The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(13)
“Oh, um—no. One way, please.”
Her gray eyebrows arch, and for the first time in days, I worry that I’ve made a terrible mistake. Is a one-way ticket to Kelleys Island in early April so unusual? I fight the need to explain myself as she hands me the tickets.
“Pull your car into the boarding line.” She gestures toward a Budweiser delivery truck and a panel van with an HVAC repair logo on the side. “Once you’re on the ferry, you’ll need to stay in your car at all times, so if you have to use the restroom, you should probably do it now.”
Maisie and I take her advice, and afterward I position my car behind the panel van. A few minutes later, a deckhand comes off the ferry and directs the beer truck up the ramp onto the deck. The panel van maneuvers on beside the truck. Next it’s our turn. The ramp makes a metallic clunk under my tires and I feel the sway of the boat. Another deckhand guides me into place alongside the van and motions to kill the engine. With the car in park, I release Maisie from her car seat and let her climb up front with me.
We leave the heater running and sing along to the Moana soundtrack as the ferry churns across the choppy lake. To the east, we pass what looks to be an amusement park, and I make a mental note to find out more about it. To the north is Canada, but it’s too far away to see. I don’t know what lies to the west. More islands, I think. Michigan, maybe? This trip happened so fast, I didn’t have time to study up on the geography.
Twenty minutes later, the ferry lands at the Kelleys Island dock.
The deboarding process works the same way, so I follow the HVAC truck off the ferry and onto the island.
Following Mason’s directions, I drive along East Lakeshore to downtown Kelleys Island, which is little more than a T-junction of two roads. There’s a small market, a few restaurants, a couple of seasonal gift shops, a small marina, and a second ferry dock. I turn onto Division Street and keep going—making note of the library—until I spot the cemetery on the right. There’s no sign to mark the hotel entrance, which is a gravel driveway that ends beside a white two-story farmhouse with a wide front porch and dormer windows. It’s old-fashioned and charming, and I can imagine it on a warm summer night with a porch swing and planters filled with … Well, I guess I have no idea what kind of plants thrive in Ohio, but I’m sure they’d be beautiful.
From the house, the driveway fades into a pair of wheel ruts in the grass, leading to a wooden building seamlessly incorporated into the ruins of a limestone block building. The words O.E. BROWN WINE COMPANY are carved into the stone face above the door.
I double-check my GPS.
Even though Mason mentioned the old winery, there is nothing else here that resembles the property he described, and a swirl of unease rises inside me.
Not wanting to risk my car’s suspension on those bumpy ruts, I get out to take a closer look. At that moment, a man comes out the side door of the farmhouse and down a set of short steps. He’s wearing faded jeans and a heathered charcoal-gray Henley shirt that hugs his broad shoulders. His hair is black and cut short, swooping up and away from his face. His eyes are dark, and his jawline looks like it was chiseled from the same limestone block as the building. He’s older than me by several years, maybe a decade.
“This is private property,” he says, crossing the grass to my car. I haven’t spoken to so many men in the past week that I don’t recognize his voice. Mason Brown. “Unless you’re here on official business—”
“I’m Rachel. You hired me to manage this property, but…” I throw out my hands at our unkempt surroundings. “Where the hell is the hotel?”
CHAPTER 5
Jobbig
Swedish
“an all-encompassing word that means troublesome or trying, annoying or difficult”
“Sorry, I, uh—lost track of the days and wasn’t expecting you.” Mason rakes his fingers through his hair and his jaw flexes. “I can explain.”
“Oh, I think you’d better.” I cross my arms over my chest. My earlier anxiety blooms wider and my heart rate begins to climb. I really don’t want to have a panic attack in front of a stranger in the middle of nowhere, Ohio. “Because I drove almost thirteen hundred miles to get here and it’s starting to look like I’ve been misled.”
“It’s cold. Come inside.”
I’m about to refuse when Maisie sings out, “Mama! I need to go potty!”
“Fine.” My breath is visible as I unfasten the car seat buckle and lower Maisie to the ground. She breaks away from me and walks beside Mason as he heads toward the house. He’s not wearing shoes, only white athletic socks. His feet must be freezing.
“I’m Maisie Beck,” she says in her chirpy little voice. “What’s your name?”
“Mason Brown.”
“Like Charlie Brown?”
“Yeah.” By contrast, his voice seems bottomless. “Just like that.”
“Maisie and Mason sound the same,” she points out, exaggerating the letter M.
“I guess they do.”
“Who do you like better, Snoopy or Woodstock?”
Mason glances back at me, and the last time I saw someone look that miserable was after Anna lost Ben. Before I can tell Maisie not to bother Mason with questions, he says something to her in a voice too low for me to hear, and she beams. He must have chosen Woodstock.