Maidenstone Lighthouse (24 page)

I
was grateful for the luxurious comfort of the Mercedes seats. After my confrontation with Bobby and a week in a hospital bed everything ached, not just my arm.

My tearful departure from Damon, who would remain in the hospital for another week or so, had drained a lot of my energy and I laid my head back against the soft leather seat.

Dan had graciously offered the use of the penthouse for my recuperation so I could stay near Damon and as much as I appreciated it, I really wanted to go home. Sleep in my own bed.

The house looked like one of the picture postcards they sell at the shacks along the beach every summer. With the lighthouse behind it, white puffy clouds in the azure sky, it even looked like a Freedan painting. I smiled at the thought.

My trusty Volvo sat in the driveway, no worse for the wear. While I was in the hospital Dan had brought it and the Vespa back from Maidenstone Island and closed up the house. He stopped the Mercedes behind it and looked over at me.

“Well, here we are.”

“It feels like it's been months.”

Weaker than I realized, I leaned heavily on him as he helped me out of the car.

“My legs feel like Jell-O.”

It was all I had to say before he swept me into his arms and carried me toward the house. I'd never felt more safe and secure than at that very moment. With my injured arm in a sling I put my good arm around his neck and held tightly, resting my head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of my head.

You know the old movies where the groom carries his new bride over the threshold? That's how I felt as Dan took me into the house. I giggled.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” I sighed.

He smiled at me with the question still in his eyes as he deposited me on the sofa in the parlor.

The first thing he did was start a fire and turn on the heater so the rest of the house would be comfortable soon.

Going out to the car to retrieve our bags Dan left me with the roaring fire melting the cold of that late-October day from my bones.

There was something different about the room but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then I noticed it. The painting of Aunt Ellen that I'd hung only a couple weeks before was gone. Replaced by another.

Pointing at the portrait when he came back in I queried, “What's this?”

“Homecoming present.”

Aimee seemed to be smiling at us again.

“Thank you, it's wonderful.” I paused. “Although I'm not sure a Victorian parlor is the appropriate place for it.” I stopped short; it was as though I was channeling Aunt Ellen. Dan and I looked at each other and laughed.

“How did you ever get Greystone to give it up?”

“Trade. Years ago I did a watercolor of the club.”

He sat next to me on the edge of the sofa and with a lecherous grin said the scandalous painting reminded him of me.

“In your dreams, maybe.”

“Yes,” he said and kissed me. A long, passionate kiss that was so gentle I wasn't sure how it was possible. Warmth spread throughout my body and I longed for him. I pulled away slightly. He sat up suddenly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Looking up at the portrait of my ancestor I demured, “But I was thinking that you might be interested in doing a comparative study.”

With a huge grin, “Am I dreaming?”

With a grin of my own, “Maybe.”

Dan, once again, held me in his arms and carried me upstairs. I felt like Scarlett O'Hara in
Gone With the Wind
. I sighed, burying my face in his neck.

 

Unable to be of much help I let Dan gently undress me and then modestly cover me with my light but warm down comforter. He slipped under it next to me and took me in his arms.

There in my captain's bed we made wonderful, unhurried love. Luxuriating in each other and the warm afterglow, I lay with my head on his shoulder, his arms around me, happier than I ever remember being.

Tenderly outlining the curve of my jaw, then with his fingers under my chin he tipped my face up to meet his and kissed my nose. I smiled, snuggling into the warmth of his embrace.

A flock of gulls flew by the window and we watched as a pelican dived into the sea, catching his evening meal.

Looking out over the top of my head Dan said, “I've been thinking that with the lawn going down to the beach in front of the house, it would make a perfect…” He paused a moment and I was sure he was going to say painting.

“…location for a summer wedding.”

More than a little surprised I looked up at him. “Is that a proposal?”

“Could be. If it was, what would your answer be?”

Without hesitation I almost shouted, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Well, then I guess it is.”

We kissed, then turned back to watch the sun set outlined by the casement window. The white lace curtains hung still as the sun reached the horizon and cast a wondrous glow on the Maidenstone Lighthouse standing sentinel over our love.

Often I'm asked how I write, what the process is. The truth of the matter is
I
don't write; we did—Michael and I. Here's a secret…He did most of the writing.

I lost my husband, Michael, suddenly, unexpectedly, several years ago. My happiest memories are the hours and hours we spent collaborating—whether on the business Kelly (his daughter) and I had, entertaining friends, taking care of family or writing.

Michael was a gifted writer capable of bringing the written word to life in stories like
The Man Who Loved Jane Austen
and
The Maidenstone Lighthouse.

How these stories came about is the story of our partnership. We'd talk about new ideas…What if Mr. Darcy from
Pride and Prejudice
was a twenty-first-century man? What if a New England lighthouse was haunted by a girl thought to have committed suicide, but didn't?

That's how they started. We'd talk things through, then Michael would write. Sometimes I would write something, like interior descriptions or some direction I wanted the story to take, and he would make it better. I would edit and then we would go on to the next project.

Sally Smith O'Rourke was originally chosen as a pen name that incorporated my name, Sally Smith, and Michael's name, F. Michael O'Rourke; as his wife, however, it is my legal name as well. So even the name is a result of our collaboration, the collaboration of our lives.

I like to think that his spirit has been guiding me as I prepared the books alone for publication. It has kept his spirit that much more alive for me and kept his words alive for you to enjoy.