The first storms were going to come early this year, although if asked to say exactly how he knew, Finn would not be able to rationally explain it. He had spent twenty-seven years on this small island, most of them watching the ocean, winds, and behaviors of the seasons. His mother taught him how to observe using more than his eyes. Finn could smell, hear, and even feel the subtle changes when a storm was coming. He didn’t even check the Beaufort Scale anymore, nor did he listen to the weathermen. He only trusted his own senses.
Easing alongside the dock, Jeremiah nimbly leapt to the wooden pier and tied down the ropes. Forbia was the love of Finn’s life, an old, formidable forty-foot fiberglass trawler built for the sturdiness of large hauls and not much else. She had helped him pull in lobster since he was a teenager, and he rarely lost a trap, even with his bold eight and nine trap trawls boldly marked with blended colors of the Irish and Scottish flags. Other fisherman marveled at how little equipment he’d lost over the years. And I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried, just like I can’t describe how I know the weather.
Their catch had been average, but he’d been hoping for more because he predicted barely two weeks left before the storms began. Finn was one of the few fishermen still out on the sea this time of year, and most people thought him reckless. He would be less concerned if he’d been able to stock his reserves better this season, but business was booming, so more catch had gone to consumers and less to the household.
The St. Andrews boys inherited a nice sum of money when their father died three years ago, but they left the resource untouched. Their father always taught them reward comes with hard work, and they’d never lived with excess.
Finn had learned more than sensibility from his father. Andrew St. Andrews, to the casual eye, was an average, unremarkable man, but to the people of Summer Island he was a local legend. He brought his wife, Claire, to the island before their sons were born, with their few belongings, paying for the old white and grey Colonial on the eastern shore with cash. Nothing was known about the doctor and his wife except that he was Scottish, she Irish, and they had come to open the island’s first medical practice.
Ferry service back then was not nearly what it was today, so having access to medical care seemed to drown out all the unanswered questions about the St. Andrews’ family origins. Everyone soon learned Dr. St. Andrews was no ordinary physician. In fact, he was something of a rogue, practicing not only routine family care from his household, but also emergency procedures, often using very unorthodox methods. If he ran out of vital equipment he would find and sanitize ordinary household goods as temporary makeshift substitutes. Most of what Andrew St. Andrews did in his home office would have caused him to lose his medical license.
At first, the community did not know what to make of this, but when Dr. St. Andrews saved Mayor Cairne’s life, performing an emergency appendectomy, the St. Andrews clan became honored members of the community overnight. The residents of Summer Island worked as a collective, and the secrets of the St. Andrews’ renegade medical practice would go with them to the grave.
It was Jonathan who took after their father, having inherited that same gift of healing hands and finesse under pressure. From the time Jon was seven or eight, he assisted their father in the evenings, and as a teenager there were certain procedures he was allowed to do himself. Andrew observed his son’s work with beaming pride, which always left Finn feeling a hollow emptiness. He didn’t begrudge his brother, as he loved Jon, and he had known, even as a child, his older brother was... different. But there had been times Finn wished he had inherited their father’s gift, too, so he could share in those moments.
Then, Jon had thrown it all away. Two years of medical school wasted, when Jon shocked everyone and dropped out, enrolling instead in veterinary school. That marked the end of Jon’s sacred relationship with their father, who had never forgiven his eldest son. He could never understand or accept Jon’s choice, and he carried the unyielding burden of disapproval to his death. It was a fractured relationship Finn knew Jon regretted deeply, even if he never said so. Finn understood Jon’s reasons, but he was the only person who had ever understood Jon.
Finn’s childhood had been mostly carefree. Very few things bothered him the way they did Jon. While Finn was quick to temper, he was also quick to cool, never holding a grudge. His father had abandoned any hopes of mentoring of him when he was young, when it was clear he was made more for physical labors than mental ones. However, his mother cherished him in a way she had never been able to nurture Jon.
A petite Irish redhead with round cheeks and big blue eyes, Claire St. Andrews was the picture of love to Finn. She spoiled and coddled him, kissed his bruises, and told him colorful stories about growing up in County Clare, Ireland. She read to him, fed his interests, and indulged in silly imaginative games. This was done away from the disapproving eye of her husband, who did not believe there was enough time in the day for fun and play. After his father dismissed Finn as unfit for the family business, Claire had taken the time to help him discover what he was good at. As a schoolteacher, helping Finn find and explore his potential was second nature. And while Finn did not have the gift of science, he did have a sense of the world around him, which she encouraged him to embrace.
She shared with him her love of books, and he devoured material faster than she could add to the library. His father watched with a skeptical eye when his youngest son pursued a Liberal Arts degree at Bates College in Lewiston. I don’t know what’s worse, Claire… a son who wants to fish for a living, or a son who wants to pursue an embarrassing degree. I should have taken more care with him, and not let you feed his whims...
But the sea’s call was stronger than literature. His mother remained his biggest supporter when he returned to the island with a new goal. Finn picked up on the fishing trade well and quickly, with many third and fourth generation fishermen coming to him for advice on the best areas and techniques. Business was always good, even for a small, private, old-fashioned seaman with a clunky boat and dated equipment.
After hauling the traps to the storage house, Finn and Jeremiah slowly removed each of the lobsters, separating the hens from the cocks. Finn had dozens of large water tanks lining the large space, and they slipped the lobsters into empty ones. He frowned as he looked at all the chambers that remained empty. Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe there’s more time.
Jeremiah eagerly took his two lobsters as payment, and headed home to his mother. Finn only received Jeremiah’s help on school breaks and weekends, but his assistance was invaluable. Finn refused to hire a deck-hand full time, although he could never say exactly why except that he preferred to do it on his own. “There’s a reason you named that damned boat Forbia. You really are ‘headstrong!’” Jon would rant whenever the subject came up.
Finn took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he inhaled the crisp, salty air. There was no love of Finn’s, past or present, that could ever rival the love he had for the sea.
He removed his hip-waders and extra layers of clothing, hanging them up to dry. Through the salt-encrusted shed window, he could see Ana Deschanel reading, though not successfully, as the wind blew her book and hair around fiercely. He chuckled to himself.
Finn stepped out of the storage shed with that evening's dinner and waved at her. Immediately, she waved back with a smile. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, because he sensed she wanted to keep to herself. Jon speculated she must have gotten into some kind of trouble, shamed herself or her family, to be sent to Maine on the cusp of the long winter, but Finn couldn't see anything bad or shameful about Ana. If he did ever speak to her, he knew he would never ask her why she had come here, but he was almost certain Jon was wrong.
Even at a distance, and in a relatively short time, she had become a part of Finn’s daily ritual. Wake, dress, and go out on the water. Return, dock, handle the catch, and wave to her as he made his way back up to the house. On the odd day she was not sitting on her porch, or on the bench at the
edge of her property, he always felt a bit off. He couldn't say he liked her, exactly, because he didn't even know her, but their small exchange was as much a part of him now as waking, dressing, and going out on the water. He imagined he would readjust when she returned home, but for now she was a welcome part of his routine.
From what he could see, she was sure pretty. Dark red hair with pale freckled skin that always appeared flushed from the wind and weather. She wore a wool sweater and jeans, both very natural on her, as if she was born for this setting and not the heat and lighter clothing of the South, where she was from. He had only been up close to her once, in town, and he could not recall the color of her eyes, but he did remember they were intense, like Jon's.
Finn thought of the coming storm, and hoped Alex had sufficiently prepared her. For locals, the inevitable island shutdowns were standard fare, but for someone like Ana he imagined it might be downright terrifying. He resolved that, whether she wanted her privacy or not, he could not in all good conscience let her go into the winter without knowing she was equipped, and decided to go see her before the storm rolled in.
* * *
5- ANA
Ana started up the gravel path leading to the Casco Bay Lighthouse. Every afternoon, she would take a walk. And every afternoon, when she reached the narrow hill leading up toward the lighthouse, she would keep walking, ending up instead near Edgewater's, and then back through downtown toward home. Today, something compelled her to climb the hill and investigate.
Since the day Ana arrived, her interest was piqued by the old, crumbling structure. Despite its necessity, it seemed so out of place, jutting up awkwardly from the raised earth like it didn't belong. Moreover, it didn’t look anything like she expected. Disparate from the tall, graceful white structures on scenic postcards, the Casco Bay Lighthouse was a shorter, squatter building painted with loud, peeling stripes of red and white. It reminded her of a clownish barber pole, forgotten and left to rot.
The delapidated structure sat atop the highest point on the island, Edgewater Point, and the only hill on Summer Island. In addition to the hill, a man-made rock base raised the diminutive monolith even higher. It has to be high enough for mariners to see the light, Alex had informed her. Ana wondered if the forlorn cylinder looked less pitiful from the sea.
Even from the bottom of the long, gravel hill, Ana could see the curled paint and broken railings at the top; the latter sent unexpected chills down her spine as she conjectured what caused the serrated, rusted bars to hang in the wind like that. They were dangling by what seemed like little more than a thread and did not have the look of something that had been broken gently.
The cool breeze lapped at her face as she climbed higher. Meandering only slightly, the path took her far above the shoreline, and she could see the Atlantic with her many ships. I bet one of those is Finn St. Andrews’.
When Ana reached the top, the wind slowly died, and the base of the lighthouse came into full view. Up close, it looked even more derelict than it had from afar, the white stripes having faded to a dull gray. The red, in contrast, was bright as fresh blood. Around the base was a sloppily placed cyclone fence with barbed wire at the top, and signs posted stating: KEEP OUT and PRIVATE PROPERTY. The weeds and vines, twisting up and around the bottom few feet of the lighthouse base, left her with the distinct impression the building was not only private, but abandoned.
Graffiti, angled along the graying stripes, shouted: DESTROY HERON HALLOWS and JESUS LOVES CARLA. Neither of those messages meant anything to Ana, but she made a mental note to ask Alex later. He would know.
Ana caught a glimpse, in her peripheral vision, of what looked like grave markers. Upon closer inspection, they were the simple white crosses common along highways, marking the death of a beloved family member. Yet... there were four of them, like a small, private cemetery. She knelt down in the gravel and read their names: Carla Edgewater. Lionel Shepherd. Sandra Finnerty. Emily Caldwell.
“What the hell?” she whispered. That explained who Carla was, sort of. Did they all die here?
Ana stepped back, and her foot slipped in the gravel, nearly sending her over the sea cliff. Heart racing, she righted herself, wondering how she hadn't noticed her proximity to the edge. She could see jagged cuts into the rock, indicating there had once been more land between the lighthouse and the serrated merger of water and land below. Looking down at the outcropping of rocks amongst the waves, she realized for the first time how high she had climbed.
Backing away, Ana looked out at the ocean again, noticing the ships were all making their way back toward their respective ports. Goose bumps rose on her arms, as the wind picked back up. Moments later, the rain started, quickly increasing in intensity. Within minutes, she was drenched.
Reluctant, having been completely mesmerized by the sudden storm’s rage, Ana pulled her heavy coat tight around her. She turned to make her way home when she was startled to back into something firm. Strong arms quickly righted her. She gasped, jumping.
“Tis just me,” Alex's comforting voice sang behind her. “Poor dear, let's get ya out of this rain!” Before she could say anything, he motioned for her to follow, and jogged toward the rear of the lighthouse.
As he entered through a hole in the fence, Ana wondered, Are we actually going inside? He can't be serious. Then Alex did enter, and Ana, soaked to the bone and shivering, could do nothing but follow.
Alex flipped a large switch on the wall and the room lit up in a dull light courtesy of a bare, oversized bulb, hanging from a dingy white wire, which looked crude enough as to have possibly been made by Edison himself. The lighthouse was much smaller inside than out, and the only sign of ongoing activity was the plain wooden desk in the corner strewn with paperwork. Next to the desk was a wooden chair and a space heater, sitting on the exposed cement floor. Aside from those few objects, the circular room was completely bare.
As Alex turned on the heater, Ana rushed over and knelt before it, soaking up the heat.
“There ya go,” Alex said, soothingly, patting her on the head. “You'll be right as rain in no time.” He chuckled at his joke.
“What are you doing up here?” Ana asked, through clattering teeth. “I suppose that sounded ungrateful. Thank you for rescuing me.” She was shocked at how quickly she could get cold here, compared with how long it took to warm up. This is definitely not New Orleans.
“Why, I work here,” Alex replied, with a note of pride in his voice. “Did I not tell ya?”
Ana shook her head.
“Ya. Took over the care on this place about, oh, two years ago now. 'Fore that, it was closed fer about ten years.” Ana noted he made no move toward the heater. His jacket was only damp compared to hers, which looked as if she had taken a dip in the Atlantic. She deduced there must be a road leading up the hill, for she hadn't spotted anyone on the path when she arrived.
“Does it work?” Ana asked.
“Most certainly,” Alex said. “It never stopped workin’.”
“Then why was it closed?”
“I don't s'pose ya noticed the crosses out front?” he asked. He was looking out the sole, round window, gazing in the direction of the angry sea.
“Sort of hard to miss four of them,” Ana responded, feeling the overwhelming urge to cross herself. “Did they die here? At the lighthouse?”
Alex walked over and pulled the chair out, settling it in front of the heater. He motioned for Ana to sit down. From his sad look of resignation, she could see he was going to answer her question with a story. She had come to enjoy, and even welcome, Alex's stories, though this one was unlikely to have a happy ending.
“Tis a sad tale,” Alex started, dropping his voice. He continued looking out the window, arms crossed. “This place used to belong to the Edgewaters. Ya know, the family that owns Edgewaters, that fancy dinin' on the northern coast? You might’ve seen their names elsewhere, too, being as they once owned half the island.” When she nodded, he went on. “T'was a sa
d thing, what happened to them. Good people, ya know. Anderson Edgewater was a right honest businessman, and his wife, Camille, a real lady. The kind of folks who would stop to help ya load your groceries even if they were in a hurry.”
He went on, “They had this lovely daughter by the name of Carla. She was eighteen, and had the most beautiful mahogany hair ya ever saw. Smart, too. Kind, like her parents. A girl any parent would be proud of.”
Alex paced from the window to the door, deep in thought. Ana watched him, shivering but attentive.
“'Course, even good girls meet bad guys.” Alex shook his head, sadly. “Lionel Shepherd.” Ana recognized another name from the crosses. “No'ne really knows what happened 'tween the two of 'em, I s'pose. Lionel ran with the fast and loose crowd, and e'eryone worried he would take Carla down the same road. We all knew about the downright awful fights she had with her folks nearly e'ery night. Breaks my heart even to think about it.”
Alex shifted his attention to Ana, and suddenly, his eyes widened. As if realizing something important had been forgotten, he excused himself and ran out the door. He returned moments later with an old-fashioned metal thermos. Removing the dual-purpose exterior lid, he poured a hot dark liquid that smelled delicious to Ana in her chilled state. Her eyes widened with gratitude as he handed the modest cup to her.
“Sorry to have forgotten my manners like that!” he declared, with an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. Ana savored the warm cocoa, cupping the lid with both hands.
“Alex, you're my hero,” Ana praised, smiling gratefully. When he gave her a dismissive wave, she continued, “No, really. You've been a godsend to me since the day I arrived.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’,” Alex replied, blushing deeper now. “'Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.' Matthew 5:16. You a churchgoer, Ana?”
Although Ana was raised Catholic, her father had never taken them to church. Amidst Alex's warmth and kindness, for the first time in her life she felt ashamed to say, “No, I am not.”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 105
