“Mostly gratitude.” From day one—gratitude. “They could have found a much prettier woman than me.”
“I doubt that. What about you, Miss Dahlia?”
“It’s strictly business.”
At the stop sign, three men in their late twenties waited for traffic. The one with a mischievous grin, a dark-haired, dark-eyed Brandon Lake look-alike in Levi’s and a western shirt, took off his cowboy hat and held it over his heart.
“Miss Dahlia, I’ve loved you since I was twelve. Will you marry me?”
His companions rolled their eyes.
Clearly wanting to interact with her fans as always, Aunt Dahlia gave him a flirty giggle. “I love you too, handsome! Catch me later and I might say yes.”
“At least give me an autograph. Sign it ‘To Eddie Maxwell, my future husband.’” His Texas accent as brash as his words, he tossed his hat into the carriage and cast a glance at Ariel. “You’re looking good too, Ariel. A shame you don’t date.”
She smiled and gave him her pat answer—the one her aunt had suggested she say to every interested man for the past ten years. Even though it meant almost nothing. “My work schedule demands too much of my time.”
Aunt Dahlia patted her hand in that gentle, approving way she had. She pulled a Sharpie from her handbag and signed the hat, chatting up the man the whole time. When she handed it back, she blew him a kiss and gave him a big, toothy grin as they started down the street.
“It’s true—I get a lot of attention, but that’s because I’m so flashy. I’m not a natural beauty like Ariel.” Aunt Dahlia picked up the women’s conversation again as if a handsome stranger hadn’t just stopped and proposed marriage. Jokingly, of course, but still…“It takes the best wigs, the fanciest clothes, and lots of paint to make me look like this, especially at my age. But the fans like it, so it’s a way I can give of myself.”
“Don’t start on your looks and your age.” Ariel shot a conspiratorial grin at Dani. “That guy back there wanted you, Auntie, not me. He hardly noticed me.”
Just as Ariel had hoped, her aunt let out her trademark hearty laugh.
At the next corner, a small group of middle-aged couples wanted to know if Miss Dahlia and Ariel had heard about the Grand’s flood.
“They sent us to Island House Inn, but it seemed a little shabby.” A stylish blonde, wearing black pants and a matching lady jacket, removed her sunglasses as if trying to get a better look at Aunt Dahlia. “We decided to stay on the mainland and take the ferry.”
“I get that. But we’ll stay at Island House anyway.” Her aunt spoke in her naturally sweet voice, the one that never failed to captivate an audience and put them at ease. “I was raised shabby, in a little mountain cabin. So I guess I can tough it out in an old hotel. We want to support the locals, because this is my niece Ariel’s hometown.”
The lady-jacket woman cocked her head and shifted her gaze to Ariel, brows lifted high on her lined forehead. “I thought you were from Tennessee, like your aunt.”
Ariel hadn’t expected this. “I was born at home, right here on the island, on the farm my father inherited from his father.”
“Your Southern accent isn’t as strong as Miss Dahlia’s, but it sure doesn’t sound like northern Michigan.” Something in the woman’s tone made her words sound like a challenge.
“My mother’s Southern accent hasn’t faded. I guess she influenced mine. I also moved to Nashville when I was ten and lived with Aunt Dahlia, so I talk like a Tennessee girl.”
The woman’s narrowed eyes said she didn’t quite believe her.
Harry spoke to the horse, and the carriage pulled away, leaving behind the crowd and their opinions. When she looked back, the woman still watched her from the corner.
Ariel turned to her aunt. “Do they think I fake an accent?”
“Don’t worry about them. You always speak in your natural voice.”
She hesitated. “Then do they think I’ve somehow betrayed or abandoned my roots?”
“It doesn’t matter what other people think. Your mama and I did what we knew was best when you moved to Nashville with me to learn the music industry.”
Maybe. Or perhaps she’d lost her northern roots while living down south.
Rather than sneaking in the service entrance as Harry suggested, they drove up familiar Blueberry Boulevard on their way to Island House Inn’s front entrance. Sitting above the shore, overlooking the yacht club and harbor, the inn seemed to keep watch over the comings and goings of islanders and tourists, the seagulls’ high-pitched squawking giving the coastline a laid-back, serene vibe.
“I had forgotten how peaceful Jonathon Island feels.” Passing a row of shuttered inns and small hotels on either side of the street, Ariel looked ahead to the next block. “Even back when the Main Street shops and restaurants operated at their peak, the downtown somehow maintained a sense of peace and quiet.”
“Just the horses’ hooves and people talking in normal tones.” Aunt Dahlia leaned back, her spine touching the backrest in an uncharacteristic relaxed pose.
