by Mary Carter
It turned out to yield quite a surprise. Bailey assumed the black smoke was due to a problem with the flue. She couldn’t have been more wrong. The chimney sweep discovered something was blocking the chimney. He crouched in the fireplace, gazing up. With his face obscured, he waved her over with one hand.
“Fifty years,” he said. “Never seen anything like this.” Bailey hurried over, knelt beside him, and looked up. His flashlight illuminated a large crate blocking the chimney.
“Oh my God,” she said.
“It’s up there on some kind of hoist,” the chimney guy said. “Whatever it is, it must be heavy.”
Bailey smiled to herself as she replayed the memory. What an adventure that turned out to be. Lucky for her, Brad was way too busy in the tower, and the yard, and on the dock to notice what was going on inside the house. Had he been there when they lowered it, and she opened it, she never would have been able to hold on to this delicious surprise. And it was great timing; she was able to use the crane Brad had hired to repair some of the stones in the tower wall to lift the surprise up into the Crow’s Nest. At first she simply threw a blanket over it, and Brad didn’t notice a thing. Then she purchased an industrial cabinet to store and lock it. It even took him a couple of days to notice that. When he did, thanks to his secretive, locked journals, Bailey was able to placate him.
“It’s a locked cabinet,” she said when he finally asked about it. “For my personal things.” He just looked at her.
“It’s taking up a lot of space,” he said.
“And yet it took you two days to notice it.”
Brad ignored the comment. “There’s not much space up there to begin with.”
“I need it.”
“What’s in it?”
“Personal and private things,” she said. “Just like your diaries.”
“Journals.” But he let it drop with a shake of his head and a joke about knowing where to look for the bodies if any of their guests disappeared. Since then, Bailey had visited the cabinet every time she needed to remind herself that this was an adventure worth having. It became a hobby that kept her busy, and somewhat sane. The biggest challenge was carving out time when Brad wasn’t in the Crow’s Nest. She could tell he was a little resentful, as if he assumed he could claim the perch as his own, but he wisely began to let her have her own time up in the nest. It was hard to keep her mouth shut—she normally wasn’t very good at keeping secrets, but this one was well worth it.
She was saving it until they’d been in business for a full year. A date that was unknown since they weren’t officially open for business yet. Of course, she wondered why the crate had been hoisted into the fireplace, but since Trevor’s journals didn’t yield anything other than weather patterns and wildlife spottings, she feared they’d never know. For once she was happy that Brad was so out of it, so distracted; otherwise, she might never have been able to pull it off.
And to top it off, once the obstruction was removed, the chimney sweep did a magnificent job restoring the fireplace. Now that the mantel from her childhood home was in place, she felt a little bit more as if she belonged here. But even so, unless you were sitting directly in front of the fire, the keeper’s house was steeped in a deep chill. Bailey felt as if she could never get warm, and worried that guests would shun them in the winter. Brad assured her they would work on the heating system, but to Bailey it was just another thing to add to a mounting To Do list. The holidays passed without much recognition. They couldn’t host a Thanksgiving dinner without appliances, and although they had several invitations back in the city, Brad didn’t want to stop any of his projects. Since even the contractors wouldn’t work in this winter wonderland, Brad was trying to start with DIY projects. Bailey was horrified that this included putting down a new kitchen floor. Did he really know how to do that? She certainly didn’t. And it took them a while to agree on which tiles they wanted. Bailey still wanted a slate floor, Brad wanted a cheap one. Their weekends were filled with trips to the local hardware store, arguing over floor samples.
Finally, one of the managers offered them a discount on the slate tiles that had caught Bailey’s eye. He was probably just trying to get the arguing couple out of his store. Brad used the opportunity to buy appliances at a discount as well. The dishwasher turned out to be black because it was on clearance, and so they had to get a black stove to match. Bailey really wanted a stainless steel refrigerator but Brad pointed out that you couldn’t stick magnets on it and he wanted to get plastic letter magnets so guests could leave messages on the fridge. So they ended up with a black refrigerator as well, although Bailey wasn’t a complete pushover because she talked him into getting the little white magnets with typed words, insisting it would look classier. Later, even that was a decision she would come to regret.
Because maybe the colorful plastic letter magnets would have been a subliminal reminder to Brad that they needed children to go along with them. Regardless, little by little, they compromised. Bailey and Brad had Thanksgiving dinner in town, at a nice family restaurant. The people they met were polite, but not what Bailey would call friendly. Especially when they heard they were running the lighthouse. They would start out all chatty and smiling, and the minute anyone found out who they were, their demeanor would immediately shift, and they seemed to almost regard Bailey and Brad with suspicion. Was it because of the suicide? Or the auction? Had others wanted the lighthouse for themselves? Bailey spent quite a bit of time pondering the possibilities, but Brad told her she was being paranoid.
Since he thought that was being paranoid, Bailey started keeping other little things to herself. Besides being drafty and constantly damp, Bailey often heard strange noises in the house, especially late at night. She was glad they were sleeping in the tower room, because quite frankly, being in the house after dark spooked her. Maybe it was just the thought of what had happened in the attic. Several nights when she was staying up later than usual and thus still in the house, she thought she heard footsteps from above. It was impossible to mistake the sound; now that they’d ripped the carpets up, the floorboards creaked when walked upon. Brad told her it was the wind. It was true, the sound of the wind certainly did whistle through the house most nights, but Bailey could distinguish between the two.
One night she swore she heard music playing. It was a melodic tinkling sound, like a child’s music box. She’d been too afraid to check it out herself, so she fetched Brad from his post at the Crow’s Nest. But when they got back to the main house, the music had stopped. They checked out every room, including the attic, which, once they got a locksmith to open the door, turned out to be a large but otherwise unremarkable space. Except for a few boxes with some clothing and books that Bailey assumed had belonged to Trevor and Edga, there was no apparent reason for the room to be locked, certainly nothing of value. Something about the space gave Bailey the creeps, but it was probably just because she couldn’t stand up there without imagining Edga hanging from the rafters. Once they cleaned it out, Bailey avoided going up there. And there was certainly plenty of other things to keep her busy.
The kitchen floor was only halfway done, and their new shower was cold and the water pressure was weak, especially with the pipes freezing every other day, and Bailey was dying to get their furniture from the condo in the house, but they had to store it because there was no use putting down furniture when you still had to put in new floors and sand and stain old ones. Brad convinced Bailey that she could put the flooring in the small bathroom herself. Soon there were two of them on their hands and knees grouting tile with the how-to book by their side. She’d been resistant at first, but she had to admit she felt a tremendous sense of pride when it was done. Even if Brad did have to tweak a few tiles after she was done. Next they were on to putting up crown molding and painting. With each project, their bank account took a nosedive. The third bathroom and outdoor repair work would have to wait until the spring when the contractors agreed to start.
Captain Jack re
commended several workers, and Brad booked them all on the spot. They agreed to start in March. Bailey continued to wonder what they had gotten themselves into. The only thing that kept her going, besides having so much to do every day that she was literally too tired to think, was watching Brad. Little by little he seemed to be coming back to her, speaking less and less of seeing the light. Although it could have something to do with his online support group. He was still spending a lot of time chatting with them. Maybe Brad was still talking about it the same amount, just not to her. For that, she was grateful. She wondered where they would spend Christmas. Her sister Meg was going through trauma with Thomas, Bailey’s nephew. Both Joyce (her niece), and Thomas were teenagers now. Meg complained about them constantly, but always with an undercurrent of fierce love. She was worried Thomas was keeping secrets from her. Meg suspected he had problems with some other boys at school, at least that was the rumor as reported by Joyce, but so far Thomas had refused to talk to her about it. Bailey wondered if he got that from his father. Meg’s husband was the type who always seemed to be holding back. It was a constant reminder to Bailey that no matter what crazy things she’d had to endure for Brad, they’d always been 100 percent honest with each other.
Bailey really wanted her family to come visit them, but besides the deep freeze, it just wasn’t fair to ask anyone to stay in the middle of a project. Everywhere you turned there were tools, and dust, and something ripped up yet still sitting in the middle of the floor. Lately the electricity had been wonky too. Lights would suddenly flicker or blow out completely. Bailey couldn’t believe that she’d gone through an entire package of lightbulbs for the main house in just a month. They would have to hire an electrician to get to the bottom of it. And if that didn’t work, then they were going to have to hire a priest.
Keeper’s Log
Brad
Bailey is what I call a Full Moon kind of woman. Passionate and unpredictable. I’m trying as hard as I can to make progress on the house, because I can tell that all of these projects are getting to her. She was so proud of that bathroom floor that I just couldn’t tell her I had to sneak out in the middle of the night to redo it. Yesterday she cried because she was tired of seeing a screwdriver on the kitchen counter. I wish I could fast-forward to the summer when our new cabinets and countertop are in the kitchen, as well as a dining table filled with witty, conversing guests. I found a gorgeous old Spanish wood dining table at the antique store in town. It seats twelve. The matching chairs all have purple velvet cushions. The color of royalty. What a great metaphor—the way we intend on treating all of our honored guests. I’ve already bought it and as soon as the kitchen floor is done, I’ll arrange for Captain Jack to bring it over on the ferry. I think Bails is going to love it. It was bad timing to move in the winter all right, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. If we can just get through this, everything will be so easy in comparison.
Every day I wake up convinced this will be the day I tell Bailey everything. I don’t know how habitual liars do it. It’s stressful keeping secrets. Of course, I should be used to that by now, shouldn’t I? There are other times when I think the kindest thing is to say nothing at all. Why should someone else pay for the mistakes I’ve made? When will I learn to just tell the truth from the beginning? The more time goes by, the harder it is. Especially now, with all the work we’re doing on this place. Don’t get me wrong, it’s beautiful here. Peaceful. At night the river is deep black, and when the light sweeps over her, it’s a sight almost as gorgeous as my wife. I had forgotten how powerful bodies of water can be, how deeply meditative. I love to sit up in the tower with Bailey and watch the light sweep over the depths of the Hudson. I think she’s starting to see it too, I think she’s starting to come around. We are truly the keepers of the light. Soon, Christmas will be here. Imagine telling her now? I just can’t. Besides, that particular truth is nothing more than a technicality. Or am I just justifying? Who knows. I just need to let Bailey fall a little bit more in love with the place, which probably won’t happen until we thaw out, and then, I swear, I’ll tell her everything. Well, almost everything.
Winter dragged on. Renovations and DIY projects took their toll, but little by little, progress was made. They argued. About Olivia’s ashes, where to spend Christmas, the tools that tripped Bailey up wherever she went, the unbelievable chill of the house, the dust covering everything, and most distressing to Bailey, the fact that they spent days on end without seeing another human being. Bailey wondered if Brad was trying to drive her insane. Just like Edga Penwell, who, if Bailey believed in such things, was still hanging around the house in some shape or form, trying to push Bailey that much closer to the edge. The mysterious noises continued, but whenever Bailey got the courage to try and discover where they were coming from, they would stop. The only thing that carried Bailey through that winter were the walks she took with Brad along the river. No matter what else was going on, there was comfort in pulling on their winter boots and bundling in hats, and scarves, and coats, and walking side by side along the river in the mornings and sometimes again in the evenings. A routine, a chance to bond with nature, a chance to watch their breath in the cold air and remark on the wildlife hardy enough to live out the winter by the river.
Despite her complaints, it wasn’t all stress. Besides the daily walks, there were other highlights. The first snowfall. Boats adorned with Christmas lights. The town decorating for the season. And finally one day the kitchen floor was done, and the appliances were in. They still had the old cabinets and countertops, but at least the kitchen was a functioning one. The morning the kitchen was finished, Brad made banana bread. It permeated the air with its sweet scent, and they sat on their new floor, enjoying it with steaming mugs of coffee they bought in town. Then Captain Jack ferried over with much fanfare, tooting his horn and passing by the house several times before docking. Brad ran out to greet him, and a few minutes later, the two of them carried in a dining table the likes of which Bailey had never seen. Gorgeous, thick dark wood and tall, regal chairs with violet velvet cushions. It fit perfectly in the dining space, and Bailey had to admit that they never could have found such a treasure in a catalogue. They spent their first Christmas alone in the house. Brad bought them each a pair of cross-country skis, and soon their morning walks alternated with cross-country skiing. In the early afternoons they would watch the ice-breaking tugs chopping their way through the river, working hard to keep this portion of the Hudson River viable to boats, especially the barges carrying heating fuel to upstate New York. Wasn’t it humbling, Brad said, to live somewhere so vital?
Bailey still missed Manhattan, especially at Christmastime, but it was less and less, and even when homesickness or boredom threatened to choke her, Bailey kept it to herself. Brad was so eager for her to love it here as much as he did. So Bailey and Brad might have survived, even enjoyed the winter, but they couldn’t say the same for the dock. Winter ravaged a portion of it, and one day the end caved in under the weight of ice and snow. Brad was told the repair work would take several men and cranes and winches to lift pilings, and it sounded so hideous that Bailey soon tuned it out. Hopefully the contractors that Jack recommended would be as good as he assured them they were. The work, and the costs, were piling up. Day by day, Bailey saw the profit from their condo eaten up by another repair. It was what you got, Bailey said silently, for owning a lighthouse. Spring would bring promise, she thought. She was grateful there was no one around to tell her that she was in for months of misery beyond her wildest dreams.
It started with a tent. Winter was still keeping one icy claw on the land, but spring was just starting to tease. Bailey looked out the window one morning to see a tent set up on the grassy area just beyond the patio. Without stopping to worry that it could be another escaped prisoner, Bailey immediately went out and stood just outside the flap. She was still holding her coffee cup. Brad was up in the tower writing in his diary. Just as she was pondering how you “knocked” on a
tent, a man stepped out. He was in jeans and shirtless. He looked to be in his late twenties, and more than that, he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a page of a magazine. Tall, and tight, and tan, and young. Bailey stopped, took a sip of coffee, and just stared. She was supposed to be watching the sun spill its first rays of light across the horizon, but instead she was staring openly at his arms, and chest, and stomach. She suddenly wanted to spill her coffee on his abs just so she could lick it off. Oh God, where did that thought come from? Was nature turning her into some kind of pervert? Despite her embarrassment, she didn’t look away when he caught her staring.
“Hello,” he said. Bailey lifted her coffee in response. “Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?” His voice was as deep and lazy as the river. He sounded like summer.
“No doubt about that,” Bailey said.
“This is some life,” he said. “Wouldn’t you die to live here year-around?”
“I’m going to,” Bailey said.
His beautiful eyebrows furled. “Going to what?”
“Either die or live here year-round,” Bailey said. The man perked up. He moved closer to her, so close she once again spilled her coffee. Note to self: Get a travel mug with an extra-tight lid. A few splotches ended up on her breasts, and first she noticed it, then she noticed him noticing it. When his eyes finally came back up and locked with hers, she had to take a step back. In a single rush, she realized that he reminded her of Brad when he was that age. When they were that age. Oh God. Were they really not that age anymore? Was their youth really behind them? Was she a dirty old woman? Cougar. Oh, good Lord, I’m a cougar. She tried a roar inside her head. It reverberated through the rest of her body.
“This is your lighthouse?” the man said. He sounded so happy, so excited. Just like Brad.
