Branching Out (7 page)

“I wish there was something I could do.”

They sat quietly, both of them looking out on to the mountainous landscape while deep in thought. After the wedding, he had hoped he wouldn't have to return soon to Lake Superior, where Olen's presence was distinctly felt on the farm and his ashes were now one with the lake. Ryan knew there would be occasional visits, holidays and long weekends at his and Shelby's cottage, but for the most part—if he was honest with himself—he had hoped she would feel free to visit often without him.

The dull ache of anxiety crept into his chest, building pressure that wrapped around to his shoulders. Pressing and squeezing. He rolled his shoulders and stretched out his back, to no avail. The only way to finish what he started, and to rid himself of guilt, was to face it head-on.

“What about me?” Shelby asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

“Hmm?” he mumbled. “Sorry, Shel, what was that?”

“Let me help you,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

He turned toward her with eyebrows raised, wondering if he had heard her correctly.

“It's the perfect solution. Why don't you let me do the interviews for you, which would free you up for production and editing. Just let me know which areas need to be redone. I know the area, and the background on your piece. We'd be the perfect team.”

“I appreciate the offer, really,” he said. “But I don't want you to have to traipse around with me. They'd be long days, a lot of running around. Very little sleep.”

“Have you already forgotten that's where I grew up? I'm hardly a stranger to long days and hard work.”

“No, I know that.”

“Give me one good reason why this wouldn't work.”

Because all I could think about during the shoot was your grandfather. Because the time that passes after his death only intensifies my feeling of responsibility, and if you knew, I know you'd never forgive me.
He said nothing, instead holding back the truth.

“You don't think I'm good enough,” she said. “Is that it?”

“No, of course not,” he said quietly, looking away from her and back to the vast landscape that surrounded them.

“I get it.”

He felt it immediately. That block of separation that forms between couples, which is felt but not seen, when one person lets down the other.

“I promise you, it has nothing to do with that. You're an exceptional writer, and I'd be lucky to have you on the team. In fact, you're right. You would be the ideal person to handle the new interviews. You know the area. You're incredible with people. I know you'd be able to bring out that warmth and personality that is seriously lacking.”

“Then what is it?”

“Because I wanted to keep the final film a surprise for you. I really wanted to do this for you and your family. It's important to me because . . .” He paused.

“Because?”

“Your family has given me so much. This is something I can do in return.”

“Well . . . keep it as a surprise, then.”

“I knew you'd understand,” he said, letting out a sigh of relief. “I'll make sure to arrange everything quickly. I don't want you to have to be in the city alone any longer than necessary.”

“Actually, that's not what I was saying at all.” Shelby shifted in her chair to face him. “I
am
coming with you. We're going to get those additional interviews, rework the narrative, and then—once we're back in Chicago—you can go off on your own to finish the piece with your editing team. In the meantime, I'll be happy to wait until you're ready to show it to me. And, if we play our cards right, we'll finish everything in time for the film festival.”

He saw the look of determination on her face and knew that, for her, the decision had been made. And, he had to admit, it made the most sense. Considering the time constraints of the project and the fact that she was right. She'd be the perfect person to do these final interviews, and he wouldn't have to worry about leaving her alone in Chicago to enter into her new life as a Chambers family member. He could protect her. It made sense. As long as he could also tell her about what really happened out on the ice that winter with Olen.

She would have to change her plans once more, putting Ryan's interests ahead of her own. On the one hand, he realized she would make the project better than anyone else could. They had interviews set up in towns that were like home to her, with people who loved the lake as much as she did. They would open up to her in ways he would never be able to achieve. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hide his feelings of cowardice and guilt that had hit him during the wedding—and that would surely be something to contend with on the road.

“So there have been a few setbacks,” she said. “Your story will be wonderful. They're going to love it.”

“You've made so many compromises to be with me already—more than your fair share. Are you sure you really want to do this?”

“Don't give it another thought,” she said with a coy smile. “In fact, why don't we just think of it as an extended honey-moon.”

His concern shifted to mischief. “Now I really can't take you along.”

“What now?”

“You're going to be too much of a distraction. . . .”

C
HAPTER
9

W
hile in Switzerland, after Ryan had agreed to Shelby's suggestion to join his video crew on the road, she made him promise that they wouldn't spend the last precious day of their honeymoon discussing the project. True to his word, Ryan kept his thoughts about copy edits and scene changes to himself during the remainder of their trip.

They spent most of their long flight home going over the Great Lakes project. Ryan described the overall story line to her, as well as highlights from the supporting interviews, but she kept thinking back to the company's feedback. The film lacked a narrative theme that could tie the stories together and spark a call to action for Great Lakes conservation. Ryan's interviews had gone well, but the story was lacking.
What's missing?

“Excuse me, miss, would you care for a soda?” the stewardess asked as she arrived at Shelby and Ryan's row of seats on the airplane.

“No thank you,” she answered. “But I'd love some water.”

And that's when it hit her. The missing piece. The thing she loved most about living on the south shore of Lake Superior. Water.

She turned to Ryan. “We need to include the lake in every interview. Whether we shoot an interview on a fishing dock, the beach, during a walk along the shore—even if it's just seen through a window, or off in the distance. I think the imagery of water is going to help you weave your interviews together.”

A smile came over his face. “Remind me why I didn't bring you onto this project from the very beginning?”

By the time they dropped their bags in their apartment in Chicago, they had a plan. They bypassed the wedding gifts that were piled up for them in the dining room, quickly sorted through mail and phone messages, and barely took time to unpack. In a matter of days, Ryan had reviewed the original footage with their editor while Shelby reviewed the narrative and came up with a new angle for the additional interviews. Once they had their follow-up interviews set, they were ready to head up north with a small crew—just the two of them, a sound and lighting technician, and Ryan's original videographer. The newlyweds hadn't been in Chicago for more than a week before they were packing to leave again. Their Chicago life would be put on hold once more, and Shelby wasn't at all disappointed.

 

Thunder clouds were rolling out onto Lake Superior just as a black Chambers Media van passed a road sign that read, “Welcome to Tamarack, Wisconsin, Pop. 1,032.” After making the long drive from Chicago, the vehicle turned onto Pine Street, which ran through the center of town. The van pulled up to the curb and parked in a residual stream of rain water that flowed down the street.

“Is this a good spot, Ryan, since you wanted to take a look around?” asked the driver, Cullie James, the burly cameraman who wore his dark hair long and flowing and his beard trimmed short across an angled jaw. He twisted in the driver's seat to speak with Shelby and Ryan, who sat together in the backseat. Shelby's eyes were fixed on the black-and-green serpent tattoo that lay coiled and seemed ready to attack from its perch on Cullie's right bicep.

“Don't you need help unloading?” Ryan asked.

“Nah, we can take care of it,” insisted Tina Leighton, their sound and lighting technician, who sat in the front passenger seat.

Shelby had been surprised when she first met Tina in the Chambers Media parking lot as they loaded up the van. It hardly seemed possible that the petite woman with slight arms and legs would have the strength to handle the sound equipment, but she hoisted each box, boom, and crate with seemingly little effort. With her long blond braid, denim cutoffs, and fringed suede boots, Tina looked like she was heading to an indie folk concert rather than a photo assignment in northern Wisconsin.

“We'll meet you back here in. . . .” Cullie said, looking down at his watch and then up at Tina. “Let's say, what—an hour or so? Five o'clock?”

“Maybe closer to five thirty,” Tina muttered under her breath to Cullie, then diverted her eyes and turned toward her window.

Pine Street was deserted, aside from an elderly couple dressed in raincoats and walking along the sidewalk with plastics bags stretched full of groceries dangling from their fisted hands. “Sure. Looks like there's a little pizza place about a block up.” Shelby pointed in the direction of a rectangular red sign that extended over the doorway of a converted bank building. “We could meet there.”

“Mama Pott's,” Cullie said as he read the sign aloud. “Got it.”

Shelby opened her car door and breathed in the cool Lake Superior air that reminded her of home. The lake breeze felt cool on her skin and was rich in the earthy scent of balsam, pine, and summer rain. She stretched out her legs, stiff from the long trip, took hold of her purse and notebook, and stepped out of the van.

Cullie and Tina gave Shelby and Ryan a hasty good-bye, giving them just enough time to step up onto the curb before they drove off down Pine, turned at the first corner, and disappeared.

“So, this is Tamarack,” Ryan said, looking around to get his bearings in this, the first of several stops on their trip.

“I haven't been here for
years,
and even then, we just drove through.”

“I'm glad you're here. I have a feeling people are going to talk to you a lot more freely than they did with me, during the first round of interviews.”

“I hope so. But say—completely unrelated—did you know about those two before they signed on for this project?” she asked her husband.

“Cullie and Tina?”

Shelby nodded.

“Not in the slightest.”

She peered down the street and could make out Lake Superior glistening in the near distance, just beyond the bend in the road where Pine Street curved north. “Such an unlikely couple.”

“Some have said that about us,” he teased.

“We're back on my turf now—let's try to forget about the media.”

“Shelby, have you forgotten? Today, you
are
the media.”

They laughed and rehashed some of the stories they had heard on the car ride—Tina's retelling of her days as a backup singer on a cruise ship that traversed the Bahamas, and Cullie's regaling them with colorful anecdotes about growing up in Las Vegas with his single father.

“Just when you think you know someone,” Ryan said in a way that brought them to laughter, the sound seeming to carry down the otherwise quiet street.

Shelby noticed a bearded man with a sleeveless shirt, roomy jeans, and orange suspenders had paused at the entrance to a nearby bar and was giving them a curious look.

“Don't look now, but we're being watched,” she whispered to Ryan with a nudge.

Ryan nodded toward the man, which was enough to cause him to break his stare and head up the street.

“I need to stretch my legs,” Ryan said, taking a good look at the downtown area. “Are you up for a walk?”

“I'd love to, except that I'm wiped out—and a bit light-headed,” she admitted, hoping she wasn't coming down with something. “I didn't eat much on the ride up—I'm sure that's it. Are you hungry?”

“No, but I'll sit with you. How about we go to that place we saw on the corner . . . what was it called?” He looked for the red sign. “Mama Pott's.”

“You don't need to do that. I'll be fine.” They were standing in front of a building that had a sign above its weathered door. It simply read: BAR. There was something about its simplicity that piqued her interest.
If nothing else, it might make for a good story later,
she thought.

“Why don't you take a walk, and I'll go grab a table inside this place. You can meet me back here when you're done.”

“It's mid-afternoon and you're already hitting the bar?” he asked, shaking his head with a grin. “Well, that's
one
way to kick off this leg of the trip.”

“Consider it research. You do know that one of the best ways to get acquainted with a small town is to stop in the corner bar, don't you?”

“I'll have to take your word for it.”

“I'll chalk that up as reason number three hundred why I am the perfect person to help you finish this job.”

“You are.” Ryan brushed the side of her cheek and then drew her in for a brief kiss. “Call me if you need anything. Do you have your phone?”

She searched through her purse until she came up with the cell phone he had given her shortly after moving to Chicago. She rarely used it, or kept it properly charged. Shelby wasn't interested in having an online presence or being dependent on a device, but she knew it was important for Ryan to stay connected.

Ryan walked down the street alone while Shelby slipped her phone back into her purse and approached the bar. When she pulled open the heavy door, Shelby was greeted by the pungent aroma of beer-stained wood, fryer grease, and stale smoke that still lingered in the thick folds of drapes that blacked out the sunlight. A Rolling Stones ballad crooned quietly from the wall speakers mounted in four corners of the space. As she approached the bar, Shelby noticed the impressive nautical motif carved into its edging. The floorboards creaked beneath each step, as if she were walking along the deck of an old fishing boat.

Aside from her and the bartender, there were no more than a handful of people in the place. Most of them sat together at the table closest to the television, watching a Brewers game.

“Hey,” said the bartender from behind the tall bar.

“Hey,” Shelby replied, looking over the bartender's shoulder at a message written on the chalkboard behind him.
Ask me about Crafts,
it read. “Okay, I'm game,” she said to him. “What can you tell me about craft beers?”

He returned her smile with a knowing nod and replied, “Well, to put it mildly, I'm pretty obsessed with Wisconsin craft beers. Minnesota brews, too, for that matter. I always have a couple of cold ones on hand for people to try. Always something different.”

“I'm in.”

“Excellent,” he said, leaning down to open the fridge beneath the bar. “Let's see . . . today I have New Glarus Totally Naked, Hopalicious from Asylum, a couple of Lift Bridge Hop Dish out of Stillwater—and a Fatty Boombalatty.”

While most people were drawn to the unique flavors of craft beers, it was the interesting names that Shelby enjoyed most. “I'll try that last one.” Shelby set down her purse and peered over the bar to see what he would pull from the fridge.

“Boombalatty?”

“That's the one.”

He set down a brown bottle with its denim blue and yellow label in front of her. After paying, she lifted the bottle and tipped it in his direction with a “thanks,” grabbed her purse, and left to find an empty table.

 

Shelby felt more at ease in this nameless bar than she did in the upscale restaurants and clubs she visited in Chicago with Ryan. Those venues were beautiful and the food was incredible, but she had more appreciation for mismatched card stock coasters with embossed logos of local beers, dinner plates with simple food, and wood-planked walls covered in curious mementoes and old photographs—staples of the places she had known growing up.

After taking a few sips of the beer, Shelby slid her bottle aside and opened her notebook. She then removed the profile sheet that was tucked inside:
Mr. Helge Wilmer—Wilmer Fishery.
Their crew was set to meet Mr. Wilmer down at his boat dock precisely at five the next morning to join him and his grandson as they trolled for whitefish out on the lake. She reread Ryan's notes on the profile sheet, which indicated that the Wilmer family had been fishing in the area since 1906. The family represented five generations—more than one hundred descendants born and raised in a single community—and today, four households remained in Tamarack. As the oldest living family member, Mr. Wilmer was as close as it comes to the town's living historian.

Shelby was reaching into her purse for a pen when a woman appeared, as if from out of nowhere, and pulled out the chair across from Shelby.

“This seat is taken,” the woman asked, but it wasn't a question. She had a plump, weathered face that was the color of tea and milk, and her ash-gray hair was pulled back into a loose braid that roped down her spine. She suddenly burst into a smile that was as vibrant as her orange
Go Jump in the Lake
T-shirt.

“Actually, I'm waiting for my husband.” Considering the way she met Nic at a Chicago sandwich shop nearly a year earlier, and the betrayal that followed, Shelby had learned her lesson. With narrowed eyes, her hands clenched, and with squared-off shoulders, Shelby set up her wall; she wouldn't be susceptible to another chance encounter. “The seat's taken.”

Not taking the hint, the elderly woman pulled the chair away from the table with a loud scrape against the flooring and settled in. She then turned toward the bar, raised her arm, and snapped her fingers at the bartender. Once she had his attention, she pointed to the empty space on table in front of her. Without needing her order, he promptly brought her a basket of potato chips and what appeared to be a lowball of bourbon on ice.

“Name's Bernice,” the woman told Shelby before popping a chip into her mouth and exposing boxy teeth that were cigarette stained and slightly gray beneath the enamel. “And you are . . . ?”

“My name is Shelby.” She watched Bernice's eyes for any sign of recognition. Growing up in Bayfield, she enjoyed getting to know people like Bernice. Social Midwesterners who enjoyed stories, making connections, and discovering “what makes someone tick.” Since moving to Chicago, however, she had learned the importance of protecting her privacy—something she hadn't fully grasped until after meeting Jenna. Shelby looked toward the door, knowing that she ought to leave at the first sign that Bernice was probing into her married life.