Alegra's Homecoming. Mary Wilson Anne
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lighthouse. She felt a knot grip her stomach at the sight.
“Well, good luck to you,” Roz said, which only made the discomfort in Alegra’s middle worse.
Roz had been with Alegra since the day her lingerie designs first went into production. She’d been there when the first Alegra’s Closet had opened in New York, and stuck with Alegra all through the struggles to get going and expand. Roz was as close as a sister in some ways, but even she didn’t know everything about Alegra’s past, just a general impression that it wasn’t great and that she was going back to her childhood home to settle a problem before she headed back to San Francisco.
Alegra cleared her throat before she murmured, “Thanks,” and flipped the phone shut.
She narrowed her eyes on the lighthouse, standing like a dark sentinel on the northern end of the island. Suddenly the past two weeks of checking on stores in California, Oregon and now Washington, seemed like another life. All the years she’d been gone were merely a blink in time.
She found herself gripping the railing with both hands, so tightly that her fingers whitened. She was back to the day, after her high school graduation, she’d packed a bag and finally had made her escape. She’d walked the two miles to the ferry landing in the pale light of a June morning, taken the ferry away from the island and found a new life. Now the old life was rushing up to meet her.
She took a deep breath, reminding herself of the reason she was coming here: the need to put Al Peterson to rest. But now that she was getting closer and closer to the island, her eyes started to burn, then her lashes became damp. “Damn it,” she muttered and swiped at her tears. She never cried. She wouldn’t cry. And, as her stomach began to churn, she vowed she wouldn’t throw up, either.
She closed her eyes as she pressed her hand to her middle. She breathed deeply a few times and the urge to be sick subsided, though she still felt a bit nauseated.
“You shouldn’t stand out here on the deck when it’s this rough and this cold,” a masculine voice said by her right side.
Her eyes flew open and she turned to see the man who had spoken to her. The first thing she noticed were his eyes, a deep, true blue. He was tall, over six feet, dressed in what she used to call “island traditional.” That meant a flannel shirt, jeans, the more faded the better, and heavy boots. His dark hair, touched with gray at the temples, didn’t look styled at all. He wore it straight back from his angular face, longer than was fashionable, and now it was ruffled in the breeze off the water. The shadow of a new beard roughened a strong jaw, and grudgingly she had to admit that he was attractive enough to catch any woman’s attention. That sexy outdoorsman look…
“Excuse me?” she asked when she realized she’d been staring.
He leaned on the rail with his right arm and narrowed those blues eyes on her. “Are you seasick?”
That did away with having to explain why she’d started to cry. “A bit,” she confessed.
He shook his head. “That’s a shame. But it takes a while to get your sea legs.”
Her only response was a small smile. She turned back to the view of the island. The ferry was about halfway there now, and she was able to see the outline of the huge pines on the ridges and the stark rocks in the bluffs.
“At least the trip’s short,” he said.
It felt like an eternity since she’d driven her rental car onto the deck of the ferry to begin the journey back. “Thank goodness,” she breathed.
She thought he’d leave, that if she didn’t say any more, he’d drift off and leave her alone. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward with both arms on the rail and stared down into the dark water. “Twenty-two minutes,” he said.
She frowned in confusion. “What?”
“The trip, it takes twenty-two minutes, if the weather’s good and the water’s smooth. If the weather’s like this, and the water’s choppy, it can take half an hour.”
She shifted to look at him. “And you know this because you’re a regular on this run?”
He cast her a slanted look. “A regular? I was, way back. I’ve only taken the trip a few times lately, though.” He turned toward her and tucked the tips of his fingers in the pockets of his worn jeans. “But some things never change.”
“You’re from the island?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
A rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I’ve only been back there a few months, but I guess once an islander, always an islander.”
“If you say so,” she murmured as her stomach churned anew.
“And you’re here for the Bounty Festival?”
You’re going there for revenge? She remembered Roz saying in disbelief when she’d told her the reason she was coming back: she was going to show the people who’d pitied little Al Peterson and made her life miserable that the little girl was gone, that she was now Alegra Reynolds—she’d taken her grandmother’s surname—successful designer and businesswoman.
She’d denied Roz’s accusation
Roz had studied her and finally said, “Honey, success is the best revenge.” But unless they knew who Alegra Reynolds was, they’d never realize how far Al Peterson had come.
“So are you here for the festival?” he repeated.
“Isn’t everyone?” she asked.
“Well, not always,” he responded. “Some come over to visit friends and relatives.”
“I have no friends or any family on the island,” she said, and hoped her tone sounded normal.
“A true tourist?”
She shrugged and the fur on her collar brushed her chin. “Just curious,” she murmured.
Her phone rang and she opened it to see Roz’s number on the readout again. She hit the “ignore” button, just as another spasm of nausea clutched at her stomach. She hugged her arms around her middle and bent forward to try to minimize the discomfort. “Damn it,” she said.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Simple words. Yet they echoed in her mind, bouncing off the past, and pulling a day from eighteen years ago right into the present. She made herself look up. He still held her shoulder, and his head was cocked to one side, those blue eyes intently surveying her. The festival, Sean taunting her, humiliating her, then Mr. Lawrence standing between her and Sean, holding both of them back, his hand on her shoulder, him leaning over, looking at her intently, asking, “Are you okay?”
Just like this stranger, but he was leaner and darker than Mr. Lawrence had been back then, maybe younger. Around forty or so, and Mr. Lawrence had been…well, to a child, old, maybe fifty. But the tone of the voice and those blue eyes, along with the strong hand on her shoulder, confused her. If she narrowed her eyes, blurred her vision, it could have been Mr. Lawrence talking to her. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, then straightened up. Thankfully he let go of her. She grabbed the rail with her left hand and exhaled. “I’m fine. It’s just so rough. The water and the wind and the cold.”
“This is actually pretty nice for this time of year,” he said, and she knew it was true. “I’ve always thought it was crazy to have the festival in November. But it was November when Bartholomew Grace got back here safely from his pillaging and plundering, and celebrated. So who’s going to go against the tradition set up by one of the most feared pirates who ever sailed the seven seas?” The man grinned at Alegra, obviously enjoying his little explanation. “His ghost would rise up and make us all walk the plank if we dared to mess with his plans.”
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.