Maidenstone Lighthouse (5 page)

I
awoke late, feeling better than I had in months. The storm had departed on the west wind and now the brassy ball of the autumn sun shone on a white-capped sea. I told myself I should get up and take care of getting the rest of my luggage in from the car and see about laying in a proper supply of groceries.

But I lingered in bed for a while instead, reluctant to leave the warmth of my snug refuge. Although the sky outside was bright and free of clouds I knew from long experience that the October sunlight on this stark New England coast is deceptive. It would be briskly cold outside and the whole house would be chilled until I went downstairs and figured out the controls on the newly installed central heating system.

So I just lay there, putting off the inevitable and thinking about my strange experience of the night before. Though I clearly remembered awakening and seeing the beautiful young woman at my window, in the harsh light of day I could not be absolutely certain that she had not been just another character in one of my frequent dreams.

After all, my practical side argued, I had once seen a picture of the same girl in Aunt Ellen's album. So it was probably entirely possible that my troubled mind had merely projected that melancholy face onto an imaginary figure in the shadows of my room.

At least I'm sure that would have been my shrink Laura's explanation for the strange experience.

“Well, to hell with Laura,” my romantic self muttered aloud as I finally threw back the covers and got up to face the new day. “She's my ghost and I'm going to keep her.”

I looked around with a start as a sudden gust of wind sighed through the eaves beneath the turret roof with a sound remarkably like feminine laughter. A tiny thrill ran up my spine as I contemplated the startling possibility that the sad apparition might really have been there at my window.

With that comforting thought in mind I briefly considered going straight up into the attic and digging out the old albums in an attempt to discover the true identity of my ghostly visitor. Then my practical side took control once more, arguing that if I was ever going to recover from my loss, steeping myself in ghost stories was probably not the best way to begin.

So I chalked up my vision of the lovely spirit to sheer exhaustion fired by my overly charged emotions and went downstairs in search of the thermostat.

 

It was nearly noon by the time I had breakfasted and transferred my clothes from the Volvo to the new-old wardrobe in the bedroom. But despite the fact that winter was just around the corner, once the morning chill had dissipated the air was warm and summery. So I walked back outside to survey the condition of the house—I was still having trouble thinking of it as
my
house—and grounds.

The front yard was littered with fallen leaves and badly in need of raking, but I noted with approval that the grass and flower beds showed signs of having been well tended. The white wrought iron fence bordering the front walk had recently been given a coat of fresh paint and the house itself appeared to be in generally good repair as well.

Making a note to compliment Tom Barnwell on the excellent job his maintenance people had been doing in keeping up the property for me, I walked down the drive to the arched rose trellis that marked the entry to the backyard and the narrow strip of beach beyond.

The deeply shaded lawn behind the house had always been one of my favorite places when I was a child. And now as I passed beneath the trellis the familiar loamy smell of earth from Aunt Ellen's large garden plot filled my nostrils and a new wave of nostalgia swept over me.

Except for the bare trees in the yard, it seemed as if I had played there only yesterday.

The sturdy Adirondack furniture that graced the back lawn in summer had been put away for the season. But the white-painted bench where I had subjected several generations of overworked Barbies to countless “dream dates” and daring career choices still encircled the trunk of the enormous oak that dominates the yard. And I was thrilled to see the wide wooden swing still hanging from its stout chains beneath a sagging limb.

Brushing a scattering of bright leaves from the seat, I lowered myself into the creaking old swing, pushed off with both feet and closed my eyes. Suddenly I was twelve years old again and it was almost lunchtime. At that moment, I felt sure that if I opened my eyes and looked up at the house Aunt Ellen would come bustling out onto the big screened porch behind the kitchen, wiping her hands on her blue-checked apron and setting out tuna sandwiches and lemonade.

After a moment I did open my eyes. But the interior of the porch was obscured in silent shadows. Sadly, I would never again hear Aunt Ellen's voice chiding me to leave my silly dolls and come up to lunch before she fed my share of tuna to the cats who prowled the edges of the wood.

I was filled then with a profound sense of longing for the dear old soul who had, at a time in life when most women her age had long since finished with child-rearing, taken on the daunting task of mothering a willful and sometimes troublesome little girl every summer.

Fighting back a tear, I stood and walked down to the old carriage house beside the garden and peered in through a dusty side window. As I had suspected, the missing lawn furniture was neatly stacked inside. Behind the furniture stood a large, shapeless mound of bulky objects draped in tattered canvas tarps.

I was about to turn away when, at the lower edge of the nearest tarp, something glittered in a stray shaft of sunlight. I experienced a thrill of anticipation as I realized what might be hidden there. And then I was grinning and racing around to the front of the outbuilding, wondering if the most forbidden object of my teenage desire could actually have survived in storage for all of these years.

Larger than a modern double garage, the carriage house was never subjected to such pedestrian use during my lifetime. Aunt Ellen had not owned a car, which she contemptuously referred to as a “contraption,” preferring either to walk or call the town's only taxi whenever she needed to go somewhere.

The carriage house had served only two functions: half of the dirt-floored space was reserved for odds and ends that were too good to throw away and too large to fit into the basement, the other serving as the potting shed for the considerable back garden that had kept us supplied with fresh squashes, wonderful tomatoes and crisp salad greens every summer.

As a child, I had always marveled at the mystical order of the carriage house. Because every spring the front half magically emptied of lawn furniture, porch rockers, window screens and awnings, just in time to provide exactly the right amount of space for Aunt Ellen's gardening needs. Then, in autumn, when the space was no longer needed for gardening, it somehow filled up again with all the unused trappings of summertime.

Now it was autumn and the interior was crowded. So I was forced to climb between the lawn furniture and a long, unpainted table littered with rusting hand tools, stacks of clay pots and glass jelly jars filled with seeds, in order to reach the items permanently stored under the tarps in back.

From my vantage point within the dimly lit room, the shiny surface I had glimpsed through the window was no longer visible. I stood uncertainly before a shrouded pile of discarded objects, trying to decide where to look first, and fighting off creepy visions of accidentally disturbing a nest of spiders.

Finally, my excitement overcoming my fear, I grabbed the edge of the nearest tarp and flung it aside, raising a huge cloud of dust and revealing the outline of a monstrously warped Edwardian china cabinet with a broken door.

Sneezing and flapping one hand at the cloud of sparkling motes that filled the air, I squeezed past the broken cabinet.

And there it was.

Except for two flat tires and a sprinkling of rust on the chrome spoked wheels, it was exactly as I had left it more than a decade earlier.

I cannot begin to describe the happy memories that came flooding into my mind as I stood there covered in grime and grinned down at that forlorn little machine. For it was a small miracle that my aunt had even kept the despised object after I had reached adulthood and gone away.

“Well-bred young ladies do not race about the shore on motorcycles!”

I can still see the two bright spots of color on Aunt Ellen's cheeks and hear the barely disguised horror in her voice as she stared down at the full-color brochure I had placed in her lap. It was the summer I had turned sixteen and the poor old dear was trapped, a prisoner in her favorite parlor chair with her left leg in a heavy cast as the result of a tumble down the cellar steps the week before.

“It is not a
motorcycle,
Auntie. It's a moped,” I had argued with teenage fervor, determinedly keeping my cool and deliberately neglecting to mention that I had picked out the fastest machine of its type. For this particular moped, a Vespa capable of carrying a passenger behind the rider, had a far more powerful engine than many small motorcycles.

“Now that I have to do all of the shopping,” I pointed out with what I was certain was devastating logic, “it'll save tons of money on cab fares. And we won't have to wait all day for Ed Griner's smelly old taxi to show up when we really need something fast, like your medicine.”

Unimpressed by my pitch, Aunt Ellen thrust the glossy dealer's brochure back at me without even bothering to read about the moped's fantastic gas mileage, roomy saddlebags and optional shopping basket. “Out of the question!” she'd snapped, clamping her jaw firmly shut. “Besides, you have your bicycle.”

“But this is practically the same thing as a bicycle,” I countered, stubbornly pushing the brochure back at her. “See, it even has pedals. It's cheaper than a used car and I can pay for it myself and make extra college money by delivering prescriptions for Mr. Wall at the pharmacy.”

Being the frugal maiden lady that she was Aunt Ellen had been unable to stop herself from actually looking at the brochure for the first time then, pursing her thin lips in disapproval while grudgingly conceding the irrefutable financial point. And, in truth, except for its gaudy chrome muffler and fat, knobby tires, the jaunty little Italian moped that I'd set my heart on did bear a passing resemblance to a bicycle, albeit a somewhat muscle-bound one.

“It's so hard pedaling up hills with groceries on my bike I can hardly carry anything at all.” I had jumped seamlessly ahead to my next point, cheerfully disregarding the fact that most of Freedman's Cove is generally about as hilly as the Salt Flats of Utah.

“Well…” Aunt Ellen said, adjusting her little square spectacles to squint at the slickly printed photo on the brochure cover.

I could tell she was weakening so I moved in for the kill, raising my most powerful argument. “And I'll feel much safer on this than the bicycle, when I have to go out after dark,” I said, stabbing my finger at a block of bold copy describing in detail the Vespa's bright magneto-powered headlight and lunch-box-sized taillight.

“You shall be absolutely
forbidden
to ride that awful motorized contraption after dark!” she had firmly declared, thumping her plaster-encased leg for emphasis. “Why I never even heard of such a thing!”

“Yes, Auntie,” I had replied, meekly leaning over to kiss her pale cheek and trying to suppress my shriek of joy. For not only had I won, but she had caved in with far less persuading than I had expected.

“I suppose,” Aunt Ellen had murmured in final defeat, “the young women are more liberated now than they were in my day.” She emitted a long sigh and her thin fingers fretted with the pile of needlework in her lap.

“You know how I feel about motorized contraptions,” her voice trailed away, and I knew she was thinking of my mother, “so promise me that you'll be careful, Susan,” Aunt Ellen had whispered.

Of course I had promised.

And though I frequently did ride it after dark and was probably no more careful on the speedy little motorbike than any other sixteen-year-old experiencing her first intoxicating taste of genuine freedom, I was nevertheless careful enough to avoid ever wrecking the precious Vespa. And, except for the occasional skinned knee, I never did any serious damage to myself, either.

T
he unexpected discovery of my beloved old moped in the carriage house sent all my other plans for the day straight out the window. Because, having been reminded of the delicious feel of the wind in my face and the freedom to roam wherever I chose, including remote spots that no car or even jeep could possibly go, I became determined to get the Vespa running again.

Of course, I'm now a responsible adult. So at first I very sensibly decided just to get the moped outside and clean it up a little. Then, perhaps in a few days or a week, I told myself, I would put it into the back of the Volvo and take it to a motorcycle dealer in Newport, who might be able to replace the ruined tires and restore the engine to running order.

As it turned out, though, the hardest part of getting the moped running again was extricating it from the carriage house. After an hour of shoving furniture around in the cramped space I finally managed to make a narrow pathway to the door. Then, with some difficulty I pushed the little bike into the sunshine on its flat tires and wiped it off with an old beach towel.

Outside in the daylight, the tires, though slightly worn, appeared to be free of cracks or splits. So I searched the carriage house for a pump but couldn't find one. Then I remembered the Fix-A-Flat can in the emergency kit that Bobby had bought for the Volvo, which I often drive to country auctions in out-of-the-way places.

In the trunk of the car I found the flat repair kit, which turned out to contain nothing more than a can of compressed air laced with some sticky substance. I shot a long blast into each of the moped's tires which, to my great surprise, both instantly fattened up and held.

Relieved of the dirt and cobwebs and with its tires inflated the bike looked almost as good as new. The gas tank, however, was empty. Then I vaguely recalled that each year before going away to school I had always drained the gas, along with the water from the cigarette-pack-sized battery. A few more minutes of rummaging in the carriage house produced half a can of the gas used for the lawn mower and a plastic bottle of oil. And the partially full bottle of mineral water that I'd left in the Volvo's front seat was more than enough to fill the tiny battery case to overflowing.

Having accomplished all of that, I stood back to admire my handiwork. My nails were split and greasy, my clothes were stained with sweat and my hair a dusty tangle. But it suddenly occurred to me that I was enjoying myself immensely. And I wondered if I could actually get the motor started.

Feeling more than a little foolish, for I was sure the old engine must need a complete overhaul after so many years in storage, I climbed aboard, switched on the gas and ignition and awkwardly pedaled down the drive for all I was worth.

To my utter delight and astonishment, after only a few yards the engine sputtered twice. That encouraged me to pedal even harder. Just as I reached the street the moped coughed once more and spat a cloud of viscous blue smoke from its little chrome tailpipe. Then, with a noise like a nest of vengeful killer bees, the motor surged instantly to life.

I laughed aloud, twisted the throttle hard and turned onto the street, heading out onto the stone causeway that connected Maidenstone Island to the mainland. With the fresh sea air whipping my hair into my eyes and filling my nostrils I suddenly felt wonderful. Still laughing, I brushed away the tangle and glanced down at the speedometer. It was hovering at thirty miles per hour—which on a moped feels more like sixty—and the engine was purring beneath my tingling bottom like a happy kitten.

I rode the two miles to the island without once slowing. Then it was a case of either stopping at the parking lot beside the lighthouse or plunging straight ahead into the chilly waters of the Atlantic.

So I stopped and just stood there, straddling the softly idling bike and drinking in the glorious view.

The Maidenstone Lighthouse—which is one of the few 19th-century coastal lights still in active service—is an old-fashioned structure that looks like an artist's idealized conception of a traditional New England lighthouse. The tall white tower poised on the huge gray rocks beside its quaint clapboard lightkeeper's cottage is possibly the most painted and photographed landmark in this part of the country.

As a result, during the summer tourist season the island is usually crawling with visitors. They walk down to the small rocky beach to photograph one another with the graceful white tower looming in the background, then line up by the dozen to make the daunting hundred-foot climb up a winding iron stairway to the tiny glass room on top. There they marvel at the gigantic hand-cast lenses that nightly beam lifesaving rays thirty miles out to sea, just as they did in the days when great sailing ships passed up and down this treacherous coast.

The visitors' fascination is easy to understand. For though those ships are no more and today's giant tankers and cargo carriers rely primarily on satellites and radar to warn them off the deadly rocks, the lighthouse carries on. Because satellite signals may be interrupted by solar flares and radar sets can break down, and frequently do. But the Maidenstone Light has never once failed in its entire one-hundred-and-sixty-year history. And though the beacon itself has been automated and the lightkeeper's cottage turned into a museum, the beauty and romance of the noble old lighthouse holds a special place in the hearts of all who have ever dreamed of faraway places and sailing ships and the sea.

Out on the island on this unseasonably warm October afternoon, however, the little museum was closed and there was not a single tourist in sight. Except for a battered Toyota pickup that looked as if it might have been abandoned by high school beer drinkers the night before, I was utterly alone.

I parked the Vespa on its stand in the shadow of the tower and sat down on one of the white-painted boulders that separate the parking area from the beach. Fumbling in the pocket of my jeans, I found a rubber band and gathered my hair into an untidy knot. Then I turned my face up to the sky and watched a pair of gulls gliding around the lighthouse.

It would be pleasant, I was thinking, to come out here, as I used to, with just a picnic lunch and my sketchbook. And that thought led back to Bobby. This was the place he had come so I could be alone with Aunt Ellen on that awful morning three years earlier. Now I feared that his memory of this beautiful spot had been spoiled when he'd returned to find me screeching at my poor auntie that day.

God how I missed them both, longed to see them for just one moment.

Grief, according to Laura, is not the most painful of human emotions. Regret has got it beat hands down.

I was pulled from my sad reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching close behind me. Jumping to my feet, I whirled to face the tall stranger who had just come up from the beach. The sun was at his back, lighting his light hair and casting his face into deep shadow. And my expectant heart jumped into my throat, as it had so many times in recent months.

“Nice view, huh?”

The sound of his voice broke the momentary spell and he looked up at the lighthouse, revealing a deeply tanned face that was, while handsome in its own way, nothing at all like Bobby's face.

“Yes,” I stammered. “I haven't been out here in years, but it's just as beautiful as I remembered.”

The stranger wore faded cutoffs and a paint-spattered T-shirt that was stretched tight over his heavily muscled chest and shoulders. He frowned at my words and I sensed a subdued air of menace about him that was accentuated by the dark tattoos that circled his biceps like two jagged chains. Suddenly I felt uneasy and very vulnerable in this isolated spot, so I casually began edging back toward the moped.

“I guess you know you're asking for trouble,” he said, moving to block my way.

“I really have to go now,” I breathed, deliberately stepping around him.

He shrugged harmlessly and let me pass. “Okay, but if Harvey Peabody catches you riding that thing around here without a helmet, you're going to get a ticket.”

I turned around and stared at him. “Harvey Peabody is still the town cop? My God, he must be almost seventy by now.”

All feelings of menace vanished as the stranger smiled, showing a line of strong white teeth. “Seventy-two, come next spring,” he said. “Old Harvey is as permanent as the rocks on the breakwater. He busted me for skateboarding into Shelly's Victorian Gifts when I was in the seventh grade and he's still going strong. Most people around here just figure he'll last forever.”

There was something vaguely familiar about the stranger, and I took a closer look at him.

“Danny!” I exclaimed. “You're Danny Freedman!”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied. “Except that nobody calls me Danny anymore. Dan sounds better, don't you think?”

“I know that skateboard story,” I cried delightedly. “You sped into Shelly's Victorian Gifts chasing another kid and crashed right into a big display of imported crystal or something—”

“It was a very small glass case of Lladro figurines,” he corrected. “About $3,000 worth. Or at least that was what Shelly claimed at the time. She ended up settling for $1,200 after my dad made her show him her invoices. And I spent the next two summers working off the debt with a lawn mower and rake.”

“You were thirteen and you had a bad reputation.” I laughed. “I remember because I was only eleven and my aunt used to make me stay up on the porch when you came to cut the grass.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “She said you smoked cigarettes.”

“I'm afraid it was true,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But then I was under a lot of pressure for a thirteen-year-old. It was never easy being the only juvenile delinquent in a town this size.”

We both laughed and he sat down on one of the painted boulders and gazed at me for a long moment. Then he grinned and pointed a finger at me. “You're Susan Marks,” he declared. “Summer Susan we called you because you didn't go to school here.” He paused just a moment. “Everyone said you were stuck-up.”

“That's not fair. I didn't really know very many people here.”

“I suspect that's why they thought you were stuck-up.”

Suddenly I found myself defending my childhood as I rushed to tell my story. “Aunt Ellen had very definite ideas about who my friends could be.” Without taking a breath, I continued, “I wanted to go to school here but Daddy thought private school would give me a more proper education.”

Dan Freedman rolled his eyes. “Proper education?”

I shrugged. “I don't think Daddy knew what to do with me so he sent me to an all-girls school. He thought that with Mom gone I needed female supervision and guidance. It's why I came here for the summers—he hoped Aunt Ellen's staid, upright attitudes would help make me more ladylike and keep me in check.”

Dan smiled a sad smile and reached out, covering my hand with his. “I was sorry to hear of your aunt's passing. She was always kind and fair to me…despite my wild reputation.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks.”

Pulling his hand away he asked with a smile, “Why did you need to be kept in check? I don't remember you ever getting in trouble.”

His sharp green eyes twinkled merrily and he regarded the moped parked nearby. “Wait! Unless memory fails me, you had a run-in of your own with old Harvey Peabody.” He wrinkled his brow, pretending to think. “I seem to recall having heard a rumor about you driving that little putt-putt down Commodore Milton Lane buck-naked one night…”

I flushed bright red. “And that's all it was, a vicious, small-town rumor,” I said ruefully. “Actually, I was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. But a slightly tipsy teenage boy had just thrown me off the town wharf and I was a little…damp. So I was trying to get home to change.”

I suddenly found myself giggling like a teenager as I remembered that awful night. “Harvey did stop me in his police car,” I explained. “But when he got a look at my, uh, wet T-shirt he was so flustered he just ordered me to go straight home. And whatever I did, he said, I was not to mention the incident to my aunt.”

Dan laughed. “The poor old guy was probably afraid she'd have a stroke.”

“She would have,” I agreed. “And I would have been grounded for the rest of my natural life.”

“Well, you seem to have turned out okay,” he offered.

We sat quietly for a short time and watched a strange little pelican eat the remains of what, more than likely, had been a picnic for a group of teenagers who'd left French fries and hamburger buns on the beach.

We looked at each other and laughed. Then Dan asked, “So, are you back in Freedman's Cove for good, or just visiting? I seem to have heard somewhere that you'd made it very big on the antiques scene in New York.”

My smile faded as I remembered the real reason I had returned to Freedman's Cove, and I immediately felt terribly guilty. Guilty for sitting there in the bright October sunshine, laughing with Dan Freedman. Guilty just for being alive on such a fine day.

Guilt is painful, too. In fact it ranks right up there on the pain charts with grief and regret.

More useless but expensive advice from Laura.

“I needed some time away from the city,” I responded truthfully. “So I decided to come up here and do a few things to the old house,” I lied. I didn't want to have to explain about Bobby or my near breakdown to Dan, or to anyone else, for that matter. Not now.

“Well,” he said, getting to his feet and extending a callused hand to me, “I've got to go now, but it's been really good seeing you, Sue. Maybe we'll run into each other again while you're here.”

“I hope so,” I said, realizing that I sincerely meant it. I took his big hand in mine and gripped it tightly, not wanting to let go. Because Dan Freedman was the first human being in months with whom I'd managed to carry on a normal conversation. The normality felt damned good and I didn't want it to stop. But there was more to it than that.