Cape Light

by Thomas Kinkade

  Grace glanced at her briefly, then walked around the glass counter. Carolyn watched as she tugged at the edge of her pale green cardigan, examining one of the small pearl buttons. She wore a white cotton blouse underneath, neatly pressed. No matter the weather, Grace could always be counted on to wear a sweater, Carolyn vaguely reflected.

  “It’s not for sale,” Grace said finally, looking up. “Like I said before. You might try that place out on the highway, that furniture warehouse. Some old instruments go through there from time to time.”

  “I called them last week. They don’t have one right now.”

  Grace did not answer. She reached under the register and pulled out a plain notebook with a black-and-white marble cover. It said Inventory on the front in block letters. She put on her reading glasses, then opened it and thumbed through the pages.

  “Why won’t you sell it, Grace . . . if I may ask,” Carolyn said softly, though she already knew the answer.

  “It was Julie’s. She used to play on it.” Grace continued looking at her notebook, making notations with a yellow pencil. “I need to hold on to it.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Carolyn said after a moment. “But it’s sitting out there, going to waste. Someone could be playing music on it. It’s just going to get ruined from the weather, if it isn’t already.”

  “Then that’s my problem, I guess,” Grace said crisply. She closed her book and looked up at Carolyn.

  Carolyn had her answer. She bit down on her lip, wondering if she’d pushed too hard. Maybe she had been wrong to ask about the piano, to force Grace to remember why the neglected piece was so dear to her. Checking her notebook again, Grace suddenly seemed so fragile, so brittle.

  Dear God, please forgive me, Carolyn silently prayed. I didn’t mean to hurt her. Please grant Grace a greater measure of peace and consolation.

  Carolyn glanced at the pile of linens and reached out to touch the lace border. “Those are lovely,” she said. “So finely made.”

  “They don’t do handwork like this anymore,” Grace said. “But nobody has the time to wash and iron. In the old days, if you could afford fancy sheets or tablecloths, there were probably a few maids in the house to do the laundry.”

  “Yes, that’s most likely true.” Daisy trotted over and sniffed Carolyn’s hand. She patted the dog’s soft head. “Good-bye, Grace . . . I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Yes, I’ll be seeing you, Carolyn. Have a good day.” Grace nodded, looking relieved to see Carolyn go.

  Carolyn headed out the door, the jingling bell a contrast to her deflated hopes. A battered black pickup truck was just pulling up to the curb. Digger sat in the passenger’s seat, and Harry Reilly was behind the wheel.

  Looking his typically disgruntled self, Harry’s tall, bulky body emerged from the truck. He walked around to Digger’s door and pulled it open. Then he stood aside, as if coaxing a reluctant child to go inside after being caught at some mischief and brought home.

  Scowling, Digger emerged and started walking up the path to the shop, his head bowed. Harry followed. They both greeted Carolyn briefly as they passed on the path.

  “You have an appointment with the doctor and you’re going. Now, stop arguing about it,” Carolyn heard Harry say.

  “I can at least get myself inside on my own two feet, Harry,” Digger muttered in reply.

  “It’s no trouble, I can walk you to the door,” Harry insisted. “Not that I think you might run off the moment I get back in that truck or anything like that,” he added.

  Then Carolyn heard the shop door open and Grace’s surprised greeting.

  “Here he is, Grace,” Harry said dolefully. “I can run you down to Southport if you like. It’s no trouble.”

  “That’s okay, Harry. I can take it from here,” Grace assured him. “But thank you for delivering him to me,” she added. “That was a big help.”

  Carolyn was too far away by then to hear Harry’s reply, but it seemed clear that Harry was trying to help Grace, and that was good. Grace needed help now and again, even if she was determined to convince everyone—herself, included—that she didn’t.

  JESSICA’S WORKDAY PASSED QUICKLY. IN THE MORNING she managed to review a huge stack of loan applications and write up the necessary recommendations for her boss, Alfred Fisk. Most of the afternoon was taken up by a staff meeting.

  At half past four on the dot, she packed up and left for home. As soon as she got in, she kicked off her pumps, dropped her briefcase near the door, and dumped a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen table.

  Shower, dress, do my hair and makeup . . . She made a mental list as she headed through the kitchen to her bedroom. Then she noticed the light on the answering machine and stopped to press the Play button.

  The first voice was her landlord’s, Warren Oakes. “I’m trying to get a guy over there to fix that leak, Jessica. Will you be home tonight? Call me back, okay?”

  Sorry, Warren. I’ll be out, she thought happily. Probably at some very fine restaurant. Maybe there’ll be music and dancing. Maybe even a moonlit walk on the beach . . . Then she heard Paul’s voice on the next message. The hesitant, apologetic note in his greeting didn’t bode well.

  “Hi, Jessica. It’s me, Paul. I’m still up in Burlington. I’m so sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it down to Cape Light tonight. . . .”

  Jessica was so stunned, she barely heard the rest of the message. “ . . . I feel awful about this, honestly. I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight. But it just can’t be helped,” he said with a long sigh. “The problem up here is more complicated than I expected. It might take a few days to straighten this mess out. The client is very angry. I have to do some real damage control. It may take the rest of the week, but maybe I can see you on the weekend?” he added hopefully.

  “I’ll call you back later tonight,” he promised. “Talk to you then.” Then there was only the beep signaling the message was over.

  Jessica felt her eyes fill with tears. A few drops squeezed out and trailed down her cheek. She sniffed hard and whisked her wet eyes with her fingertips. She wouldn’t let herself cry over this. That was so . . . silly. She just wouldn’t.

  She stared down at the rubber trash pail and after a long moment, gave it solid kick. Then, her toe throbbing in pain, she jumped back, hopping on one foot and feeling like an idiot.

  The pail had been surprisingly hard and she was barefoot. And she’d spilled trash all over the kitchen floor. Feeling like a dolt for making such a mess and stubbing her toe, to boot, she sat down on a kitchen stool and laughed at herself.

  She was disappointed about not seeing Paul. She’d been focused on the date all day and now felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her. But it wasn’t as if Paul didn’t want to see her, she consoled herself, or had purposely stood her up. It sounded as if he was really stuck up there, and honestly felt disappointed about canceling.

  Well, it couldn’t be helped. She was almost glad she hadn’t been home to take the call. She might have sounded annoyed or worse yet, burst into tears. At least she had a little time to cool off, and when he called later she would say all the right things and show him what a good sport she could be.

  Jessica sighed, wondering what to do with the rest of the evening. It was too early for dinner. She thought about taking a walk in town but didn’t really feel like it. Then she opened the door to the back porch and noticed the plants she’d bought last week. She’d potted some bright pink geraniums and expected to put the rest in the ground on Sunday, then didn’t get the chance. It was a warm night and the ground was soft from the rain, ideal for planting. So that’s what she’d do. The perfect way to work off some steam about Paul.

  She quickly changed into her gardening clothes and a pair of old sneakers. The large hole in her left shoe conveniently accommodated her sore toe. This was truly meant to be, she thought, wiggling her toe. Her hair pulled back in a careless ponytail, Jessica went back outside to work.


  Some time later, totally engrossed in a battle with a particularly tenacious dandelion, she didn’t even hear the back gate open. Kneeling in the dirt, she yanked hard on the weed. When it finally came out, root and all, she felt a surge of accomplishment as she fell backward, clutching her prize in her gloved hands—and landed squarely on her bottom.

  That’s when she noticed Sam Morgan standing about a foot away, obviously trying hard to keep a straight face.

  “That’s a beauty,” he congratulated her. “Grandma Morgan used to save those and make soup.”

  She stared up at him, still holding the weed and feeling the fool. “How resourceful of her. I’m just making a garden.”

  “Obviously.” That amused smile again. She was glad she could give him so much entertainment. “How’s it going?”

  “Well . . .” She stood up and brushed the dirt off her gloved hands. “It’s probably going to look worse before it gets better. If you know what I mean.”

  He laughed. A rich, warm sound that made her pulse quicken. “Yes, I do. Need a hand?”

  “No, thanks.” In a black polo shirt and new-looking jeans that emphasized his long, lean legs, he wasn’t dressed for gardening, she noticed. What was he dressed for?

  And what was he doing here? Did she need to have some sort of . . . talk with him?

  Then, as if in answer to the look on her face, he said, “Warren asked me come by. To look at that leak in your apartment?”

  “Oh, the leak. Right . . .” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them in the basket she used to hold gardening tools. “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you.”

  She led the way to the house, thinking, So you’re not nearly as irresistible as you thought, Jessica. Here you are, working on a gentle, kind brush-off . . . and he’s only here to see the leak.

  “You seem surprised to see me. Didn’t Warren call?”

  “He left a message. But he didn’t say for sure when someone would come.”

  Or who. She would have definitely remembered that.

  When they reached the porch, she paused to remove her soggy sneakers. “Just a sec,” she said, leaning against the wall.

  She yanked off one, then started on the other. Balanced on one leg, she began to tip—then felt Sam’s gentle, steadying grip.

  “Whoa, there—” he said softly. Reaching out, she automatically grabbed his arm to right herself. His skin felt warm and smooth, the muscles in his arm, very hard. She met his gaze and quickly looked away. She caught her balance and quickly let go.

  “Thanks,” she said without looking at him.

  “No problem.” She felt his dark gaze on her as she opened the door and entered the kitchen.

  Could I possibly look worse? she wondered. She was streaked with dirt from head to toe and wearing her oldest T-shirt and faded jeans with a rip in the knee. Battling the weeds, most of her hair had sprung loose, and she could feel damp strands hanging in her eyes and curling around her face.

  Luckily, Sam seemed more interested in the architectural details of her apartment, glancing around at the walls and moldings. He seemed especially taken by the fireplace, with its carved marble mantel.

  “This is a great old house,” he said. “I worked in here a while ago, when Warren bought it and turned it into apartments. I like the way you’ve fixed it up. It suits the space,” he added.

  “Thanks. It’s all right for now. I had to leave a lot of my things in Boston when I sublet my apartment. My mother gave me a few pieces she had in the attic, and I found some other things at Grace Hegman’s shop.” Jessica glanced around at the eclectic mix. “I guess it works. If you don’t look too closely.”

  “I think it’s very nice,” he said again. “Very . . . homey.”

  She heard a note of surprise in his tone. He hadn’t taken her for the homey type. Was that good . . . or bad?

  Some family photographs stood on the mantel, pictures of herself and Emily as children playing in the gardens at the old estate and opening gifts under the Christmas tree. Another of her parents on their sailboat, captured in a rare carefree moment. She noticed him glance at them with interest. For some reason, she felt uncomfortable having him look at the old photos.

  “The water is coming in over there,” she said. “Right over the bucket.”

  “Yes, a bucket. A dead giveaway,” Sam replied. She remained on the far side of the room as he went to examine the leak.

  She watched him check the wall with his broad hand, and then the ceiling, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut over his back, outlining his broad shoulders and biceps.

  When he suddenly turned around, she felt herself blush, as if he could guess she’d been studying him.

  “I’m going to get a ladder from my truck and check the roof and gutters.”

  “Sure.” Jessica shrugged. This was going to take longer than she thought. She watched him leave by the back door in the kitchen, then wondered if she should go outside and start gardening again. For some reason, her gardening mood was broken. Without thinking twice about why, she turned and went into the bathroom to make some speedy repairs on her appearance. She nearly screamed when she saw her reflection but, with a stalwart effort, stifled the sound.

  UP ON THE LADDER SAM SPOTTED THE PROBABLE cause of the leak in moments but took his time examining the roof. He offered up a silent prayer, thanking the Lord for Warren Oakes and this unexpected but astonishing opportunity.

  He’d definitely caught Jessica by surprise tonight, wrestling that dandelion. He thought she was going to scream when she saw him there. He could have watched her all night. He liked the way she looked all scruffy and covered with dirt, her wonderful hair flying in all directions. He was sure he’d never seen her looking more beautiful. Not even that first day, when she’d been dressed to perfection for that guy who brought her the roses.

  He tugged off a rotten shingle and tossed it the ground. He didn’t think there was anything serious there. Maybe she wanted him to think so. But where was this guy if he was so serious about her?

  She has to like me a little, Sam thought, or at least feel some attraction . . . or why would she get so jumpy when I so much as look at her?

  Still, she’d been careful not to give him any sign she wanted to go out. Just the opposite in fact. Sam ripped off more shingles, then checked the gutter.

  Maybe he was crazy. But he still felt he might have a chance with her, given time and a little luck. This job should take a few days. Maybe that would be long enough to find out.

  He didn’t even know why he liked Jessica Warwick so much. She wasn’t really his type. And she didn’t make it easy for him. Not like a lot of other women he met. But something about her just got to him. Like the way she looked when she dropped her guard and laughed at his jokes. He liked to make her smile. Maybe that was all he needed to know for sure right now.

  JESSICA CAME TO THE BACK DOOR QUICKLY TO ANSWER Sam’s knock. She had changed into a blue tank top, shorts, and sandals. Her hair was brushed out and worn loose, parted on the side. He’d never seen it down like that before, and it was more beautiful than he’d even imagined.

  “So, what’s the diagnosis?” she asked.

  “I’ll need to fix the leak in the roof, frame out the hole in the ceiling in here, patch it with some wallboard. Then tape and paint.”

  “Sounds pretty involved,” she said.

  “Not really . . . but it may take a few days,” he warned her.

  “That’s okay. Warren can give you an extra key if you need to come in while I’m at work. I don’t mind.”

  “That would be helpful,” he said thoughtfully. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I do have some other jobs going, so I may have to come by at the end of the day sometimes. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged. Did that mean he was purposely using this repair project as an excuse to see more of her?

  Don’t be silly, she chided herself. Of course he has other jobs, probably much more involved than this one.
/>   “I’m just going to check the wall and ceiling again. To see how much wallboard needs to be replaced.”

  “Help yourself,” she replied. She turned back to the counter, where she’d been opening her mail.

  Sam went back into the living room and checked the wall again. The water had seeped into a bookcase near the window. He hadn’t noticed that before. He pulled out some soggy paperbacks. Some self-help books—10 Rules of 12 Women at the Top, Lean Legs in 30 Days. And then, Sam’s favorite, Women Men Run To . . . Women Men Run From.

  As if she needed any improving. He smiled as he found a few more with flowery covers and sentimental titles. So she does have a romantic side, he thought. That was encouraging.

  Just as she walked in the room he saw something else—a Bible with a dark red cover.

  “Your books got wet. The water must have leaked in through the back of the case. Most of them are ruined . . . but you probably want to save this,” he said, handing her the Bible.

  She took it in both hands and looked down at it. “Thanks . . . I didn’t even know it was there,” she admitted, looking up at him again.

  “I don’t think it’s ruined. Not like the other stuff.”

  “I’d save it anyway. It was my father’s. He read it every day toward the end,” she added.

  She glanced at him and he didn’t reply, just stood listening, hoping she’d say more.

  “When I see it, it makes me remember that despite everything, he had a lot of peace when he died,” she said after a while. “That was really amazing to me.”

  “Was it?” he asked in a gentle but curious tone.

  Jessica looked up suddenly and met his gaze. “Of course it was,” she admitted, looking down at the Bible again. “You can’t imagine what my family went through back then.”

  He knew it was hard for her to open up to him like this. He paused a moment, hoping he’d say the right thing.

  “I’m sure I can’t. Nobody can. . . . But I think your father realized that God loved him, no matter what. And that gave him peace.”