CHAPTER 11
Tristen wandered through the indoor antiques show, lightly touching tables, his mind elsewhere, his mood edgy. He needed to find a way to show Melanie that him backing out of the Rubicore fight wasn’t about her. After the way the papers had slammed her, he figured she had to be hurting something fierce. And while he’d warned her that this was going to happen, he still felt as though it was partly his fault for not protecting her somehow. Fights like this forged strength in some, while breaking others, and he wasn’t sure which way Melanie would go.
Scanning displays bearing antique place settings, tablecloths, and trinkets, he kept an eye out for something unique. Something that obviously had a story. An underdog antique that nobody except Melanie could love. The right gift would tell her that she wasn’t alone, that he saw her and believed in her even if he couldn’t be at her side slinging arrows into any foe that dared come near.
He stopped in front of a table, doubting himself. He was falling into old habits. Gifts when the woman needed his time and presence. Wanted the impossible.
“See anything you like?” asked the lady watching the table’s shellacked items. Nothing had the right energy. They were glossy, done up, their history hidden under fresh varnish.
“Not yet. I think I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it.”
“Just like with love,” she said, shooting him a wink.
The next table had toys and teacups.
“Over a hundred years old,” the man said, passing him an old jack-in-the-box. The vendor looked familiar. Christophe. The museum curator. “And these teacups were found in an old ice shed here in Muskoka. Perfectly preserved.” He lifted a cup and held it out for inspection.
Tristen turned it over, then set it down again. Too flowery. He had a feeling Melanie didn’t like antiques that were too pretty.
“I can make a deal on anything from this half of the table. However, this side I’m selling for a friend, so unfortunately no deals.” Christophe waved his hand toward an odd assortment of china that had seen better days, but had a certain something that caught Tristen’s eye.
“You hear about the museum’s island?” Tristen asked, bending down to study the strange collection of teacups that were lined up along the edge of the table.
“The bastards. Think they can just move that old log cabin as many times as they want, and it will still be okay.”
“Sorry?”
“The log cabin? The part of the museum that was moved in from Glen Orchard in the eighties? This was supposed to be its final home because of its age.”
“You aren’t going to fight it?”
The man looked dejected. “What can I do? Nobody cares about that stuff.”
“You should talk to Melanie Summer. She cares.”
Christophe gave a rueful smile. “She’s a good kid, but I’m not sure she can pull this one off.”
Tristen ignored the remark, trying to keep it from getting under his skin, where he knew it would fester. The monster wanted out, wanted to roar at everyone in her way. It wanted to clear the path and present Melanie with a nice little castle, every problem swept away. Solved. By him. Using force, if necessary.
Tristen turned over an ugly cup that had faint cracks in its finish, and read the markings on the bottom. They weren’t familiar, but he certainly recognized the tremble that had crept into his hand. He carefully set the cup down, knowing how rare it must be with its simple black drawings of nymphs. The price for this one cup could be well over a hundred bucks. He glanced down the row. Over a thousand dollars perched along the edge of the table. He gently nudged the cups back, hoping to keep the collection safe from children roaming the indoor market.
“How much is this cup with the nymphs? I know someone who might like it.”
“That one’s quite rare and unusual. We think it was commissioned, and have been trying to trace its origins for some time.” Christophe studied the bottom of the cup, after shoving his glasses farther up his nose. He checked the price list beside him. “Two hundred and fifty. This one’s price is nonnegotiable.”
“Two-fifty? For one cup?” Tristen stared at him. The man had to be kidding, right? The thing was hideous. Christophe set it down again, and Tristen reached for it. “I’ll take it.”
Melanie would probably smash it at his feet. One cup. Two hundred and fifty dollars. He’d lost his mind.
A young child skipped up to the table and reached out to snag a cup. Tristen batted her hand away, causing one to teeter. He righted it, then quickly piled the teacups up in front of Christophe. “I’ll take them all.”
They needed someone who would keep them safe.
“That is…” Christophe paused to calculate the purchase price, eyebrows raised. Catching himself, he added quickly, “I’ll wrap those right up. Cash, check, debit, or credit card, sir?”
Tristen handed over his credit card, keeping an eye on the crowds milling about. One jostle and this history would be gone. Destroyed. He felt like a new dad trying to protect his offspring from a herd of stampeding gazelles.
He rubbed his brow. They were only cups. He didn’t even like frail and delicate things. He smashed rocks, for crying out loud. He probably couldn’t even drink out of these dainty little teacups without crushing them in with his big hands.
And yet he was willingly going to dip into his untouched Toronto account to cover this ridiculous expense.
At home, he unloaded a ton of granite he’d picked up before hitting the show. He heaved the heavy stones as far as he could into the bush, struggling to exhaust the energy fuelling the emotions roaring through him. He wanted to protect Melanie, though he barely knew her. He wanted to put on his old suit and kill Rubicore. Not just give them a limp or send them away. Kill them.
Panting, with sweat soaking his T-shirt, he stared into the underbrush. The rocks were unloaded, but had been tossed so far and wide it would take hours to ferret them out from under the fresh mulch of crushed ferns and saplings.
His arms ached from the effort, but he felt good. He’d make it through another day. And right now, that was all that mattered.
After a shower, he unpacked the teacups on the granite kitchen island, doubting himself and his intentions.
Dot, milking lake water out of her shaggy bangs and onto the floor, laughed at the cups. “This could be the definition of hideous. Wow.” She carelessly held one up to the light.
“Didn’t I tell you not to go swimming without me?” He snatched the cup and carefully set it down beside the box.
“It’s fine. I was in the shallow area.”
“There is no shallow area. The bottom drops off right away.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know you liked antiques.”
“Quit changing the subject. No more swimming without me. And I’m more into boats. And rocks. Not china.”
“Rocks aren’t antiques.”
“Prove it.”
She rolled her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. “Fine.”
“Good.” He stared at the cups, unsure what to do. Was it too much to give them all at once to someone you hardly knew? Should he wrap them individually? Chuck them back in the box and then shove it at her as though it was old junk he couldn’t be bothered with?
Dot fingered the receipt. “Three thousand dollars?” She stared at him, eyes wide. “You know I’d like a car, right?”
“You can earn one.”
“Right. So you can buy ugly cups.” She gazed around the simple home. “Mom said you have billions. Why…” She curled her upper lip, eyeing the hole in his old sock where his big toe peeked out.
“Why don’t I spend it?”
“Yeah.”
“So I can buy ugly cups.” He grinned and shoved the box of cups into the middle of the island where they’d be safe.
Silence stretched between them and he could feel that Dot wanted to talk.
“Why are you bailing on us?” she asked.
“I’m not bailing on you. I’m just… It’s complicated.”
“You know I don’t care what the press says.”
“Your mom does.”
“And since when do you listen to Mom?”
“I’m trying to do better. I don’t want you getting hurt, Dot.”
“Kind of too late for that.” Her eyes darkened and the way she turned her shoulders, he knew she was about to flee. He pulled her into his arms, hugging her, unable to speak. Unable to explain.
“I’m sorry, Dot.”
“For what?”
He held her by her shoulders, watching her expressions change like the seasons.
He was sorry for a lot of things. For not being around more. Not understanding that Dot’s mother didn’t need gifts and gestures to know that he’d loved her. For having to bail on Dot and Melanie in order to try and keep them safe. For not being man enough to deal with everything. For having a monster in the attic that he couldn’t seem to control unless he hid out and smashed rocks all day, cementing them together as if it was his life he was piecing back together.
“I guess we can do it without you. I mean, that whole island parking lot thing is going to get everyone riled up, right?” She appeared so young, lost and in need of reassurance.
“You bet, Dot, you bet.” He pulled her into one last quick hug, then released her, knowing what she didn’t—that Christophe had already given up.
Tristen opened the fridge, staring at its contents. Max came to his side and sat, looking expectantly into the fridge with his sad eyes. “So?” Tristen asked. “Eat out tonight?”
“I totally want fries and a big greasy hamburger,” his daughter exclaimed.
“You read my mind,” he said with a smile.
“Can we go to McDonald’s in Bracebridge?”
“I was thinking of a real restaurant.”
“McDonald’s is real.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Is that a yes?” She clapped her hands, eyes sparkling. Just like when she was a little girl. He’d missed so much over the years. But he wasn’t missing it now, was he?
“Get in the truck.”
“Are you sure that will get us there?” she teased, hurrying to the door before he changed his mind. “I heard about Melanie having to save you. Maybe you should only drive it if you have her or a mechanic with you.”
Tristen laughed and pushed Dot out the door. If nothing else, things were finally coming along between the two of them.
* * *
Melanie struggled to pry a reporter away from Daphne as they bullied their way into the restaurant to get Tigger a sundae. The girl had waited patiently as the two sisters had tried to talk sense into Mr. Valos, going so far as to interrupt his Sunday tee time in order to do so. Talk about wasted breath. The man had to be receiving something under the table. Either that or he really just didn’t care about doing what the taxpayers paid him to do.
And then, as the three of them had walked across the McDonald’s parking lot, a swarm of reporters had descended. Cameras were shoved in their faces along with microphones. Questions were shouted. The Summers couldn’t get back to the van and had made a break for the restaurant’s doors, but reporters had blocked them, closing in. Melanie had never been claustrophobic, but this nearly did her in.
Daphne turned to face the cameras, tucking Tigger behind her. Melanie struggled to get to her side, but the reporters, sensing her sister was about to give them a sound bite, jostled her back.
“Rubicore needs to have a public meeting outlining the results of their environmental impact study, which should include waterway traffic patterns and their impact. This is a basic right belonging to the citizens of Port Carling, and Rubicore has failed to honor that right.” A gust blew Daphne’s light cotton dress against her small frame. She seemed so vulnerable trapped against the closed door. Melanie shoved a man out of the way as a new round of questions were flung at her sister. Daphne was used to talking to the press, but Melanie could see the fear lingering in her eyes, and Tigger was trembling, clutching her mother’s skirt to her face.
Melanie stomped on reporters’ feet, dug in her elbows and used her tall build to plow her way to her sister’s side. “Please, we have no further comments.” She felt as though she was a lawyer protecting her client as she ushered Daphne through the restaurant door, backing them up slowly.
“Daphne!” shouted a reporter from the rear of the cluster. “What do you have to say about your daughter’s birth father applying for custody?”
Instantly, her sister’s small form pushed against her back. “Keep going,” Melanie warned.
“My dad?” Tigger asked, her voice small and curious.
“No. Say nothing.” Melanie shoved her sister inside the restaurant and straight into the arms of Tristen. He whisked Daphne and Tigger away, calling to the manager to take care of the reporters. Melanie let the door swing closed, then blocked the entrance, arms crossed. Her body shook as she stared down the reporter on the other side of the glass.
“Mistral Johnson has filed for full custody,” he shouted through the partition. “He wants his daughter back.”
* * *
Carefully, Melanie joined Daphne and Dot in the booth, her butt sliding across the hard plastic seat. Her sister was trembling, staring blankly out the window. Melanie placed a hand on hers, hoping to help settle her.
“We’ll sort this out, Daphne.”
Tristen took Tigger to the counter to order her the promised sundae. Melanie gave him a reassuring smile when he didn’t look away from them. There was something in his eyes that made it hard for her to breathe right.
“He’s going to take her? Why now?” Daphne’s eyes were full of pain, her face a mask of confusion.
“He won’t. He can’t. You’ve been a good mom. He can’t just sweep in and take a daughter he’s ignored for years.” However, Melanie also knew the man had rights that he could ask the courts to honor. And with him being well off, when Daphne was a struggling single mom, the courts would likely give him whatever he asked for.
Daphne blinked back tears and Melanie whispered, “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
Tristen had been right. But she’d had no concept of how bad it could get.
“I’ll call everything off, okay? I’ll apologize to Rubicore in the papers. Tigger is more important than a development.”
“Um, not to interrupt your guilt fest,” Dot said, speaking up, “but hasn’t Daphne been in the news a ton for environmental stuff? It might not be because of Rubicore, right?”
“Tigger’s father is part of Rubicore,” Daphne said quietly.
“What?” Melanie had to force herself to lower her voice. “When did you learn this?”
“Since forever. He inherited his share from his father when he turned twenty-one.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No wonder he’s pissed,” Dot commented with a surprised laugh.
“You can’t quit, Melanie,” Daphne said. “This would have happened between me and Mistral anyway. And Rubicore doesn’t exactly have a great environmental record. You can’t keep quiet just because of me.”
“I can’t let them take Tigger.”
“They aren’t going to. Mistral and I will talk. We’ll figure things out. It’s unrelated, as far as I’m concerned.” The determination in her sister was welcomingly familiar.
“Is this why you were weird about fighting Rubicore?” Melanie asked.
Daphne paused, as if trying to decide how much to divulge. “They only care about money.”
“That’s true.” Tristen interjected. He stood by their table, waiting for Tigger to finish chatting with a nearby family about ice cream and sugar.
“I’ll be your lawyer, Daph. I’ll make this right. We won’t lose her. Not even for an hour a month.”
Mistral was going to lawyer up with some hefty legal guns from the city. Melanie would have to find some smart tricks and loopholes. Quickly, if she planned to keep her niece in Muskoka.
“I don’t get why he wants her all of a sudden,” Dot said, her upper lip curled in confusion.
“This isn’t about Tigger,” Tristen replied. “It’s about making the Summers pay for going up against Rubicore. He likely doesn’t actually want the kid.”
Daphne’s mouth turned down, tears in her eyes.
Melanie squeezed her sister’s hand. “We’ll stall the custody proceedings until we’ve killed the development. Then he’ll drift off and forget about it.” Presuming he wasn’t the type to do the whole vendetta thing when he lost, of course. “Okay? Chin up.”
Her sister tipped her face upward with a sniff. “I can do this. Positivity. Being a mope brings no flowers or sunshine.”
“Damn right,” Tristen said, a stitch developing between his brows.
“Mom?”
Daphne wiped away a tear and replied, “Yeah?”
“Why is there a man taking pictures of our van?”
* * *
Tristen crossed his arms, trying to figure out how he was going to keep the two Summer sisters safe. Dot took Tigger onto the stone patio to play with Max, who was going ballistic trying to keep everyone away from Dot, as he’d been doing ever since the near-drowning incident. He was a guard dog, but only where she was concerned.
Tristen pulled up a stool at his kitchen island and addressed Melanie and Daphne. “You’re going to need a security guard. Both of you.”
It was stupid to have brought them here with the reporters snooping after them, but what else was he supposed to do? When the private eye had been not-so-privately snapping shots of Daphne and her vehicle to, no doubt, build a case against her as a mother, Tristen had realized they had to find a quiet place to come up with a pretty serious game plan. When Connor happened by—and incidentally prevented Tristen from breaking the PI’s camera in front of the women—he’d poured the Summers into Connor’s car and said to meet him at the first place to come to mind—home.
But now they were in his house, with a major media storm brewing, and he’d pretty much placed himself in the middle of it. Funny how it didn’t bother him as much as he figured it should.
“I’ll see if Evander de la Fosse is available.” Connor began scrolling through the contacts in his phone. “Hailey and Finian used him and said he was good.”
“Whoa…wait.” Daphne raised her small hands. “Security? No. This is getting out of hand.”
“I agree,” Tristen said.
“This can be resolved with peace, love, and understanding,” she continued. “We need to sit down and discuss things, not escalate them. Running scared attracts the wrong kind of energy. We need to rise above this slander and arms race.”
“Arms race?” Connor looked up from his phone. “You want him armed?”
“No!” Daphne let out an exasperated sigh. She began explaining the impact of violent energy to Connor and Tristen blocked her out, his attention on Melanie. She’d noticed the box of haphazardly repacked antique cups on the counter. Gently, she picked up the nymph cup, staring at it as though it were a friend she thought she’d never see again.
“Ugly, huh?” Dot grabbed three oranges out of the nearby fruit bowl, while Max gave Connor a preemptive growl and slid his large body between Dot and the group of adults. “Dad’s got exquisitely poor taste. Come on, Tigger. I’ll show you how to juggle.”
“Not in the house,” Tristen called after them, not taking his eyes off Melanie. Her cheeks had flushed and she swallowed hard before slowly raising her gaze to meet his.
“They made me think of you.” He pushed the box in her direction. “I saw them at the antiques show.”
Melanie was clutching the nymph cup against her chest. “But these…” Her eyes lowered to the box, her free hand flipping back the wrappings as she took inventory. “These are really rare, Tristen. Exceedingly rare.”
He wanted to say, Like you.
He could feel the others staring at them, the earlier discussion over war and peace having faded away.
“You get a security guard in place?” he asked Connor.
“I’m not sure Daphne is ready for that,” his friend said carefully.
Daphne, eyes narrowed, feet planted firmly apart, had her small hands clenched into fists. Every fiber in Tristen’s being told him to step away if he wanted to live. He only hoped the men who ran Rubicore felt the same way.
* * *
Tristen stood at the patio door, sipping a cup of decaf and watching Melanie. She had been standing on his back deck gazing at the bay below for almost an hour now. Arms crossed, clutching the teacup. Every once in a while she’d sigh, her shoulder drooping. Then, over the next few minutes, they’d rise up again.
He figured it had to be something big. Bigger than yesterday’s headline that had claimed the two of them were dating. The paper had run a less than flattering photo of Melanie alongside one of him looking, quite frankly, dashing. It was meant to hurt him and his reputation, but he couldn’t help but think it must have hurt her, too.
Connor had driven Daphne and Tigger home, Melanie not answering when they’d called to her. Daphne had told Tristen to give her some space, as she was likely working through something big, and she’d asked him to drive her sister home when she returned to planet Earth.
He’d never seen anything as interesting. Never seen a woman just…think. Men, yes. But women…not so much.
Finally, after an hour of letting her stew things over, he joined her in the growing dusk to see if she needed anything. Privately, he’d been wondering if she’d been having some sort of standing seizure. But she turned, eyes shadowed, fully conscious.
“How’s Daphne?”
“She left.”
“Without saying goodbye?” Melanie took a hesitant step toward the house.
“We called to you, but you were…thinking. I can give you a ride home if you’re ready.”
“I need to go there.”
Had she taken a hit to the head? “Yeah, I’ll take you. Ready?”
“No, Baby Horseshoe.”
“That’s private property, Melanie.”
“I know. It’s okay. I won’t do anything stupid.” She took his hand, still clutching the cup as she lead him down to the boathouse.
He followed her directions out to Baby Horseshoe Island, an argument constantly on the tip of his tongue, but unable to be released. There were so many reasons not to go there. She pointed them between the island and a smaller one, and finally to a boathouse that looked as though it was trying to get up the courage to finally bend all the way over and dive into its watery grave. Her island. Tristen let out a relieved breath and docked his boat before she could ask him to trespass on the neighboring shore.
Melanie moored the boat with ease, then disappeared into the dark. He called to her, uneasy about raising his voice so close to the enemy.
“Coming?” she asked, hidden in darkness.
He found the footpath and followed her up the hill. Small solar lights cast just enough of a glow to reveal tree roots poking out of the earth a second before he could trip on them.
Lights flicked on in the cottage and he paused, admiring its rustic charm, before heading up the wooden steps and onto the wraparound veranda.
Melanie shouldered her way out a screen door. She held up one of the cups he’d given her, the one she’d been holding while doing her thinking earlier. “Where it belongs. Nymph Island.”
“How about that?”
“It’s a sign.”
“Of what? Apocalypse due to mythical creatures?” He was losing patience.
She passed him a can of beer, cracking one for herself. She poured part of hers into the cup and toasted him before lighting a lantern above them.
“The whole ‘sign’ thing is a long story,” she said finally. “But basically, I was selling all those cups in order to save this place from a tax sale.” She took a seat in a wicker armchair. “But you bought them as a gift. For me. These things were not meant to leave my hands, it seems.”
“Wait. Back up a second. Did you just say I bought stuff you were trying to get rid of, and then gave it all back to you?”
“Technically, I didn’t want to part with them, but I’m getting kind of desperate. I didn’t think anyone would actually buy them, the price was so ridiculous.” Melanie moved to the railing, gripping it as she leaned out, gazing toward Rubicore’s island. “I owe you three grand.”
Tristen rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I think this is the way it’s supposed to be.” They sat without speaking for a long moment. In the distance, there was a dull roar and whine of a motorboat. Birds had turned in for the night, leaving it quieter that he’d have thought possible. Quieter even than his place. “So? Was it enough?”
“The money?” She shook her head. “Getting closer, though. The cottage…” She turned quickly, watching him in the light of the lantern hanging above. “Do you believe in destiny?”
He shrugged. This was where she showed her crazy side and he ran for the hills, relieved they’d only shared a kiss, right?
“That things happen for a purpose or a reason?” she asked hesitantly. “That maybe there is some sort of energy pulling us along so we are where we’re supposed to be at the right time?” There was something in her tone that suggested she might not believe in destiny.
She was a lawyer, after all.
“Daphne is always talking about it, and my analytical, logical mind just rolls its eyes and groans. But now…” Melanie inhaled shakily. “I kind of…”
“You feel it?” he prompted. He dropped his eyes. Crap. He was buying it, too, wasn’t he? But the fact was, in that huge sale of literally thousands of items, he’d not only found the teacups she was selling, but bought them for her. “Did I buy all the cups you’d put out?”
“Every single one.”
He pulled a hand down his face. Maybe they just had similar tastes. Tastes in ugly nymph cups. Or…more likely, Melanie was so unique that everything about her stood out in a crowd.
“I’ve never felt as though I belong,” she was saying.
He finished his beer, setting the empty can on the coffee table. Confessions? Oh, hell. He couldn’t do this.
Yes, he could. He was trying to change. He could prove to her that he was a good guy who listened, instead of shutting her down by telling her that everyone felt that way. Easy.
“Never?” he asked.
“Everyone walks around as if they have this great purpose and meaning, and know what they want and where they need to be. They’re all so blissfully happy.” He almost laughed at the vehemence behind her words. “With this thing with Rubicore, I feel like I can make a difference. That I am the person who needs to put a stop to it all.” She sighed, hands on the railing as she cast her gaze out into the darkness again. Head bowed, she let out another heavy sigh. “But I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t be the one.”
Tristen relaxed in relief. Thank goodness. She was backing out. Now she’d be safe again and Dot could stay working at the office she so dearly loved.
Melanie turned to him in the soft light of the lantern and he surprised himself by walking to her side, running a hand into her thick hair and pulling her into a kiss.
He needed her. Not for any reason other than to simply have her. To find out what it was that made him toss and turn in the night, dreaming of her and that special hold she seemed to have on him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her hands wandering down to his chest, then his waist. She let out a moan of contentment as he sucked on her lower lip, his hand cupping the roundness of her full breast. She tugged on his belt, ruining any resolve he might have about being a gentleman, his mind set on finding a place to devour her fully. He lifted her in his arms, carrying her inside the cottage where he could make her his.
She directed him to a bedroom and he lowered her onto the high bed, placing himself on top of her when she didn’t let go, her kisses urgent. Her slender hands moved over his skin like fire, hot and consuming. Her kisses left traces of moisture down his neck and he lost himself in the moment, hoping he could be everything she needed to feel right again.