Page 78 of Forever Never
Her baking skills radically improved as her creative talents withered and rotted on the vine.
She pulled the tray from the oven and set it on the cooling rack, then surveyed the kitchen mess. This was her fourth dozen. The first was going to the landlord across the street who would remain nameless. She’d avoided exchanging a single word with the man for an entire week now. A feat considering she spent so much time staring at blank canvases in his house and meeting up with old friends for drinks at his bar.
If Remi Ford had a superpower, it was nurturing a good grudge. And Brick was feeling it. The average person wouldn’t know it just by looking at him, but she knew that beneath that stoic surface, her freeze-out was slowly killing him.
She was proud of the effort. At least she was doing something. And something, no matter how immature, was better than nothing.
Remi bagged up two dozen cookies and put on actual pants. However, thanks to her bulky sweater, rebelliously skipped a bra.
She ran a brush through her hair, slicked on some mascara and Chapstick, then realized she looked fourteen and spent another minute or two on real makeup. If she wanted the island to realize she was more than a teenage troublemaker, she had to look the part. But she still wasn’t putting on a bra.
It was a damp, gray day. Snow was in the forecast because it was winter in Michigan. Still, she decided to walk instead of borrowing her parents’ snowmobile. She needed to move and breathe. To do something with this pent-up energy. Even if it was only nineteen degrees outside.
She bundled up in her new parka that didn’t have Spencer’s head wound blood all over it. She’d gone with a bright yellow this time. Yellow like the sun. Yellow like the notes in the Caribbean steel drum album she’d been listening to as the world outside froze.
Hat, coat, gloves, keys, cookies.She took inventory of her pockets and body like a responsible adult.Oh, yeah. Phone.After a frantic search, she found it under a book she’d pretended to read on the couch. Her mind was too full of worry for Camille and what it meant to go home.
With a final glare at the Blackmail Cabinet in the kitchen, Remi stepped out into the winter not-so-wonderland.
She headed up Mahoney Avenue and hung a left on Cadotte. The Grand Hotel’s historic charm came into view as she puffed up the hill. It sat on the rise, dignified and distinguished, overlooking the Straits of Mackinac like some grand dame presiding over the island and lake. In the winter, the place sat shuttered and empty except for a few property caretakers.
As a kid, Remi recalled fantasizing about sneaking into the hotel in the winter and hiding herself away in one of the luxurious suites. Pretending she was rich and famous. A butler to bring her hot chocolate. A collection of scrunchies in every color of the rainbow. An entire closet full of her favorite candy that never ran out.Ahh, the dreams of an eight-year-old.
Here she was, thirty, with enough money in the bank to make those little girl dreams come true. But the reality was, money didn’t buy you the things you really wanted. Including safety.
To save herself an unnecessarily frost-bitten face, she cut across the road and hopped on a cart path that circled the snowy Jewel Golf Course. It was a shortcut that only existed in the winter without thousands of tourists birdieing holes or sunning themselves on emerald green lawns.
The Kleckner house was a one-story ranch with a wishing well in the front yard and a flock of fake flamingos in the flower beds. Given the fresh snow, the pink metal birds were up to their bellies and looked like they were swimming on a lake of white.
Smoke puffed cheerfully from the chimney, promising a toasty reception inside.
Remi knocked on the yellow door.
“Coming!”
A minute later, Mrs. Kleckner, in a Wolverines sweatshirt and jeans, opened the door. She was a weathered seventy-five with a short cap of silver hair. Her face was softly lined, something she attributed to raising three kids and a few decades of Mackinac winters.
“Remi Ford,” she said. “It’s good to see you, kiddo. Come on in. I was just making a pot of coffee.”
“That’ll go perfectly with fresh molasses cookies,” Remi said, holding up the bag.
Lois slapped a hand to her chest. “A girl after my own heart. Come on in, and I’ll check to see if Ben’s up from his nap yet.”
Remi shed her winter layers at the front door and followed her nose toward the coffee. The kitchen was outdated but spotless. The appliances were white, yet they looked as though they’d never been used. That was due to Lois’s obsessive cleaning routine. The woman vacuumed the carpet in the living room and hallway every single day.
It was a miracle she and Ben had stayed married for fifty years considering the man trended more toward slob. Remi noted the coffee mugs already neatly set out on the counter, the little dessert plates, and the neatly cut pieces of coffee cake.
Lois rushed back into the room, her face ashen.
“Ben’s not in bed,” she said, bringing trembling fingers to her mouth.
It was a small house. If Lois hadn’t passed him from living room to bedroom, Ben wasn’t inside.
“Okay,” Remi said, putting the cookies on the counter. “Where does he keep his coat?”
Lois pointed toward the door off the kitchen. “Mud room.”
Together, they made a beeline through the door. There were two winter jackets, one bright blue and one orange, hanging on hooks. But there was only one pair of boots on the drying tray beneath them.
