Page 16 of Bridge to Home

More than once, she wondered if he loved her. Yes, they got along well. They could do anything, go anywhere they wanted—when Harlow wasn’t working.

If she stood back and took a hard look at her life, she was only fooling herself if she thought she wasn’t “on the job” 24/7. Constantly beingphotographed, her every move reported, dissected, judged. There was a price for fame and fortune. A high price. Maybe too high.

The horses clip-clopped along the shoreline. A light breeze blew off the lake. A stray strand of hair tickled Harlow’s cheek. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so incredibly picturesque.

Eryn tapped her arm. “I see the bridge to home.”

Harlow scooched forward, glimpsing the Mackinac Bridge in all its glory over the tippy top of the pine trees. Years ago, when the girls were young, they made up the saying that whenever they saw the bridge they knew they were almost home. “I see it. Our bridge to home.”

“I bet you forgot all the fun facts you knew about the bridge,” Eryn teased.

“Are you kidding? I know more about the bridge than when I lived here,” she boasted.

“Such as?” her father asked.

“The hundred millionth crossing happened back in the summer of 1998.”

As their carriage drew closer to Wynn Harbor Inn, her heart pounded loudly in her chest. They rounded the bend. A thick hedge of bushes blocked her view, almost completely covering the pristine white picket fence.

“It looks like I need to trim the bushes back,” David said.

The hedge cleared, and theWynn Harbor Innsign appeared.

Harlow swallowed hard, glimpsing the remnants of what had once been the family’s grand and glorious inn. Despite the shell of the building, all that was left of the main structure after the horrific fire, the grounds were still meticulously manicured.

Vivid pink and purple hydrangeas were in full bloom. A thicket of yellow coneflowers swayed in the gentle breeze. Vibrant orange Michigan lilies, their blooms reaching up toward the bright bluesky, clustered near what had been a sweeping front porch offering an unobstructed view of the magnificent Lake Huron and Mackinac Bridge.

Harlow’s father hopped down as soon as the carriage stopped. He grabbed the wheelchair and unfolded it before slipping his arms around his daughter and carefully lifting her from her seat. “Welcome home, Harlow.”

Chapter 6

Harlow could barely breathe, fighting the urge to burst into tears. It looked the same…exactly the same as it had the day she walked out the front gate for the final time.

The cozy cottages, the immaculate landscaping and array of bountiful flowers. The tightness passed when she got a good look at the lodge…where the fateful fire had started and ruthlessly taken her mother’s life.

“I’m sure you’re exhausted and ready to settle in.” David hung his daughter’s backpack on the wheelchair’s handle while the driver loaded up a small wagon with their luggage.

“I-I am a little tired.” Harlow averted her gaze away from the structure, now only a shell of what it had once been.

Eryn, sensing a shift and tenseness in Harlow and her father, rambled on about the weather, about how the tourist season was winding down, a topic the lifelong islander knew a great deal about, given the fact she’d worked her way to the top and now claimed the coveted role of being manager of Mackinac Island Hotel’s housekeeping department.

The job was a perfect fit. Eryn, a “people person,” thrived in the hospitality industry, meeting guests, managing her staff, ensuring those who visited had clean, comfortable accommodations.

David deliberately avoided taking his daughter past the rental units which had also suffered fire damage and wheeled her straight to his Victorian two-story cottage, that had been Harlow’s home growing up. “I’ll need to build some sort of ramp so you can get in and out of here by yourself. Your motorized mobility scooter should be here later today or first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I have the wheelchair.”

“And now you’ll have choices. You can pick which mode of transportation you want to use.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Harlow braced herself for another onslaught of emotions when she reached the spacious cottage’s front porch.

The driver unloaded the bags and left after David handed him a generous tip.

Lingering in the doorway, she took it all in. Not a single furnishing or decoration had been changed. The cuckoo clock on the wall, the double tan leather recliners with an oak end table in between. Even the remote control holder and hanging cupholder on the side of her father’s chair was still there.

The small flatscreen television and hideous lime green laminated wood stand beneath it. Family photos hung on the wall, all in the same spot Ginger Wynn had hung them decades ago.

“Are you thirsty?” David asked. “I could use some water.”

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