Chapter 11

"You're going to partner with Wynn," Elizabeth said.

"I am."

"I knew it. I could see it in your eyes. Good luck."

"Thanks. I'm excited. I'm also nervous and anxious. Maybe even na?ve."

Her grandmother wagged her finger. "Do not sell yourself short. You are a savvy, smart businesswoman. If you take only one piece of advice, it is to always, always stay in the loop. Assume nothing."

"Which means I'll be making multiple trips to Mackinac Island."

"Without a doubt. I don't recall the details, but I believe Brett suggested up to a twelve-month timeline, which could easily be extended based on what the construction crew finds." Elizabeth pointed out they were entering the fall season. "It will be tricky to construct a structure of this magnitude in such a short timeframe before winter sets in."

"He's scaling down the size, turning it into a more intimate inn. If they can get the exterior knocked out, the crews can work on the interior when the winter months really set in." Morgan told her Mr. Wynn mentioned he had reliable, vetted work crews lined up. "Of course, I'll do my due diligence. Obviously, he'll know more about it than I do."

"Congratulations. It appears you'll be adding another feather to your cap." Elizabeth gave her a gentle hug. "I can't wait to hear the progress reports."

"Thank you. Me either." Morgan left not long after. She had a lot to do before morning including some research and reviewing the contract.

As soon as they pulled into the driveway, Chester took off at a full run, heading to the backyard.

Morgan caught up with her pup, who was sniffing along the fence line. She noticed her neighbor, Beatrice Bixby and her pet bunny, meandering toward their back door. She gave Morgan a friendly wave before disappearing inside.

"C'mon, Chester. I guess you'll have to wait to play with Mr. Pickles another day." She followed him inside the quiet house, which meant Quinn was still at work.

Morgan grabbed her laptop and settled in at the kitchen bar.

Her first order of business was to glean more information about the Wynn Harbor Inn's fire. Unfortunately, there wasn't much more than Morgan had previously found out and no hints of issues between the couple prior to the tragedy.

Up next was checking out the construction crew Mr. Wynn had mentioned. They got glowing reviews from previous customers and were highly recommended. Also important, at least to Morgan, was that they were a local island company who had been in business for many years.

The last thing on Morgan's list was to more closely review the contract Easton Holdings had presented to Mr. Wynn. Once again, a twinge of guilt filled her. This deal was Brett's baby. He'd carefully crafted the agreement, pursued the partnership and now Morgan would be benefiting.

But he gave you his blessing, she reminded herself.

He had, but was it done grudgingly? What if he changed his mind? Morgan glanced at the clock. She still had until tomorrow to give Wynn her answer. At the very least, she needed to hold off, to make sure Brett hadn't changed his mind.

Feeling slightly relieved at giving herself a little breathing room, Morgan finished reviewing the agreement, making minor changes by removing Easton Holdings Company's name and adding her own.

Reviewing it a final time, she saved the revised copy before exiting the screen. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the small engagement ring box sitting on the counter.

Morgan lifted the lid and pressed the tip of her finger against the small stone. Was Gabe Locke back on Easton Island?

She set it back down, opened a new search screen and typed his name in the search bar. Up popped an address: 102 Charlevoix Drive, Easton Island.

"I wonder where this is." Morgan Googled the address. It was on the other side of town, not far from Locke Pointe.

"C'mon, Chester. Let's hit the road." She and her pup hopped back into her SUV for the quick trip through the downtown area.

Reaching the outskirts, she turned onto a two-lane road. It narrowed to a single lane before the pavement abruptly ended.

Deep ruts jostled her SUV. She slowed even more, her teeth chattering at the unending chatter bumps. "Good grief."

Chester stuck his front paws on the side window and stared out.

"Hang on, buddy. I have no idea where we're going." Morgan veered off to the side, rolling over several larger ruts. "This poor road needs a grader, big time."

At one point, she thought about turning around, but decided to keep going. Finally, she could see signs of life…a black mailbox: 100 Charlevoix Drive. "We're almost there."

Morgan gripped the steering wheel and gritted her teeth, slowing to a crawl which only seemed to make the chatter bumps even worse.

Up ahead, she spotted another mailbox, black and with big white letters, 102 Charlevoix. They had reached their destination.

Morgan tapped the brakes, peering through the thick trees lining the unpaved driveway. She glimpsed a rustic A-frame structure. Two small windows—one to the left and another to the right of the front door—faced the driveway.

A porch overhang, barely wide enough to stand under, covered the door. Parked off to the side was a newer white Ford pickup.

Morgan rolled the window down. It was quiet. Almost too quiet. "Well, Chester. We're here. I guess I should go knock on the door and see if Mr. Locke answers."

Before Morgan could change her mind, she pulled into the driveway and parked behind the pickup. She swung the driver's side door open and hopped out. "Stay here." She left Chester in the SUV and began making her way to the front entrance.

Her scalp started to tingle, and Morgan sensed she was being watched. Squaring her shoulders, she marched across the lawn and rapped loudly on the front door.

Nothing happened. She tried again, knocking even louder this time.

Finally, the door swung open. A man with cropped grayish brown hair appeared. He was of average height and build, maybe even a little on the lean side. Morgan guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties.

"I'm not interested in buying a vacuum cleaner. I don't have any carpet."

"I'm not selling vacuums." Morgan shifted her feet. "My name is Morgan Easton. I inherited Locke Pointe from my grandparents, Joseph and Ann Locke. I'm looking for Gabe Locke."

"You found him." The man crossed his arms. "So, you're the infamous Morgan Easton who came blowing into town, shaking things up."

"My reputation precedes me," she joked. "Hopefully, what you heard isn't all bad."

"You got the islanders all fired up about the airport. Shoot, I even heard you got old Prissy wound up tighter than a top."

Morgan grinned at the mention of Priscilla Finkpin, her grandmother's sister-in-law and sometimes nemesis. "Maybe a time or two."

"Anyone who can put Prissy in a tizzy is okay in my book." He leaned against the doorframe, eyeing her with interest. "What can I do for you?"

"You once worked over at Locke Pointe."

"I did. It was many moons ago, back before I joined the Army and traveled the world."

"I uh…" Morgan stammered over her words, having second thoughts about the reason for her visit. "I recently cleaned out the carriage house to…to build an apartment for Greg Baker, my handyman. You see, I turned Locke Pointe into a bed-and-breakfast."

"I heard. By all accounts, it's doing pretty good. Congratulations."

"Thank you," she said. "So…while I was cleaning and clearing it out, the construction supervisor found a hand-crafted storage space below the half-moon windows."

Gabe's easygoing expression vanished.

Morgan hurried on. "Inside was a jewelry box with a diamond ring. There was something else."

Gabe Locke cut her off. "I know what it was."

"After doing a little digging around and speaking with Grace Coates, who runs Lilac Inn, she thought maybe the…box and its contents belonged to you."

"Not anymore." Gabe started to shut the door.

"Please." Morgan held up her hand. "I want to return them to the rightful owner."

"You wasted your time driving over here. You can throw them in the trash."

"Bu…" Morgan stumbled back as he slammed the door in her face.

"Great." She turned on her heel and trudged back toward her vehicle. "I guess I can add one more person to the ‘not-a-fan-of-Morgan-Easton' column."

Grace was right. Years may have passed, but clearly, Gabe Locke had not forgotten Ruby Newlin.