Maidenstone Lighthouse (3 page)

While I went through countless boxes, trunks and closets, deciding what to keep and what to dispose of, Damon took charge of the redecorating. Helped by Tom, he hired workmen to redo the place inside and out including a modest updating of the old-fashioned kitchen. Partly because of the clutter at the house, but mostly because of my unpleasant memories of my last visit with Aunt Ellen, we had both stayed at a pleasant little B&B a few blocks away.

Damon and I drove back to New York after five days, leaving Tom to see that the decorating was properly finished. We took with us only Aunt Ellen's silver tea service, the Tiffany lamp and a few other items that she had treasured. Everything else either had been left for the use of summer renters, given away to local charities or, in the case of Aunt Ellen's innumerable boxes of letters and old photos, locked in the still-unexplored attic, to be sorted out later.

I soon forgot all about the embarrassing incident with Tom…

I
t was very late when I pulled into the narrow drive beside the house and switched off the Volvo's engine.

Stepping wearily out of the warm car I stretched my numbed shoulders and looked up at the proud old Victorian. While she was still alive, Aunt Ellen had always kept a light burning in the parlor at night, so the house would seem warm and inviting to visitors, she said. But now the windows were dark and the place looked inexpressibly sad and empty.

The beacon from the lighthouse on the point swept across the pale yellow clapboards, illuminating the tall, angular structure like a flash of lightning in a cheap horror movie. In that instant I had the fleeting impression that a face was peering down at me from the high window of the turret bedroom. Then the light moved on, plunging the house back into the darkness of the cold, moonless night.

I stood there a moment longer, staring up at the blank window thirty feet above and wondering if it was possible that the place could be occupied. For, though summer rentals of the property had far exceeded my most optimistic expectations, no one had ever taken the house after mid-September. And I hadn't even bothered calling Tom Barnwell before leaving the city to tell him I was coming up.

Anyway, I was almost certain that I had only imagined the face in the window.

A chilly blast of wind from the sea riffled my thin sweatshirt, sending a chill through my exhausted body and driving me back into the car for my keys and purse. From the cluttered rear seat I retrieved only a small overnight case and the bag of basic groceries I'd picked up at a minimart just off the interstate. Everything else, I decided, could wait until morning.

With my arms full I hurried to the front porch and climbed the broad steps. On the off chance that the face in the window had not been merely a trick of the light I pressed the old-fashioned doorbell and listened to the sound of chimes echoing through the house.

When after several seconds no light came on inside and I heard no footsteps on the stair I fumbled with the unfamiliar new lock that Tom had installed on the oak-framed glass door and let myself in. From memory I located the switch on the foyer wall. The glittering Austrian Crystal chandelier blazed to life at my touch, flooding the marbled entryway with light.

“Hello,” I called out loudly, just to be absolutely certain that I wasn't stumbling in on some poor couple snuggled in for a romantic New England autumn weekend—something that Bobby and I had often talked about doing but had never quite gotten around to.

Somewhere above my head, in the vicinity of Aunt Ellen's old bedroom, I thought, a rafter groaned under the buffeting of the rising wind outside.

The house was otherwise silent.

Satisfied that I was alone, and feeling just a little foolish, I sighed heavily and dropped my overnight case onto the worn pine deacon's bench beside the front door. Then, switching on more lights as I went, I walked back toward the kitchen with my groceries.

As I passed through the parlor and the dining room a small smile of pleasure crossed my lips. When Damon and I had left Freedman's Cove three years before, the workmen were still finishing up the remodeling and the place had been a complete mess. Now, however, with my aunt's best furniture neatly rearranged and gleaming with lemon-scented polish and with the clutter of painter's drop cloths and ladders gone, I realized that Damon's hurried makeover had done absolute wonders for the Victorian.

Gone, along with Aunt Ellen's somber, densely patterned wallpaper and heavily swagged velvet draperies, were the horrid rubber plants and the grim portraits of my stern New England ancestors that had hung, late-1800s fashion, tilted away from the cheerless walls on braided cords. Now, those funereal trappings had been replaced by expanses of creamy white plaster, simple sea green curtains and a few good nautical prints, all of which perfectly accentuated the wonderfully molded floral copings below the high ceilings and showed the busy lines of the sturdy old period furnishings to best advantage.

Compared to their former melancholy atmosphere the big rooms now felt positively airy. And I imagined how pleasant they must be on bright summer days, with puffs of soft sea air wafting in through the tall cased windows.

In the kitchen, a similarly pleasing transformation had been accomplished with new cabinet facings, retiled countertops and parquet flooring. The removal of decades' worth of yellowing paint from the stamped tin ceiling, and the addition of plants along with modern appliances cleverly designed to replicate the antiques that they had replaced, had turned the room into a bright and cheerful space for work and living.

After peering briefly into cupboards and drawers stocked for the convenience of renters with adequate supplies of everyday utensils, I found some tea things. And while the kettle was coming to a boil I checked to be sure the gas and water were turned on and that the new refrigerator was working.

A few minutes later, with my little stock of groceries stashed in the fridge, and balancing a small tray in one hand and my overnight case in the other, I wearily climbed the narrow back stairs to the second floor.

Upstairs, Damon's pleasing handiwork was everywhere evident. Each of the three formerly cheerless guest bedrooms was now pleasant and welcoming, with brightly colored comforters on the beds and light, attractive wall coverings setting off the natural tones of lovingly polished woodwork.

But my pleased smile faded as I reached the end of the hall and paused in the open doorway of Aunt Ellen's room. For even the pleasant new floral wallpaper and the gaily colored patchwork coverlet could not disguise the massive four-poster bed in which the poor old dear had died so alone and lonely three years earlier.

As I stood there, tired and heartsick, I suddenly found the words that I had not been able to say at her funeral. “Thank you for all that you gave me, Auntie,” I whispered to the empty room.

As if in reply to my heartfelt words a few spatters of freezing rain from the approaching storm rattled like grains of shot against the windows. So I turned out the light and proceeded down the hall to the short stairway leading up to the turret.

My old bedroom, half a story higher than the rest of the upstairs, looked just as it always had. When I was fourteen, Aunt Ellen had allowed me to redecorate the small round space to my own taste.

I'd spent most of that delightful summer choosing the colors and fabrics and the wallpaper with its delicate pink cabbage rose pattern, then laboriously painting and papering the entire room myself.

When Damon had taken charge of the latest remodeling the turret room was the one place in the house that I had absolutely forbidden him to change. But, ignoring me as usual, he had pointed out that the room's tiny closet was entirely inadequate for renters. And over my loud objections he had hauled up an old birdseye maple wardrobe from the basement where it had stood for decades gathering dust and old periodicals.

I had laughed out loud when I saw the huge piece of furniture he proposed moving into the small room. But to my great surprise the wardrobe had fit perfectly into a nook beside the windows. And, once relieved of its grime and gleaming with fresh beeswax, it looked as if it had always been there. So I had grudgingly allowed it to stay, secretly delighted to have the extra storage space.

The smile returned to my lips as I set the tea tray on the dresser and looked around my snug little space. The turret's three tall, closely spaced windows overlooked an unimpeded vista of Maidenstone Island and the sea beyond. So that, late at night, with the lighthouse beacon flashing in the distance and moonlight sparkling on the water, it is possible to lie in the elaborately carved, feather-soft bed—salvaged from the captain's cabin of a New Bedford whaler that had foundered off the point in 1889—and imagine that you are in the wheelhouse of a great tall ship.

At least that is what I used to do when I was a young girl, sailing away in my dreams to wildly romantic adventures in the East Indies, threading my way among the starlit islands of the Aegean or cruising the dangerous coasts of darkest Africa, always with a brave and handsome lover at my side.

I have never known such feelings of happiness and exhilaration as I experienced in those half-remembered girlhood dreams. And, deep inside, I suspect, by returning to Freedman's Cove I was hoping to ease my grief and longing for Bobby by recapturing a bit of that dimly recalled childhood magic.

So, on my first night back in the home of my summers, I walked slowly around the wonderful old room, touching familiar objects and happily ignoring the fearsome sounds of the wind and the sea raging just outside my windows.

After a few minutes I took the old electric space heater from the tiny closet, for the house's newly revamped central heating still does not include the turret room. I plugged in the heater and switched it to
HIGH
. And, as the glowing red coils drove the late-autumn chill from the air, I lifted my overnight case onto the bed.

Opening the lid, I took out the protective ball of underwear wedged between my hair dryer and shampoo bottles, and carefully unwrapped the soft package to expose the tiny, sky blue fairy lamp that I had brought back with me from New York. I placed the delicate antique object on my nightstand and touched a match to its slender wick. Then I turned out the room lights and stood back to admire the effect.

Just as I'd always remembered, a flickering azure glow suffused the circular room, magically transforming the swirling white textures of the domed plaster ceiling into a twilight sky alive with soft, cottony clouds that might have been painted by the hand of Maxfield Parrish.

Pleased with myself for having remembered to bring along the treasured lamp, I yawned happily and traded my wrinkled jeans and sweatshirt for a thick terry robe. Then I slipped downstairs to try out the pièce de résistance of Damon's remodeling job.

 

Undoubtedly the biggest drawback to Aunt Ellen's house had always been the second-floor bathroom, a big, clammy, linoleum-floored chamber containing all of the necessities and none of the comforts of modern plumbing. The awful room's worst feature had been without question the great clawed iron bathtub that had dominated one corner like a medieval torture device.

Adding to its grim demeanor, patches of cold black metal showed through the ancient tub's yellowing porcelain finish. And the greenish copper taps had clanked and hissed menacingly before spewing out uncontrollable volumes of rust-tinged water whose only temperature variations were scalding and freezing.

When Damon, who values his creature comforts mightily, first saw the house he'd taken one look at the scabrous old bathroom and shuddered theatrically. “Positively barbaric,” he'd drawled, scowling at the ancient tub, the cracked wooden toilet seat and the stained medicine cabinet mirror. “Sue, darling, no civilized person will even consider staying in this mausoleum once they've visited the loo,” he'd announced, sweeping away my feeble protests about the unthinkable expense of remodeling the bathroom.

“If, as you've said,” he reminded me, “the only way you can afford to keep this house is by renting it out to well-heeled summer tourists, then you can't afford not to fix the bathroom.”

So once again he'd had his way, covering the glossy white walls in soft green fabric and wood and replacing the cracked linoleum with thickly luxurious carpeting a much darker shade of forest green. All of the hideous fixtures had been replaced with attractive new ones. And he'd added a bidet for good measure, a move that I'm sure would have sent poor Aunt Ellen into a swoon.

But finally, and best of all, Damon had junked the massive cast-iron bathtub, replacing it with a gorgeous sea green replica of the elegant claw-foot tub Queen Victoria herself had installed in Windsor Castle. Unlike Victoria's tub, however, the updated version came complete with a set of Jacuzzi jets and an infinitely controllable temperature dial.

Turning the gleaming taps full-on I sprinkled lavender salts into the rushing water. Then I slowly undressed and slipped into the blessed warmth of the fabulous new tub. As the glorious tingle of rushing bubbles massaged my aching spine, I reflected that Damon had been absolutely right, as usual.

I closed my eyes and blessed my business partner for his spot-on wisdom. Then I sank back into the soothing veils of steam. And as the scented water swirled around me I thanked Aunt Ellen for leaving me this lovely old house.

Once again I saw the scowl of disapproval as Bobby and I left that afternoon three years earlier. The sight of her tiny form on the porch as we drove away was a painful memory.

I pushed the guilt-ridden thought aside and instead went back to the very first visit I remembered.

At six I was something of a tomboy and my mother had long since given up trying to keep me in dresses playing with dolls. Aunt Ellen was horrified by my unlady-like antics and had made efforts to rein me in; but after several heated arguments with my mother she stoically refrained from further comment.

I chuckled to myself, remembering how much all my cousins feared her, but even at six I somehow saw through the gruff exterior and wouldn't let her dismiss me the way she did the others. I became her favorite. A fact she would have denied vehemently.

It was that summer the turret bedroom became mine.

In her best no-nonsense voice she told me that I was being consigned to the room farthest away from the living spaces because she wasn't used to having children in the house and wanted to retain as much peace as was possible with a rambunctious little girl around.

I smiled, remembering seeing the room for the first time, the curved walls and domed ceiling, the mullioned windows looking out on the raging sea. I'd become a princess in the highest tower in the castle. I was thrilled and threw my tiny arms around her legs. She'd gently disengaged me, saying I was wrinkling her dress, but I could see in her eyes that she was pleased.