Maidenstone Lighthouse (8 page)

Frustrated, I put aside the Bible and tackled the old albums, searching the years between 1900 and 1910 for the studio photo of the girl that Aunt Ellen had briefly showed me but refused to name.

I had been at it for nearly an hour when the dark eyes and pretty face of my ghostly visitor jumped out at me from another old photograph. This was not a studio photo, but a group shot of several young people posing together on a beach.

Turning the picture over I discovered on the back a faintly penciled inscription that read “Aimee's Sweet 16 party, July 1901.”

“Yes!” Though the girl in the picture was younger than my ghost, she was definitely the one I had seen in my room. And if she was born in 1885 Aimee Marks would have turned sixteen in the summer of 1901.

Excited by my discovery, I pushed the album to one side and closely examined the sepia-toned photo. There were half a dozen teenagers in the picture, the girls all dressed in high-necked swim costumes, complete with dark stockings extending to their ankles, the boys in comical striped bathing suits and jaunty straw boaters. At the revelers' feet sat a wicker picnic hamper on a plaid blanket. And the familiar outline of the Maidenstone Lighthouse tower could be seen in the distance.

In the center of the photo Aimee was perched coquettishly atop an angular black bicycle, supported by two smiling boys, both of whom had their eyes fixed jealously on her. And despite the bulky, dark-colored swimming costume that clung damply to her slim, high-breasted figure, it was easy to understand the boys' transfixed expressions. Because, even at sweet sixteen, Aimee Marks had been an absolute knockout, with long, shapely legs that her prudish long stockings did little to conceal.

Though the whole party was stiffly posed for the picture—film exposures in that time being long, tedious affairs requiring many seconds of absolute stillness—there was something in Aimee's expression that set her apart from the other girls in the scene. Unlike the two captivated boys who seemed unable to take their eyes off of Aimee, the other girls were all squinting awkwardly into the camera—doubtless because the photographer had the sun at his back.

Aimee's eyes, however, were focused elsewhere. On someone or something that lay just beyond the range of the lens.

Excited by my discovery, I worked my way through the rest of the albums for the time period, expecting at any moment to find another picture of the girl. I examined scores of fading family portraits, wedding shots and summer outings, until I determined from the gradually shifting trends in fashion, hairstyles and automobiles that I had reached the 1920s—far later, I believed, than my ghostly visitor had remained alive.

But I found no more photos of Aimee Marks. And, oddly, even the studio portrait that Aunt Ellen had showed me was nowhere to be found in the albums. In fact, not one of the hundreds of photos of the Marks family and friends that had been taken during the brief period when she had lived and died contained another image of Aimee Marks.

The first weak rays of the rising sun were lighting an ominous line of approaching clouds above a slate-gray sea as I closed the last thick volume.

Exhausted and vowing to more fully research Aimee's life as soon as I was fully settled into the house, I went back upstairs to bed and finally slept. Strangely, in my dreams, I was a teenager once more.

 

Danny Freedman was at the wheel of his old red Mustang and I was beside him. The sensual salsa rhythm was pounding in time to the beat of the gutted mufflers.

“Let's go out to the island and have a few beers,” Danny suggested, slipping his arm around me and pulling me close.

“Well-bred young ladies do not drink beer with house painters,” Aunt Ellen intoned from the tiny backseat of the Mustang. “It was one of his kind that ruined poor Aimee.”

 

When I awoke, nearly eleven hours later, darkness was once again falling over Freedman's Cove and a high wind accompanied by hard, driving rain was shrieking around the house.

T
hough I had hardly noticed at the time, the line of approaching clouds I'd seen that morning had heralded the arrival of the season's first big nor'easter. By late afternoon a frigid cyclonic storm roaring straight down from the Canadian Arctic was enveloping the rocky Rhode Island coastline in thundering surf accompanied by torrents of ice-laden rain.

Fortunately, after I'd left Krabb's the night before, I had forced myself to drive to the Food Mart. So I was well supplied with groceries and the other necessaries that one lays in before winter comes to Freedman's Cove. There were canned goods of every kind—in case there was no power to run the fridge. As an additional precaution against an electrical outage I had bought candles and boxes of big wooden matches for every room, along with extra batteries for the flashlights and a small portable radio for my nightstand.

The grilled cheese sandwich and canned tomato soup was comforting; a reminder of childhood lunches with Aunt Ellen. Of course she would have included sticks of celery and carrots because you had to have vegetables. I smiled at the memory. But with night closing in I hurriedly did the dishes and set about storing my supplies, checking the windows and shutters and generally battening down the place to withstand the unexpected bad weather.

Later, as the storm did its best to batter the sturdy old house, and with the distant boom of high surf crashing against the causeway, I phoned Damon to apologize for my unforgivable behavior of the previous night.

There was no answer at Damon's apartment, so I left a contrite message on his voice mail asking him to call me back when he got in.

 

As part of the remodeling before the house was put up as a rental property, Aunt Ellen's gloomy old formal parlor had been turned into a cozy sitting room. The idea—Damon's, of course—had been to create a cheerful space where summer vacationers might retreat on cold and rainy afternoons, not uncommon in Rhode Island, even in high summer. There they might enjoy a game of cards, a glass of wine or a film on DVD. And to that end the room had been furnished with comfortably cushioned wicker lounges and equipped with a nice reproduction Mission-style cabinet that hid a CD player, television and DVD player.

So, when my supplies were stashed and the windows all had been checked I went into the parlor and lit a fire in the cast-iron grate. I dashed outside and retrieved my laptop PC and a handful of favorite CDs from the Volvo, then brought a pot of hot chocolate from the kitchen and settled in to get organized.

Patsy Cline's heartrending “Crazy” was playing softly on the CD as I opened a new file and created a comprehensive list of chores still to be done around the house.

There was the phone to be turned on, of course. And if I was going to spend any substantial time up here during the approaching winter the heating oil tank in the basement would need to be checked and topped off, storm windows installed and a number of other basic but essential preparations made.

Boring though it was, I lost myself in the mundane details of the work, which was exactly the kind of structured activity—or so Damon had always claimed, anyway—that made me an asset to our antique appraisals business. Actually, I've always enjoyed the detail work. And that night in Aunt Ellen's house, with a good fire crackling at my feet and the pot of warm cocoa at my elbow, I felt positively snug and secure.

Might it be possible, I wondered, to move my work up here? After all, telecommuting was the in thing these days. Most of my duties in the city really involved nothing more than the writing of detailed reports and appraisals on the laptop. And that work was usually performed while I was at home listening to my favorite music.

As for the auctions and estate viewings that I was frequently required to attend on behalf of clients, as often as not I had to drive or fly to them in various locations, mostly in New England. But here I was in New England already. So why not adopt Freedman's Cove as my new base of operations? Certainly, I reasoned, anybody could answer the phone in the Manhattan office.

And by moving up here I could eliminate the fierce expense of my New York apartment, which, now that it had been ransacked and held only sad reminders of Bobby, I had little desire to return to, anyway.

I opened up my personal finance program and crunched a few numbers for rent, utilities and the like. The results were eye-opening. I saw that I could save almost $50,000 a year just by relocating to Freedman's Cove.

I was so excited by the whole concept that, even though it was nearly midnight, I decided to call Damon. I picked up my battered cell phone and punched in his number.

Strangely, I again got no answer.

Shutting down the computer and idly wondering where my unpredictable partner had gotten to, I went back out into the kitchen to warm up the last of my cocoa.

I was standing over the stove when a particularly hard blast of wind rattled the entire house. I peered out into the yard and saw the huge oak bending in the high gusts. Because the old house is very close to the sea, my concern was more for possible flooding than wind damage. So I returned to the parlor and turned on the TV, hoping to catch a late weather report.

CNN's Boston affiliate was just finishing up a story about the early winter storm. But before I could get any details, the reporter switched to a related story about a commuter plane crash that was being blamed on the bad weather. Since a plane crash of any kind was the last thing I needed to hear about, I turned off the TV and went up to bed.

My cell phone chirped as I was climbing the stairs. I switched it on, fully prepared for a tearful reunion with Damon. “Hello?” I answered. “Damon, is that you?”

Static crackled through the earpiece and a faint, garbled voice said my name. Then the connection went dead. I frowned at the phone, assuming that the storm had interfered with the reception. I was certain the caller had been Damon, because, except for Bobby, of course, he was the only person who had my private cell phone number. Grinning with relief, I immediately dialed Damon's apartment once more, but the static on the line was so severe that I heard only the first few words of his voice mail message.

“I'll call you tomorrow,” I shouted, then switched off the phone and went into my room.

 

This would be my third night in my beloved turret bedroom. Twice before I had gone to sleep here, dreamed an awful dream about Bobby and then been visited by the sad ghost.

Such unsettling experiences would ordinarily have encouraged me to sleep on the sofa down in the parlor. But strangely I was not afraid.

In fact, I was almost hoping my gentle ghost would show herself again, though I could certainly do without the bad dreams. But I lit my blue fairy lamp anyway, then turned out the lights and climbed in under the covers.

I lay there in my snug sea captain's bed gazing up at the magical blue light tingeing the domed ceiling while the cold nor'easter howled outside my windows.

As I waited for the ghost I believed to be Aimee Marks to appear, I decided that I would attempt to communicate with her this time. For it seemed clear that she was aware of my presence. And, I believed, she had even spoken to me.

Sinking back onto my pillows I mentally composed a list of questions I wanted to ask her, beginning with why she haunted this room and this house. The wind in the eaves moaned and whistled. Pellets of freezing rain clattered against the windowpanes. The lighthouse beacon described endless circles of light and darkness across the leaping waves.

Slowly my eyelids grew heavy and I slept.

“Love me forever?” Bobby was whispering softly in my ear, his warm breath tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. “Mmmm,” I sighed and snuggled down farther into the covers.

I
t was still raining early the next morning when I awoke, though the wind seemed to have lost much of its force overnight.

Undeterred by the sloppy weather and anxious for some fresh air, I scarfed down a light breakfast of oatmeal and coffee. Then I dressed in warm clothes and an old yellow slicker I'd found in a closet and went out to the Volvo.

After trying unsuccessfully to reach Damon several more times, I spent the rest of the morning driving around in the rain—to the telephone company, the post office and the hardware store, checking off items on my long To Do list. By the time I had disposed of the most pressing items it was past noon and I was getting hungry again. So I drove down to Krabb's for lunch.

At that time of day the restaurant was bustling with locals, and I thought I recognized several faces among the fishermen and shopkeepers clustered around the pink Formica tables. Fortunately, though, no one seemed to take any notice of me, which was the way I preferred it.

I happily accepted a booth beside one of the plate glass windows overlooking the harbor. And, after consulting the simplified daytime menu, I ordered a fresh lobster salad and a bowl of fish chowder and busied myself buttering a cracker. The sky outside was growing lighter by the minute.

As I ate, several fishing boats chugged past my window, headed for the channel leading out to the open sea, a good indicator that the weather would soon be clearing.

“Nice view, huh?”

I looked up to see Dan Freedman standing at my table, watching a departing lobster boat.

“That's how you started our last conversation,” I reminded him. “A conversation,” I added, “that left me feeling like a complete idiot.”

“That wasn't my intention at all,” he said, looking not at all remorseful.

“Well, you did lead me to believe you were a house painter,” I countered somewhat accusingly.

He shook his head and a mischievous grin creased his deeply tanned features. “No,” he said, “you reached that conclusion all by yourself.”

There was a long pause while a waitress delivered my salad. Then Dan leaned closer and said in a low voice, “Would you have considered our conversation any less satisfactory if you had thought I wasn't a house painter?”

“That's a trick question.” I laughed.

“Well,” he said, eyeing my plate, “I'll let you get on with your lunch.”

“No, please sit down,” I insisted, remembering how easily we had conversed that afternoon out on the island.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I'm sure,” I said, realizing that I really did want someone to talk to. Not someone like Tom Barnwell, but someone like Dan, who would not be particularly interested in the intimate details of my life, or in hustling me off to bed.

So Dan Freedman sat down and we had lunch together. He ordered a gigantic hamburger with fries and we joked about cholesterol levels and house painting, and generally had a great time just chatting.

By the time our coffee arrived I'd told him a little about the antiques business. And I had learned that he had indeed joined the marines after leaving Freedman's Cove, that he'd become interested in painting while serving as an embassy guard in Brussels, and that he'd gone to art school there following his military service.

“I'd always had a thing about the old lighthouse and the Victorians,” he explained. “So after I finished school I came back here to spend a summer painting them before I went looking for a serious job.” He shrugged. “That was seven years ago.”

“And somewhere along the way you just happened to become rich and famous,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

“People liked my stuff,” he admitted frankly. “First a couple of the local galleries started buying. Then a sharp business manager from New York took me on and talked an investment group into backing me.” He smiled and a note of affection crept into his voice. “Her name is Heather,” he said. “And she's really the one who's responsible for the success. Believe me, nobody was more surprised than yours truly.” Dan grinned boyishly. “I just like to slap paint on canvas.”

“And the name Freedan? Where did that come from?”

For the first time since he had sat down with me Dan looked slightly uncomfortable. “Well, that was sort of accidental,” he replied. “See, I wasn't really all that convinced of my talent that first summer back here. And I didn't want to embarrass the family.”

He swung his head to indicate a group of grizzled fishermen joking and drinking beer at a nearby table. The men waved and Dan waved back at them. “Those guys are my uncles and cousins,” he confided. “Lobstermen, mostly. And a tougher bunch you're unlikely to meet anywhere.

“Anyway, I figured if I put my name on a bunch of what they would have regarded as fruity pictures of old houses, they'd take a lot of ribbing around town. So I started signing my work Freedan.”

Dan shrugged and a flush of color tinged his cheeks. “By the time my pictures started selling and drawing some good reviews it was too late to change the name. So it just stuck.”

He looked at me like a schoolboy who's just explained to the teacher that a bear ate his homework. “Pretty lame excuse, huh?”

I shook my head and laughed. “How do your cousins and uncles feel about your pictures now?” I asked. “Or have you let them in on your secret yet?”

“Those guys?” He grinned. “Naw, they all still think I'm a house painter.”

We chatted for a while longer, enjoying the sight of the sun breaking out of the clouds and lighting up the harbor. Throughout the conversation we each carefully avoided probing too deeply into the other's life beyond our respective work. And though a few natural opportunities arose to bring them into the conversation, the names of Debbie Carver and my old beau Tom Barnwell were not mentioned.

All too quickly the coffee was gone, the check had arrived and lunch was clearly over. We got up to leave and went out together into the bright autumn sunshine. A few eager seagulls were wheeling and screeching overhead as we walked to my Volvo.

“Looks like the rain is gone for a while,” Dan observed, squinting up at the clearing sky.

“Then I suppose that means you can start painting again,” I said, intending it as a joke.

“Yeah, I was painting the old lightkeeper's cottage before the storm,” he replied seriously. “So I guess I'll go on out to the island and finish up.”

“When is the museum open?” I asked, thinking of Aimee Marks. Though I hadn't been inside the converted lightkeeper's cottage in years, I knew that it contained many newspapers and books about the town and the Victorians, as well as the history of the Maidenstone Light itself.

Dan looked interested so I explained. “I'm doing a little research on a couple of skeletons in the family closet,” I said. “And I thought the museum might have some useful information.”

“Well, after Labor Day the place is only open to the public on Saturday afternoons,” he said, reading the disappointment in my face. Then he grinned. “…Unless you happen to have a key.”

“Which, of course, you just happen to…”

He dug into his jeans and produced a ring of shiny brass keys. “What's the use of being a local celebrity if you don't have the keys to the town museum?” He laughed. “I'll be out there all afternoon, painting. Drop by anytime.”