With its low ceilings and lack of natural light, the Ford basement hadn’t been the best studio. But as long as she covered the chest freezer with a tarp before she started painting “happy little trees” with Bob Ross, no one cared how messy she got the concrete floor and block walls.
The lid of the freezer opened with a haunted house creak, and she peered into its frosty depths.
Remi: Dad, you have 1,000 roasts in the chest freezer. Which one am I defrosting?
Dad: It’s a special occasion! Bust out the turkey breast. We’ll have ourselves a Thanksgiving redo! Now, time to go break the spirits of my class with a pop quiz!
She broke out into an honest to goodness smile for the first time in what felt like forever. It was good to be home.
She took the turkey breast back upstairs and submerged the bird in a sink full of cold water.
After topping off her coffee, she decided to take a little homecoming tour and headed upstairs. Her parents’ bedroom was in the back of the house. The door was closed to keep the heat in just like every other winter. Life on Mackinac was expensive, and winters were cold. Most folks worked more than one job and sacrificed balmy indoor temperatures for lower heating bills when possible.
Growing up, Kimber and Remi had each had rooms in the front of the house.
She pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom and sighed. They’d made changes in here. Gone were the deep purple paint and the posters of Usher, Alicia Keys, and Zac Efron. They had kept some of the art prints she’d collected, though. The colorful pieces popped off the clean, beige walls.
The bed was the same, with its wrought iron headboard, but the kaleidoscope of scarves she’d woven between the bars was missing. Ivory bed linens made the room feel tranquil instead of moody.
Remi couldn’t help but wonder if this was the version of her that her parents would have preferred. Toned down. Restful. No longer a “hurricane of color and chaos.”
She couldn’t blame them. She was well aware that Remington Honeysuckle Ford was a lot to take.
Alessandra Ballard, on the other hand, was whimsical and interesting. At least, that had been the plan. But now, standing in her old bedroom, Remi wondered exactly where outgrowing the past and ruining her future left her.
Not that she could afford to think about that yet. Not when there were more pressing matters.
She took out her phone and opened her email. Ignoring her overflowing inbox, she started a new message—slowly and painfully due to the restricted movement of her right thumb.
C,
I hope you’re okay. Please be okay. They won’t tell me anything. Please tell me you’re okay.
R
She stared at the top of her inbox for several long minutes, willing a response to appear. When one didn’t, she flopped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, letting thoughts and memories rise.
She was home. Home was safe. As long as no one in her other life figured out where to find her. This was where she would exorcise a few demons, heal a few broken bones, and come up with a plan to fix everything before it was too late.
God, she hoped it wasn’t already too late.
4
“Come on, Brick. I was just having a bit of fun.”
Maybe it was the measly thirty minutes of sleep he’d managed the night before. Or maybe it was the whine in Duncan Firth’s voice as they stood over the mangled frame of the Polaris after it had done battle with a split rail fence and a stop sign.
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t feeling particularly fond of fun in the moment.
“That’s Sergeant Callan to you when I’m in uniform,” Brick said, handing over the citation. “Next time you think about ramping your vehicle, try aiming it away from the fences and street signs.”
“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, morosely stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his snowsuit. The man was in his early sixties, a grandfather of three, and a bit of a daredevil. He was the first islander to test out the ice bridge that connected the island to the mainland every year. The longer winter stretched on, the dumber his decision-making got.
“Pops! Pops! Didja see the video?” Duncan’s seven-year-old grandson jogged over holding a phone over his head.
“Lemme have a look-see,” Duncan said, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.
With a shake of his head, Brick decided it was time to leave before he had to add any other charges to the citation. Knowing Duncan, there was a six-pack of beer buried somewhere in the snow nearby.
His horse, one of the few left on the island for winter, stamped an impatient hoof at the fence. Like his owner, Cleetus was quiet, dependable, and bigger than most. He stood sixteen hands high, his dark coat glossy in the Friday morning sun. Brick stashed his gear in the saddlebag and gave the horse a pat on the rump before heaving himself into the saddle. “All right. Let’s get you some breakfast, bud.”
The big, black horse tossed his head in agreement, and together they headed toward town.
It was the kind of morning that took a man’s breath away. The sun threw thousands of diamond glints off the snow, blinding in their brilliance. Meanwhile, the lake wind worked its way under layers of gear, reminding anyone who stepped out under that brilliant sun that it was still February, still a long haul to the spring temperatures of May.
Brick appreciated the rugged beauty of winter. The long, dark nights. The blanket of quiet. Work was slower, easier. The focus shifted from policing thousands of tourists to keeping an eye on the few hundred neighbors who called Mackinac home all year round.
It was peaceful.
At least it had been until yesterday.
The lights at Red Gate had stayed on all night. He knew that because he’d checked every hour or so, standing in his old bedroom at the front of the house and staring across the street at the cottage.
She’d always been a night owl, always been on the forgetful side. She’d never really had to deal with the consequences since there was always someone walking along behind her to turn out the lights.
But his instincts were telling him this wasn’t just a case of Remi being too lost in paints and adventure to pay attention. Something was off. She was off. He’d seen it in the shadows under her eyes, the way she startled when he’d caught her outside the grocery store.
The snow-covered road stretched out in front of him, woods to the right, glimpses of water views through the trees to the left. The little downtown where most of his adult life had played out was straight ahead. He’d made this place home. Carved out a spot for himself. He wasn’t going to upset the balance by getting too close to her. Not again. He had his reasons, not the least of which was the fact that Remington Ford had been born with wings, not roots.
It was better, simpler if it was just him, Cleetus, and Magnus, the stray cat. He had his house. Work that he loved. Good friends. And a place at the table of a family he’d often wished was his own. Wanting more was greedy. And in his experience, greed greased the road to hell.