by Mary Carter
“Since when do you have a cat?” Jesse asked. Jesse didn’t like cats. Bailey suspected it was because she was a single woman living in a studio apartment. Just a couple of cats away from being dubbed a crazy lady. In the two weeks he’d been living in Manhattan, Blackie had grown fat and spoiled, and Bailey had grown surprisingly attached to him. “He’s black,” Jesse said, pointing out the obvious. “Isn’t that bad luck?”
“He came with the lighthouse,” Bailey said. She scratched him behind the ear while Jesse remained in the doorway. “Are you seriously just going to stand there?”
“You know how I feel about cats.”
Bailey scooped the cat up and shut him in the bedroom. “Better?” she asked.
“Much.” Jesse sat on the couch, as far away from where the cat had perched as she could get. She took a bottle of wine out of her purse.
Bailey waved the bottle away. “I have wine,” she said. “And it’s chilled. Save that for an emergency.”
“This was the emergency,” Jesse said. “But I’m all for saving.” She tucked the bottle of wine back in her bag. After Bailey served them some chilled Chardonnay, she finally filled Jesse in on their visit to the lighthouse.
“That’s it,” Jesse said after Bailey confessed to finding the obituary of the past keeper tacked to the wall and the captain’s offhanded comment about it being haunted. “I’m never visiting.”
“That’s too bad,” Bailey said. “I was thinking you and Captain Not-Jack might hit it off.”
“I’d probably just shorten it to Cap,” Jesse said. “Is he really cute?”
“In a Clint Eastwood kind of way,” Bailey said. “But I was kidding. He’s too old for you.”
“You sound keen on him,” Jesse observed.
“I am not. He’s a total character, that’s all.”
“If you want me to visit, you need to get an exorcist in there first.”
“And a plumber, and a painter, and an electrician, and a carpenter,” Bailey said. “It’s ridiculous how much work the place needs to become operational. Brad really got taken.”
“Can you get out of it?”
“I don’t think so—the auction clearly stated the property was ‘as is.’ I just can’t believe people bid so much on it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate it. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about the place.”
“Hauntingly. Did you hear yourself? I’ve changed my mind again. I’m not visiting.”
“Seriously,” Bailey said. “If we had the money to sink into it, I’m starting to think we could actually make a decent living. People like the allure of staying in a lighthouse. But we don’t have that kind of money. I honestly don’t know what he was thinking.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Brad’s determined he can fix it at cost. He’s on Facebook twenty-four / seven trying to round up old pals as volunteers.”
“How’s that going?”
“If you ever want to lose faith in social media, just trying posting a request for a favor. People are willing to look through your three hundred pictures trekking through a Brazilian rain forest, but they don’t want to help refurbish your lighthouse.”
“Go figure.”
“Anyway, he’s been out at the lighthouse for the past week—‘making progress.’ ” Bailey wasn’t normally an air quote type of girl, but this time, she felt it was required.
“You don’t seem happy.”
“I’m not. It’s a total nightmare. We can’t even start major renovations until the spring. The river freezes in the winter.”
“Sounds like an adventure. It could be fun.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“Whoever has the most wine.”
“That would be me.”
“That inconsiderate bastard!” The women laughed, then fell into an easy silence as they sipped their Chardonnay.
“I hate to ask you this,” Bailey said. Jesse sat up straight. Everyone loved to be asked something awkward.
“Shoot,” Jesse said.
“You said you’ve seen this kind of thing before.”
“Cats?” Jesse said. She looked around in alarm.
“Would you calm down about the cat? I’m talking about Brad. His little journey.”
“You mean his NDE?”
“Yes.”
“It’s very common.”
“He’s spending a lot of time chatting with others online. Some NDE group. One of the women—get this—her name is Angelicka Heavens.”
Jesse laughed and rolled her eyes. “She’s probably three hundred pounds and wears blue eye shadow,” she said.
“Here’s hoping,” Bailey said. “Is there any research—you know—like explaining scientifically what happens in those few seconds of a . . . a slightly inactive brain?”
“You can’t say ‘clinically dead,’ can you?”
Bailey shivered. “I don’t like hearing you say it either.” Jesse sighed, leaned back in her seat, finished off her wine. Bailey reached over and refilled it.
“There are arguments and ‘research’ on both sides, Bail. But if you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”
“What do you think I’m saying?”
“Look. The point isn’t whether or not life after death exists. The point is, Brad believes it does. And if you swoop in and try to convince him otherwise . . .”
“Yes?”
“I just think it could backfire. Don’t you?”
“Yes, which is why I’ve kept my mouth shut. But, Jesse, I seriously think my husband could have suffered some kind of brain damage.”
“Aren’t you being a little overdramatic?” Jesse said. This coming from a woman who kept scanning the room for invisible cats. “I’ll see what I can come up with,” Jesse said as she was leaving. But her tone of voice betrayed her. Once again, she thought Bailey was the one being unreasonable.
The obituary was for a man named Trevor Penwell. Bailey typed the name into the search engine. Certainly an interesting name. It conjured up more of a butler than a lighthouse keeper. She was anxious to see what she would find.
Google was amazing. She found a Trevor Penwell who was a reporter for a small newspaper. A Trevor Penwell who was a racecar driver. A Trevor Penwell who was a boxer. They were all alive. It made her wonder who all the Bailey Jordans were out there, and if they were leading a more exciting life than she. She decided not to Google her name; she really didn’t want to know. It wasn’t until the third page of the search that she found it.
TREVOR PENWELL LOCAL LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER DIES
Trevor Penwell illuminated the Hudson River from the Sage Lighthouse for forty-five years. He died at the age of seventy-one of natural causes. Although loved for his sense of humor, endless practical jokes, and trusty black cat, Web, Trevor Penwell is most famous for his late wife, Edga. Ten years prior to his death, his beautiful Swiss wife hanged herself in the third floor of the keeper’s house. She is said to have literally died of insanity, distraught from the loneliness induced by such isolated living. She is rumored to have spent the days before her death pacing the keeper’s house and wailing. Visitors to the lighthouse have reported still hearing those mournful footsteps along with echoes of her haunting cries. With the passing of Mr. Penwell, the fate of the lighthouse remains just as much of a mystery. Rumors have it that it will be auctioned to the highest bidder next fall. I wonder if the new owners will get along with the late Mrs. Penwell. Rumor is, she’s a scream.
Bailey pulled back from the article and looked around the room. Why did Jesse have to leave before she read this? “Is it true?” Bailey asked the cat, who was studying her from the doorway to the bedroom. “Edga,” Bailey said out loud. The cat simply stared. “Web,” Bailey said. The cat came forward. So either that part was true, or the cat had simply had enough of Bailey talking to herself and was coming over to investigate. Bailey petted the cat. He looked old, all right, but was he really the keeper’s cat? Maybe he was one of his kittens. Ever
yone had babies but her.
Great, Bailey thought. A wife who went insane and hanged herself. In the very room that was locked. Maybe it had been boarded up from the other side. She wondered what Brad was up to right now. Probably sitting up in the lighthouse tower poring over old weather-keeping records. He’d promised her he wouldn’t go up to the third floor until she arrived the next weekend. After all, this was their adventure, not just his. Should she tell him about the obituary and the keeper’s wife?
Despite everything, Bailey actually found herself looking forward to going back. This time they would have food, and clothing, and an air mattress. She’d bring some wine; it would be like a little honeymoon. In an isolated, haunted lighthouse. Oh, well, when you were married, you took whatever scraps of romance you could get. Hopefully Edga and Trevor Penwell had their share of romantic moments before she went insane. Bailey was going to do everything in her power to make sure their lives would be different. She would contact a psychiatrist about Brad’s behavior. Once he was in his right mind, they would fix the lighthouse up, flip it, and sell it. They’d move back to Manhattan, have babies, and laugh about the day Daddy bought a lighthouse. If only she didn’t have the image in her head of lonely Swiss Edga, hanging from the third floor.
Then again, ghosts were very popular these days, weren’t they? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if the lighthouse was a little haunted. The sooner the place started making money, the better. Between a little ghost, and Brad’s near-death experience, and the Fairytalers “pimping the lighthouse,” maybe they could actually turn a profit. They wouldn’t have to sell the condo, and when Brad snapped out of it, their true life in Manhattan would be waiting for her. Marriage was all about compromise and patience. In other words, Bailey was just going to have to wait it out until Brad saw things her way. Until then, she was going to find a way to turn the lighthouse into a gold mine.
Chapter 13
Bailey brought Brad a cake. It was made by a local genius on her block, a white sheet cake on which he sculpted a lighthouse with icing. She also brought a nice bottle of wine, and candles. She tucked them away in the kitchen until she was ready to surprise him. She’d also had a wooden sign made. It simply read B&B OPEN on one side and B&B CLOSED on the other. She propped it up on the front stoop, hoping to surprise him with it that evening when they came back from their walk. True to Brad’s word, he’d scrubbed the place clean. He was supposed to have stocked the cupboards and fridge with groceries from Island Supplies, but the cleaning took so long that he hadn’t gotten around to it. At least they had the basic food groups—sugar and alcohol.
The place still looked like a hovel, but it was a clean one. They stood in the living room. Bailey realized she’d probably spend most of her time here, gazing out onto the water. There was definitely something primal about the sea. “I’ve been thinking of furnishings,” Bailey said. Bailey also wanted a slate tile floor for the kitchen and a nice sage green color on the walls. So far Brad had remained silent on the subject but Bailey didn’t push it, mainly because they’d yet to figure out how to pay for all of it. Bailey had purchased one gallon of sage green paint and it sat unopened in the dining room section of the kitchen. They also couldn’t agree on cabinets, countertops, or appliances. Bailey wanted cherrywood, and stainless steel, and slate countertops. Brad wanted to go bargain basement. Where was that mentality when he spent half a million dollars in a matter of seconds? If he was allowed to cause that much damage waving a paddle in the air, she should at least be allowed to spank him with it. Or get her pick of the appliances and furnishings. Brad didn’t seem to see it that way.
“Furnishings,” Brad said. “We can’t afford anything too expensive.” His response, said with a smile, irritated her. She swallowed it and smiled back.
“It’s an investment. We’re committed to this now, we should do it right.”
“Bails.”
“Can I just tell you what I’ve been thinking?”
“Sure. As long as you’re not too attached.”
Too attached? She didn’t say it out loud; she wasn’t going to let him tease her about her habit of repeating after him, yet she still couldn’t stop doing it in her head. She had three catalogues clutched in her hand, with samples of furniture she thought would be perfect for the B&B, a mixture of antique and modern. Leather couch with Victorian coffee table, Persian rug with Pottery Barn chairs—nothing that screamed “theme,” no seashells in the bathrooms, no seafaring paraphernalia, just simple, clean, and sleek.
She also pictured black-and-white photographs on the walls, except for the lighthouse loft—which was what she was calling the circular room below the tower. For that she wanted to splurge on original paintings by up-and-coming artists exhibiting in Manhattan. She and Brad could make a night, or several, out of it, visiting art galleries, drinking wine, eating cheese, and dreaming. Just like they’d spent their twenties dreaming. Or rather Brad dreamed and Bailey followed his follies. The fourth catalogue, the one with baby furniture, she kept at the condo. That was for another discussion, when Brad was a little bit more himself.
Brad looked at the catalogues she’d thrust in front of him, but except for once in a while saying, “Mmm,” his reaction was halfhearted at best.
“You don’t like them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your body language says that.”
Brad uncrossed his arms and sighed. “You have excellent taste,” he said, handing the catalogues back to her. “You always have. Of course anything you pick out would be fantastic.”
“But?”
“But we have perfectly good furniture.” Bailey glanced around the empty space, wondering if Brad was now seeing furniture in addition to bright lights. Brad caught the look of worry on her face and laughed.
“At the condo,” Brad said. “Unless we’re going to sell it furnished?” The last part was said with a boyish grin and a nervous sweep of his hand through the fuzz on his head. He’d been doing that lately, rubbing his head, like it was a genie capable of granting wishes. It had been months since the accident, but his hair had barely grown back. The doctor said it could be due to stress. Yet another reason Bailey shouldn’t be arguing with him. Yet she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He was casually talking about selling their condo. The condo he said she’d never have to give up.
“We talked about this,” Bailey said. “You said I could commute. We never talked about selling the condo.”
Brad walked to the window. “Captain Jack was right,” he said to her back.
“Excuse me?”
“The river that cannot make up its mind.”
“That’s not fair,” Bailey said. “We never talked about selling the condo. Never.”
“I know, I know.” Brad passed his hand along his fuzzy hair again and started pacing. “I just thought once you saw this place, felt it, you would know it’s home. Where we belong.”
Bailey stepped in front of Brad, and took hold of his arms. “I like this place,” she said. “I really do.”
“But?”
“Home? We’ve had this place a few weeks. It’s nowhere near ready—”
“It needs some work. We need money to do that work.”
“We’re going to have to find another way. We’re not selling the condo.”
“There is no other way.”
“Get a loan.”
Brad walked over and put his hands on Bailey’s shoulders. He gently started kneading her. “You just got here,” he said. “Relax.” She wanted to relax, she really did. Lately, she didn’t know how. “As soon as we get a bathtub, I’m going to draw you bubble baths. Lots and lots of bubble baths.”
“That sounds nice,” Bailey said. “How soon will that be?”
“It costs money to put in new bathrooms, Bailey. Everything costs money.”
“I can’t believe this place was so expensive,” Bailey said. “Half a million and it didn’t even come with a tub.” Brad stopped massaging her. He cross
ed his arms and moved away from her. And just when she thought he was going to start another fight, his tone softened.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “I promise. But when we do start decorating the rooms—what do you think of having nautical themes?”
It happened as they were standing there. Bailey was thinking that Brad didn’t really deserve the cake or the wine and was contemplating sneaking up the lighthouse tower by herself with a wine opener and a fork when they heard the front door open. They looked at each other. Neither of them moved. They listened to the door shut. Then they heard footsteps, and before they knew it, a short, bald man was standing in front of them. He looked to be in his fifties. He was wearing a white undershirt, jeans, and a gray jacket.
“You left the door unlocked,” Bailey said to Brad.
“You were the last in,” Brad said. That was true. But she had cake and wine in her hands.
“Sorry,” the man said. “Is this a bad time?” He smiled. His teeth were crooked and yellow.
Bailey shivered. “We’re not open for business,” she said.
“The sign out front said you’re open,” the man said.
“Sign?” Brad said.
“Surprise,” Bailey said.
The man threw his arms open. “Look at that view.”
Brad immediately went into business mode. He stuck his hand out. They shook. “I’m Brad. This is my wife Bailey. Welcome to our bed-and-breakfast.”
“So you are open,” the man said. “Excellent.”
“We’re not,” Bailey said. “As you can see—”
“Have a seat,” Brad said. Bailey was about to point out there was nowhere to sit when the man simply sat on the floor as if it was the most normal thing ever. He tucked his legs up like a yoga master. Then Brad held up his finger and disappeared into the kitchen. Bailey and the man just stared at each other, the man grinning. After a moment Brad emerged with the cake.
“Would you like a piece of cake?” Brad said, displaying it as if he’d made it himself.
