Page 3 of Wanting a Family Man

She tried not to let despondency get its claws into her. Dusk was hours away. Right now, her priority was to see Storm.

Her palms were sweating. Nerves chased her as she carried on to where the graveled forefront of the village forked into a lane on the left and a driveway on her right. The lane meandered toward sparsely placed farmhouses along the shoreline. The driveway rose to the top of a bluff where a tall split-level house overlooked the marina.

For a moment, she stood and took in how impossibly beautiful this place was.

She had lived in cities for so long, she had started to think that wilderness like this only existed on television. There were no honks and air brakes, no skyscrapers, no crowds. There was only the calls of birds and the distant drone of a boat engine and the steady wash of the tide pushing against the shore. The air smelled of salt and pine and earth and sunshine.

She removed her backpack so she could take off her hoodie and tie the sleeves around her waist. Then she warmed in the morning sun as she hooked her backpack on one shoulder and finished her climb up the drive.

Her feet began to feel as though they were encased in concrete, though, slowing her step. Reality was sinking in. Losing her sister was something she’d compartmentalized while she’d been living in the isolation of a shitty hotel room, but her lateness in getting here—four months after her sister had died—curdled the eggs she’d eaten.

Tiffany wasn’t here.

But her daughter was.

Swallowing the jagged lump from her throat only to have it lodge like broken glass in her chest, Cloe fisted her clammy hand and knocked.

“It’s open.” A woman’s voice carried through the screened window beside the door.

Hesitantly, Cloe turned the knob and poked her head in, keeping her feet on the stoop. “Hello?”

“Hello?” The speaker was drying her hands on a tea towel as she came to the wide archway between the living room and kitchen. She was a little older than Cloe, close to thirty, maybe. Her brown hair was bundled into a clip atop her head. She wore a green T-shirt and cutoff jeans. Her feet were bare.

“Sorry. I thought you would be—” The other woman shrugged off providing a name and gave Cloe a confused smile. “G’day. Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m, um…” Cloe wished she had found a way to shower and dress in fresh clothes, not that she possessed such a thing. Should she ask for Mrs. Fraser? “Are you the nanny, Emma?”

“Yes. Can I help you?” Wariness edged into her tone. She came to the door and took hold of it, subtly forcing Cloe to retreat on the stoop.

“Hi. I’m Tiffany’s sister, Cloe.” She tried to find a friendly smile, but too many emotions were accosting her, making her mouth feel numb and quivery. “Is Storm here? I was hoping to see her.”

Emma’s shock was unmistakable. Her jaw went slack, and her eyes bugged out. Her hand twitched as though she wanted to slam the door in Cloe’s face.

“She’s down for her nap right now.” Emma’s voice turned thin and high. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water would be great.” Her throat had become a desert. “Thank you.”

Cloe toed off her cheap, rubber-soled flats and left her bag by the door, then gratefully followed Emma into a beautiful kitchen with a granite island, modern cupboards, and stainless steel appliances. A breakfast table sat in a nook that overlooked the sun-dappled water. A pair of French doors stood open to the wide deck, allowing the fresh air to fill the house with the intoxicating smell of summer and beach.

“Wow.” Cloe couldn’t help stepping outside to appreciate the breathtaking view. “This is beautiful.”

“It is.” Emma came out and searched the water as she set the glass on a small table beside a lounger. “I’ll check on the baby. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Cloe didn’t get a chance to ask where Mrs. Fraser was. She sank onto the lounger, relaxing because she hadn’t known how she would be received, but Emma was being really nice to her.

Finally, for the first time in way too long, something was going her way.

Chapter Two

As they wrappedup their meeting with the Heiltsuk Tribal Council in Wág?ís?a, Trystan felt as though he’d flashed out of one long, dark tunnel only to enter another.

Reaching the end of this first one was good, though. Really good. The council had agreed to buy Raven’s Cove, the fishing resort Trystan and his brothers had abruptly inherited from their father four months ago. The Heiltsuk Nation already leased the land to the resort, but they wanted to buy the buildings and the various businesses so they could have full control and ownership of what was an important enterprise sitting in the middle of their traditional territory.

The deal hinged on using funds that had been promised as part of the government’s Truth and Reconciliation process—a long overdue redress for the harms delivered to Indigenous people by colonialism and, particularly, the residential school system. That meant there would be infinite bureaucratic hoops to jump through, but so be it. Trystan had relatives and friends in all the tribes that made up the Heiltsuk Nation. This purchase was long-overdue justice for their families and ancestors.

Trystan was also an environmentalist at heart. He knew the council, together with the hereditary leaders and other members, would bring an attitude of stewardship to the land and water even as they took over the very necessary industrial service that Raven’s Cove provided to marine traffic moving up and down the coast.

This sale agreement was a huge achievement. It was good and right, and he didn’t care what it cost him personally.

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