caretaker?” She croaked. Rats. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. “Mr. Um…”
The light suddenly shifted from her face, trailing a path down her soggy frame and lingering a moment on the package of Oreos balanced on her knee.
“Bert,” he finally said.
Meghan wondered if all the men in the area had something against speaking in complete sentences. She plucked the headphones out of her ears—no wonder she hadn’t heard him sneak up on her—and pushed her fingers self-consciously through her tangled curls.
Way to make a first impression, Megs. Soaking wet and sound asleep. And probably smelling a bit more like Smith