Family Of His Own

Trent and Luke took a moment to consider his advice.

Luke put his hand on Scott’s shoulder. “This is why he’s been my best friend since high school. He considers all the angles. Very observant. Better take her shopping. But to surprise her—you could put the empty box under the tree. Then tell her you’re taking her to the jeweler the next day.”

“Ah, good one,” Trent agreed. “So, Luke, what are you getting Sarah for Christmas?”

“I was thinking about some new drill bits,” Luke deadpanned.

“Right,” Scott said. “She’ll be thrilled.”

Luke broke into laughter. “Nah. I got her a sapphire bracelet. To match her eyes.” He smiled wistfully.

“Very romantic,” Scott replied.

Trent grabbed his box of shells. “So what are you giving Isabelle? Want to make that a double date to the jeweler’s?”

Scott’s mouth went dry. “Uh, we don’t exchange gifts.”

“You what?” Trent and Luke said in unison.

“Man, no wonder...” Luke didn’t finish his thought. He went over to his gear and fussed with his holster.

“Isabelle and I aren’t like that,” Scott began.

“You mean not romantic?” Trent asked.

“Uh, no. Not really.” Scott aimed at the target again, pretending interest in the exercise. He felt more like the bull’s-eye was drawn on the middle of his chest. “Isabelle and I are friends. You know?”

“Yeah?” Luke narrowed his eyes. “Is that because that’s how she wants it or how you want it?”

“It’s how it is.”

Trent unloaded his gun into the target, then turned to Scott. “I thought you told me you two were sweethearts in high school?”

“We were just kids then.” Scott turned away, avoiding Luke’s steely gaze. He knew exactly what his best friend was thinking.

Scott had returned to Indian Lake four years ago to take care of his mother, who had needed a new heart valve. He’d had to leave his job at the Chicago Tribune, but he’d sensed a layoff was around the corner anyway; journalists had been losing their jobs across the nation, and it was only getting worse.

He’d been in town a few months when he’d run into Isabelle at one of Mrs. Beabots’s Sunday dessert parties. Sarah Jensen had invited him, and since Sarah’s mother had recently died, Scott thought he was doing the friendly thing by attending. Sarah’s girlfriends were all there, including Isabelle.

In minutes they’d struck up a conversation. Scott had been surprised she didn’t seem to hate him for not staying in touch as he’d promised.

Isabelle had told him she was now the bookkeeper and sometimes-hostess at the Tall Pines Lodges of Indian Lake. He remembered the green-eyed girl who’d painted sea nymphs and faeries for a high school play he’d codirected. Isabelle had designed the backdrops: stunningly beautiful moonlit forests that pulled the viewer into their magic. Scott had been mesmerized by her back then.

However, Scott’s ambitions had been strong and he’d already been accepted to Northwestern which tempered his romantic feelings. Once Scott left for Chicago, Indian Lake and the girl back home had seemed like part of another life. He had immersed himself in creative writing and political science, spent nights huddled with new friends from California, New York and Beijing whose viewpoints stretched his thinking and blew apart what he thought he knew about the world.

Scott had believed then that the world was his oyster and he would only be satisfied with the pearl.

He hadn’t told Isabelle any of this that Sunday evening at Mrs. Beabots’s house. Like the investigative journalist he was, he’d asked her about her life instead.

Isabelle had been taking art classes for years, including a few at the Art Institute of Chicago. She couldn’t stop talking about walking along the shores of Indian Lake and imagining water sprites looking up at her from the cool depths. She was compelled to paint them.

Scott had become mesmerized all over again.

That summer after returning home, Scott had done everything to be near her. He paid Sarah Jensen double the going cost for a booth at the St. Mark’s Summer Festival to make sure his booth for his coffee beans and books was next to Isabelle’s art display.

As the months rolled on, Scott realized Isabelle had changed, as well. When it came to her art, she was fiercely ambitious. He’d recognized the same fire in her eyes that his own had held when he’d worked at the Tribune. Because his situation had altered so drastically, Scott had had to reinvent himself. He’d had to learn to be satisfied with lesser aspirations. Which was why he’d opened his bookstore and coffee shop.

Since those first months of his return, everyone in town had considered him and Isabelle to be a couple. But the truth was that Scott had no idea if Isabelle loved him. The one time he’d told her he loved her, she’d dismissed his declaration, telling him he couldn’t possibly love her because she hadn’t become her true self yet—hadn’t accomplished enough. She intended to do a great many things with her talent and her life. She hadn’t “come into her own.”

Scott had scratched his head over that one, but he’d let it go. He’d made his intentions clear, and he hoped that one day Isabelle would see what was right in front of her. There had never been another woman for him, and to his knowledge Isabelle wasn’t interested in another man. They were good friends. Best friends, really. Isabelle was Team Isabelle. Though not in a selfish way.

“Guys. What can I say? We’re just not ‘there’ yet.”

Luke shot a glance at Trent, who shrugged. “So, this gives you another year to save up for a really big rock.”

Scott shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think a diamond would impress this woman.”

“What would?” Luke asked.

“That’s easy. Hanging her paintings in The Guggenheim.”

Trent whistled and slapped Scott on the back. “Come on, I want you guys to help me with something before we leave.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” Scott asked as he put away his GLOCK and gathered his ammunition and protective glasses.

Trent stuck his arms through his black jacket and stuffed his gloves in his pockets. “I received a call from Richard Schmitz at CPD...”

“He’s your counterpart in Chicago, right?” Scott asked. “I interviewed him for my articles.”

Luke led the way out of the shooting range, waving to the attendant as they left. “By the way, Scott. That article was fantastic. Great writing. I felt like I was right there in the middle of the action.” Luke stopped short, and Scott nearly ran into him. “Wait! What am I saying?” Luke snickered. “I was in the middle of the action.”

Scott didn’t need reminding. Luke’s daughter, Annie, had been talking to little Danny when Le Grande had appeared, grabbed Danny like a sack of flour and raced off with him.

Dozens of people had witnessed the kidnapping. Le Grande might dodge the drug dealing and selling charges, given his high-powered and expensive criminal attorney, but that kidnapping was another matter. Scott hoped Le Grande would be locked up for decades. “Trent. Tell us what’s up.”

“Le Grande has been busy behind bars. Like many powerful people in the drug trade, I’m afraid.”

“That does tend to be the case,” Scott replied. Apprehension seemed to snake across the frozen ground and grab him by the heels. It had only been three weeks since Trent had nailed Le Grande and arrested five of his gang members in Indian Lake. Trent had later told Scott the heroin alone was worth over a quarter million. The meth had a street value of half a million. Scott knew exactly what Trent was about to say. Deals like that didn’t die. They morphed into something bigger and more sinister.

“Come on,” Trent said as they walked quickly toward Luke’s SUV. “I want to drive by the old WWII ammunitions plant that’s just down the road from here.”

“Why?” Scott asked, climbing into the back seat.

“Richard has reason to believe that members of Le Grande’s gang are scouting Indian Lake, Gary and possibly up into Berrien Springs, Michigan, for a place to make methamphetamine.”

“No way,” Scott exhaled. “They’d come back here?”

“Why not? They know the terrain and a lot of the existing dealers.”