Cape Light

by Thomas Kinkade

  He shrugged and sighed. “I wrote from the heart. I asked the Spirit to give me the right words. I said what I had to say, I suppose. . . . Do you want to see the letter? I think I saved a copy.”

  She considered it for a moment, then shook her head. “No, that’s okay. I’m sure that whatever you wrote was right, Ben. Now if only he answers it.”

  “Yes, if only,” he repeated. “But that part is up to our heavenly mail carrier, who has to put it in his hands first. Mark might get the letter but not be ready to receive my message. Remember this verse from Romans? ‘But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it,’ ” he gently recited. “Mark will get the letter when it’s time.”

  Ben searched his wife’s eyes, looking for some assurance that she believed that as well.

  “I pray he does,” she replied quietly.

  She turned back to her cooking, checking something in a pot on the stove, and Ben realized they had said all there was to say, for now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “SO, THEY FINALLY LET YOU OUT OF THAT DINER? Or did you just make a run for it?”

  Sara was startled by the voice behind her. She turned to see Luke McAllister standing in the late-day shadows, not far from her cottage. She’d been writing in her journal and hadn’t even heard him walk up to her. She closed the book and stood up.

  “It’s time off for good behavior,” she replied.

  Her quick return almost made him smile. But not quite, she noticed as he walked closer. “What were you writing?” he asked. “A letter home?”

  She shook her head. “Just my journal.”

  He glanced down at the leather-bound book. “It looks pretty thick. Do you write in it every day?”

  Sara nodded. “Just about. Sometimes I’m too tired after work. But I try to keep up.”

  “Why? Are you keeping a record for some reason?”

  “Uh, no. Not really. I might want to remember things that have happened to me someday. But mainly it helps me figure out my life better. Things that are happening to me, I mean.”

  Luke looked down at the book again and stuck his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Maybe I ought to try it. I usually can’t write anything longer than a grocery list.”

  “It’s easier than you think, once you start.”

  She wondered if he was going to ask her even more personal questions. She didn’t really know him very well—definitely not well enough to confide any secrets.

  From what Lucy told her, Sara gathered that Luke had his own secrets. But Sara knew better than to believe everything she heard about a person. If Luke didn’t want to tell the world his life story, that was his choice. She respected his privacy.

  “So, do you live here?” Luke asked, turning to look at her cottage.

  She felt wary for a moment, telling him where she lived. But he could find that out easily enough if he really wanted to, she realized. Besides, while there was something unsettling about Luke, she didn’t honestly feel he was dangerous.

  “Just for the summer. It’s not so bad inside. Are you thinking of renting one?” she asked, still wondering why he was here at all.

  “No . . . just looking around,” he said vaguely. “I used to stay here when I came up with my family. Good old Cranberry Cottages,” he said dryly.

  His tone made Sara wonder if maybe his memories of the place weren’t very happy ones. Or maybe it was just what had happened since that made him sound so cynical.

  “Well, I’m keeping you from your writing, I guess,” he said, seeming suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Not really. I’d just finished when you came,” she said honestly.

  He glanced around and looked at the cottage again. Then, looking back at Sara, he said, “I’m going into town. I thought I’d check out the Beanery. Want to come?”

  His invitation caught her off guard. “No, thanks,” she said abruptly. “It’s my only day off this week, and I have a lot to do around here.”

  “Sure,” he replied curtly. “Well, I need to get going. See you.”

  “See you, Luke,” Sara replied as she watched him walk away.

  The sun was setting, and the air suddenly turned cool. Sara went inside and put on a pot of coffee, her mind on Luke McAllister. Something about him was mysterious, interesting. She did like talking to him, though at the same time she felt some intuition warning her away. Or maybe it was just Lucy who had planted a seed of distrust with her rumors.

  Luke was different, an outsider, drifting around the edges, trying to figure something out. She could see that in him and even empathize. But she still didn’t want to get involved with him, not even for a ride to town. Besides, her life was just too complicated right now.

  Although she had gotten to know Emily much better over the past few weeks, and was even spending time with her grandmother, Sara still didn’t feel any closer to figuring out when—or if—she should tell Emily about her true connection.

  The only thing Sara knew for certain was that revealing her identity would deeply distress Lillian as well. The other day she asked Lillian if she had ever been to Maryland, and the old woman started trembling so violently that Sara was terrified she had given her a heart attack. Fortunately, Lillian calmed down as soon as Sara changed the subject, but the incident proved to Sara that the secret she carried within her had to be handled very carefully. She didn’t want to hurt anyone with it.

  But I feel like such a faker sometimes, Sara thought, sitting there, sipping tea from Lillian’s china cups and reading the newspaper to her. And a fraud with Emily, too. That feels even worse. She’s not a bad person. She must have had some reason for giving me up.

  Should she tell Emily who she was? Now that she actually knew Emily and had a relationship with her, it seemed harder than when Sara was a complete stranger. The summer was half over, and she still had no idea what to do. She hoped that something would happen to help her figure this all out.

  JESSICA WAS WORKING IN THE GARDEN WHEN SHE heard the phone ring. She went in to answer it, pulling off one dirt-covered glove before picking up the receiver.

  It was Sam. She could tell just by the way he said hello that something was not quite right. “I’m sorry but I can’t make it to the beach today,” he said. “Something came up.”

  “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “I really need to go up to the Potters’ place today,” Sam explained. “Gus fell off a ladder this week and cracked some ribs. He’s back now from the hospital, but he needs help. A few of us are going up there to do some work for him and Sophie.”

  “Oh, I see. That’s okay,” Jessica said. She’d heard about Gus Potter’s accident. It was good of Sam to help him. While she really did understand, the idea of not seeing him disappointed her. “Can I come with you?” she asked.

  “Sure . . . that would be great.” He sounded surprised at her offer but definitely pleased.

  Sam picked her up right away, and they were standing on the Potters’ porch within the hour. Harry Reilly, Digger Hegman, and a few other men from Bible Community Church had come as well. Gus came out of the house with his arm in a sling. He didn’t look his usual robust self, and Jessica felt bad for him.

  “How are you feeling, Gus?” Jessica asked him.

  “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “But it could have been worse, I guess.”

  “He’s a darn fool to be climbing up on the roof at his age,” Sophie chimed in. “He forgets he’s not as young as he used to be.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it,” Gus replied to his wife.

  Sophie didn’t have an answer to that comment and started serving pie and coffee while the men discussed the work to be done. When the work group set off for the orchard, Jessica helped Sophie clear up. She carried a tray of dishes into the kitchen.

  “You can set that tray right on the counter, dear,” Sophie said. “I’ll get to it later.”

  Jessica tried to do as she’d been asked, but it was hard to find an
empty space for the tray in the large old kitchen. Nearly every inch of the counters and tabletop was covered with an eclectic mix of pottery, cooking utensils, flower-filled vases, stacks of dishes, and piles of mail. Sophie’s kitchen, it seemed, remained in a perpetual state of clutter.

  “Is there anything I can help you do around the house, Sophie?” Jessica asked.

  Sophie moved around the room, putting things away and taking other things out. “Well, let me think a minute. I’m not sure . . .” she said in a way that made Jessica certain she was reluctant to ask for assistance.

  “Really, Sophie. I’m here to help,” Jessica said kindly.

  If she stopped long enough to think about it, she wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. She didn’t exactly belong to Bible Community Church, and she barely knew the Potters. But nevertheless, here she was. Might as well make myself useful, Jessica thought. Besides, she had always liked Sophie and Gus. They had been unfailingly kind and fair-minded about her family, especially when her father died, Jessica recalled.

  “I was about to put up some peach preserves when Gus had his accident,” Sophie admitted. “I had all the jars cleaned and ready. The peaches are ready, too. More than ready,” she added. “Think you’d like to try it?”

  Jessica had never made preserves. She wasn’t quite sure of what she was getting into. “Sure, I can do that,” she said gamely.

  Sophie glanced at her, a half-smile curving her mouth. Jessica guessed the older woman knew she didn’t spend much time in the kitchen. But Sophie didn’t say a word, only reached into a drawer and pulled out a big apron. She handed it to Jessica and put on one of her own.

  “You’ll be doing me a big favor by helping with this job,” Sophie said. Then she fixed Jessica with a surprisingly stern look. “Now, as you might know, my recipes are strictly confidential, so I have to ask you not to give away any of my secrets.”

  Jessica raised her right hand solemnly. “Absolutely not,” she promised. She smiled, deciding this might be fun.

  Sophie led her into the pantry and showed her the jars. There were dozens of them, sparkling clear glass with gold screw-top lids. Sophie didn’t really plan on filling them all . . . did she? Then Jessica saw the peaches in large bushels on the floor. Enough to fill the back of Sam’s truck . . . and then some.

  “We can bring the stuff in little by little,” Sophie said.

  Jessica certainly hoped so. She soon found herself set up at the kitchen table with a paring knife and a chopping block.

  Sophie quickly blanched a batch of peaches in a large pot of boiling water, cooled them off under running water, then gave them to Jessica.

  “All you have to do is peel off the skin, cut out any brown spots, and slice the peaches into wedges,” Sophie said.

  It seemed easy enough when Sophie did one, peeling off the skin in one long ribbon.

  But the peaches were remarkably slippery. Jessica could barely peel a strip an inch long before the knife would slip and she would have to start again. She was glad that Sophie’s back was turned so that she couldn’t see her struggle.

  Unaware of the fierce Woman versus Peach battle going on behind her back, Sophie chatted happily, mixing things in big bowls and checking the huge boiling pots of water.

  “If you do this right and you’ve got a nice, sweet batch of peaches, you’ve really got something in these jars,” Sophie promised. “When you’re in the thick of winter and feel like the cold will never end, it’s a wonderful thing to take out a peach and hold a little bite in your mouth. Even just the smell of them brings the whole summer back to you. Like sunshine in a jar.”

  Yes, it was like that when you ate good preserves, Jessica thought. This was a summer she would enjoy looking back on. So far, anyway.

  “I’m going to give you some of these to take home, of course,” Sophie promised. “For your sister and your mother. And some for Sam, naturally,” she added, nodding to herself.

  “Sure,” Jessica said calmly, but the peach she was trying to slice flew out of her hand and bounced across the table.

  “So, what’s up with you and Sam?” Sophie asked her point-blank.

  Jessica froze in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I believe we used to call it keeping company when I was young.”

  “Well . . . we’re dating,” Jessica admitted. “You know, nothing serious.”

  Sophie glanced at her over her shoulder. “Maybe you ought to get more serious. Sam is a catch. I’d hang on to him if I were you.”

  Jessica didn’t know what to say to that. Sophie certainly was entitled to her opinions. And she knew the Potters thought well of Sam.

  “I was twenty-nine years old when I met Gus,” Sophie went on. “That was old for a woman to still be single back then. Not like today. I envy you girls. You can do what you please. We were all expected to catch a husband and have kids. I had a boyfriend, but he died in Korea. I thought maybe I’d never get married.”

  “Then Gus invited you over to his orchard?” Jessica guessed.

  Sophie snorted. “The orchard was in my family, not Gus’s. By the time we met, I had inherited the whole place, and I was trying to run it on my own. I figured I would just live up here all by my lonesome. But I was still praying every night for a husband. I don’t mind admitting it,” Sophie added with a shrug. “Then my half-brother Albert came back from the army, and he brought Gus around. You should have seen my husband back then. He was quite good-looking. Had wavy dark hair. He was very vain about it, too. He looked just like Cary Grant. Maybe you don’t know who that was?”

  “Yes I do.” Jessica bit back a smile recalling the suave, gorgeous leading man. How anyone could think that Gus Potter resembled him was a mystery. Well, they always said love was blind. . . .

  “So it was love at first sight?” Jessica asked, genuinely curious.

  “Not at all,” Sophie said, surprising her. “I never once thought, well, this is the one, the one I was praying for. I nearly missed my chance with him entirely. Gus is quite a few years younger than me, and I thought, well, I’m too old for him. He isn’t going to want an old lady like me. And then when he asked me out, I still wasn’t happy.” She gave a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t even see him. I thought, he’s fresh out of the army, no prospects at all. He probably just wants me for my orchard.”

  Jessica laughed. Seeing the Potters now, who seemed so close they barely had to talk, it was hard to imagine that they ever had the slightest bit of romantic trouble. It was hard to picture Sophie as a disappointed spinster . . . or Gus as a dashing would-be gigolo.

  Sophie picked up a bowl of sliced peaches and carried them over to the counter. “It all worked out somehow, with God’s help. When we announced our engagement, we thought everyone would be surprised. But they knew way before we did. Sometimes you don’t think it’s the right one, and it really is,” Sophie added. “Sometimes a person just gets in their own way. Know what I mean?” she asked kindly.

  Jessica felt too self-conscious to really answer. “I guess,” she murmured, and kept slicing peaches.

  To Jessica’s relief Sophie then changed the topic to less personal matters—Emily’s speech at the parade and this year’s wildflowers.

  It was late afternoon by the time Sam and the others returned to the house. Sam’s eyes met Jessica’s when he came in, and he gave her his special smile. She felt herself melting a bit under his gaze, then caught Sophie’s knowing glance and felt herself blush.

  “Someone’s been working hard.” Sam walked up beside her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  “We made some peach preserves,” Jessica said.

  “So I see.” But he wasn’t looking at the glass jars of preserves at all. He was looking only at her.

  “You ought to ask Sophie for the recipe,” he teased. “I like what it does to your hair.” The steamy kitchen had made small curls spring out around her face, and he reached out and gently tugged on one.

  “All of Sophie’s recip
es are secret,” Jessica replied softly. “Everyone knows that.”

  Sam smiled at her, his face moving so close that she was almost sure he was going to kiss her.

  Then Sophie interrupted with an offer of cold drinks out on the porch, exchanging a smile with Jessica as she walked by.

  They left the Potters’ a short time later, with the back of Sam’s truck nearly filled with jars of preserves, Sophie’s pies, honey, and fresh fruit. Jessica insisted it was far too much, but Sophie told her to pass along what she couldn’t use.

  “You were a big help to me today, dear,” Sophie said as Jessica left. “I hope I was to you, too.”

  Sophie’s story had been touching. But did it really apply to her? Jessica wondered, glancing over at Sam. Was she getting in her own way or just being prudent?

  As they pulled away from the orchard, Sam thanked her for coming with him. “I never thought you’d get stuck in that hot kitchen all day. I really didn’t think we’d be there that long.”

  She glanced at him. She had the window on her side of the truck completely open and was enjoying the fresh breeze on her face and in her hair.

  “It’s all right. I know how to make preserves now. That should come in handy at the bank,” she joked.

  “As Granny Morgan used to say, ‘It’s a dull day that passes when you don’t learn something.’ ”

  “The same granny with the dandelion soup?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  They were coming up to a roadside stand, famous for its fish sandwiches and fried clams. “Want to stop and get something to eat?” Sam asked. “I’m pretty hungry.”

  “I am, too,” Jessica said. “Why don’t we take it out to the beach?”

  “Great idea,” Sam said, pulling the truck up to the food stand. “The beach will be practically empty now, and we still have a few hours before sunset.”

  They picked up some sandwiches and cold drinks, then drove out to Durham Point. The food was messy and Jessica’s sandwich fell apart in her hands after a bite or two. But she didn’t mind. It tasted extra good out in the ocean air. Or maybe just because she was hungry? Sam laughed at her and wiped a glob of mayonnaise off her chin.