Driftwood Point by Mariah Stewart Page B

greeted him with a nod and went straight to the important stuff. “Jesse Enright called to let you know the contracts for the Borden project are ready for you to sign. Said to stop in and take a look when you get a minute; he’s in all afternoon and tomorrow morning.”
    â€œThanks. Can you let him know I’ll stop by around three?” Alec mentally added a visit to his attorney’s office to his list of things to do after his one o’clock.
    He skimmed through the stack of phone messages, all written down on pink While You Were Out slips in Lorraine’s precise cursive. Even if voice messages had been left for Alec, Lorraine, who mistrusted most electronic devices, insisted on writing it all out herself.
    â€œWhat if there’s a power outage and you can’t get your voicemail?” she’d asked archly when Alec told her she could just send to voicemail every call he was unable to take. Before he could respond, she added, “Besides, no one wants to talk to a machine. Everyone hates that.”
    By “everyone,” Lorraine meant Lorraine. Alec never brought it up again.
    While only in her forties, Lorraine had the mindset—not to mention the wardrobe—of a much older woman. She wore her long dark blond hair—streakedwith gray since she was in her early twenties—in a long ponytail that lay flat and straight against her back. Her suits were gray or black, and if she wore a dress, it was a shirtwaist or a sheath that was at least a size too large. Flat-heeled shoes, always, and no jewelry. But Alec couldn’t have cared less what she wore, or how she looked, though there were days when he did have to bite his tongue. Lorraine was efficient, doted on Alec, and nothing—but nothing—ever got past her. Alec wouldn’t think of crossing her. To his mind, she was the perfect employee, and he was grateful every day to have her.
    â€œI’m off to meet with Deiter,” he told Lorraine after he’d taken a glance at his mail, which she’d opened and stacked on the middle of his desk in order of what she perceived as importance. She was rarely wrong. “I’ll stop at Jesse’s when I’m finished. If I’m not back by four, you can leave if you like.”
    â€œMy hours are till five.” She returned to her computer and the report she was typing from his hand notes. “I’ll be here until then.”
    â€œAll righty, then.” Alec smiled to himself and left the office.
    A quick trip down Charles Street brought him to Cannonball Island. Once he’d crossed the bridge, he was minutes from his destination, the island being only eighteen miles from the bay to the bridge. He passed few houses, most of the residents having built their homes closer to the interior, on the far side of the dunes. The few small cottages he did see had been abandoned and boarded up a long time ago, their once-white picket fences staggering to stayupright. Alec knew that within the fenced front yards he’d find the grave markers of those who’d lived and died there. It was a long-running tradition that islanders buried their dead on the property where the deceased had lived. Alec drove by slowly, careful to note where each of the family graveyards were located.
    There were salt marshes on the right and a small cove where a dock of undeterminable age reached out into the bay. It still being morning and prime time on the bay, no boats were tied up, but Alec knew that by three o’clock there’d be several pulling in for the night. Many of the islanders still made their living as watermen, as their ancestors had done. When he’d told Lis that the island was a place unto itself, a special place, he meant every word.
    It was going to take everything he’d learned over the years to keep it that way.
    Alec winced at the sight of the white Cadillac Escalade parked off the road and partially on the dune. He pulled his Jeep