by Various
“So we’ll do some filming in here,” Lon panted as they climbed the few short steps to the lighthouse door. “Most outside, though. Lighting is for shit inside.” A low, wide platform surrounded the lighthouse’s base, though it was crumbling in more than a few places from weather damage. He pulled a key ring from his pocket and fumbled with the keys. “Damn shame they closed this place down.” He tried two, the third key clicked into place, and he shoved open the creaky narrow door.
Just inside the dimly lit entrance, he stopped and coughed. He pinched out his cigarette and looked around for someplace to toss it, but upon inspecting the floor, stuck it in his pocket instead.
“When’re you quitting? Next week? Next month?”
“When you learn to control your mouth and make nice with the locals on a regular basis. I smoke to control my nerves. You know that. And yet still you jangle ’em up on a pretty regular basis.”
Sophie jammed both hands onto her hips. “I am nice.”
“Sweetheart, if you were really nice, like peaches-and-cream nice, that guy would’ve already agreed to hold a camera for us.”
She didn’t answer.
But Lon wasn’t done. “Do you think, if he does come on board, you could maybe, I don’t know, keep the sarcasm to a minimum? The comments, the eye-rolling, the astute observations about ‘places like this’? Please? Pretty, pretty please?” He shook his pack of Camels at her. “Or...”
She heaved a dramatic sigh, twice as loud and long as it had to be. “Fine. I’ll do my best. For your lungs.”
“Wonderful.”
Sophie crossed to one of the interior walls and ran her fingertips along the rough stone. Cool. Dry. She looked up and followed the spiral staircase to a small square of sky far above them.
“The hauntings started about ten years ago. Right?” According to one article she’d read, fifty years ago the full-time Lindsey Point keeper had come home, found his wife with another man, killed her and jumped to his death from the top of the lighthouse. Left a two-year old son wandering alone in the dark who was picked up by local police and later raised by relatives. “But why didn’t they start earlier?” she asked. “Like right after the murders happened?”
Lon shrugged. “‘Cause the part-time keeper lived here? Maybe they have shy ghosts in Lindsey Point?”
“And you wonder where I get my sarcasm.” She pulled the newspaper article from her purse. Baby on the Beach Turns Three, read the headline. She ran her fingers over the print. This place was full of clever clichés and catch-phrases, wasn’t it? Beneath the article was a picture of a somber, dark-haired little boy wearing a party hat and squinting at a cake. Next to it, a picture of the lighthouse and a long stretch of sand where the poor kid had walked until someone found him. “Who the hell leaves a child behind?”
“Huh?” Lon looked over her shoulder. “Oh. I dunno.” He jotted a few notes onto a tattered notepad, typed a few things into his phone, and ushered her toward the door. They walked out into daylight, and he headed to his assistant Terrence, who was pointing alternately at the sky and the sea and the lighthouse and talking to one of their crew members in Spanish.
Sophie skimmed the article. Of course, who the hell kills his wife and then himself? was an equally valid question. Her gaze moved to the small, one-story keeper’s house about twenty yards from the lighthouse, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Damn. She still found it hard to believe such a brutal murder could happen in such a pretty, quiet place.
She tried to picture it. If a man found his wife cheating, there might be some blows, maybe a lot of screaming and tears. Certainly a divorce. But killing? That took the consequences for infidelity to a whole other level. She looked from the house to the rocky exterior of the lighthouse to the beach beyond. No signs of haunting after the part-time keeper took over, apparently. At least none reported by the locals. But once an in-the-flesh person ceased to live there, people started seeing things. Hearing things. Strange lights and sounds and figures walking down the beach only to vanish into thin air. Sophie clicked her tongue and put the article back in her purse. She didn’t actually believe in ghosts, but a place like this and a story like this might convince anyone.
Good one to wrap up the TV series, too. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She couldn’t wait to finish filming. Two solid months back in the city with her girlfriends, that’s what she needed, and sooner rather than later. A week in Lindsey Point at the most, and she’d be on her way home. Home. Such a sweet word. She hadn’t always known the most traditional definition of it, but a studio apartment in the Village did fine for now, and someday she’d have more. She’d have roots. Permanence.
Someone shouted from down the beach, and Sophie opened her eyes.
Lucas? She didn’t know why his was the first face that crossed her mind. Masculine, deep, New England accent–it could have been any adult male in Lindsey Point calling to her. Still, she shaded her eyes and looked for the linebacker build loping down the sand in her direction. Please be nice, Lon had said. Oh, she would be, and then some. She wasn’t sure what it was about Lucas Oakes that had gotten under her skin, but spending a few more hours with him sure wouldn’t be the worst way to spend her days here.
“Hallo!” The man waved an arm to get her attention, and Sophie’s hopes fell. Thin, gaunt, pushing fifty if she had to guess, this guy wasn’t anything close to Lucas. Terrific. Instead, they had their first nosy local hoping for some air time. She put on her best camera smile and reminded herself to be nice so Lon didn’t die of lung cancer. That was about the best motivation she could summon up right now.
“Ah-yeah, hey there.” He stuck out a hand in welcome as he neared her. Hunched over, chest heaving from the uneven walk up the beach, he took a minute to catch his breath before saying anything else. “I’m Tom Allen Nickerson. I, ah, live up past Francine’s place.” He took another long breath. “Know a lot about this place.”
“Um, hi.” She looked for Lon, who was still busy with the rest of the crew down near the water. “But I’m not the person you’re looking for. You want to talk to my producer.” She dropped his hand and fought the urge to wipe hers on her shorts.
Yellow teeth and fingernails. Cracked corners and spittle at the edges of his mouth. And the odor coming off him in waves made her nose crinkle. Didn’t this guy shower on a regular basis? Francine had indoor plumbing at the bed and breakfast, so she knew it was available at this end of town.
She retreated a couple steps and tried to keep her smile from slipping away. “Something I can help you with? Or answer for you?”
“I read everything on the murders,” he went on. He tucked both hands into his pockets, not seeming to notice her revulsion. “My dad lived here for years, yanno. Back when the murders happened, too. He knew the Smiths.”
“So was Mrs. Smith really cheating?”
His bony shoulders lifted and fell as a response. “’at’s what most people say.”
C’mon, Bozo. She knew the rumors. Unless he had something new and different for her, he was of no help. Sophie fisted one hand at her thigh.
But new and different was exactly what Tom Allen Nickerson had.
At her silence, he cocked his head, ran his tongue over his bottom lip, and stared. Face to feet, head to toe, until Sophie felt as though she needed a shower herself. “You look like I thought you would. In person, I mean.”
Sophie shoved her hair behind her ears and wished she’d worn her sunglasses. The huge, over-sized ones, along with the floppy hat that worked wonders in airports at keeping her incognito. “Thanks. The camera does tend to alter things, though.” She pulled out her cell phone. Get over here right now and save me from this freak, she began typing to Lon. But she didn’t have a chance to finish.
Tom Allen Nickerson put one hand on her wrist. His gaze slithered from her face to her chest to her hips and back. “Sophie Smith. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She pulled her hand away. “Ah,
it’s Smithwaite, actually. Sophie Smithwaite.”
He shook his head. “It’s Smith. Always been Smith. You changed it. Or your father did.” He whistled. “But I’d recognize that face anywhere. “ He ran an arthritic finger down her cheek and Sophie cringed. “You look like him. Actually, you look like your grandmother, Miranda–the one ’at died here before your grandfather killed ’imself too.
“Welcome home, Sophie.”
Chapter 6
“Shit.” Finn tossed his cards aside. “I fold.” He took a long pull on his beer. “Not my night, I guess.”
Lucas grinned and laid down a full house, tens high.
“Fuck.” Rich snorted as he showed his own hand, a pair of fours. “Neil?” he asked the fourth at the table.
The bespectacled accountant shook his head and pushed the chips toward Lucas. “Nothing.”
“You’re riding a lucky streak tonight,” Finn said as he dealt the next hand.
Lucas shrugged. “I’ve got a good poker face. The three of you are about as easy to read as a Dick-and-Jane book.”
“Screw you.” Rich passed around four fresh beers.
But Lucas shook his head and passed his back. “Can’t. I gotta leave after this hand.”
“What the hell?” Neil asked. “It’s not even ten.”
“I know, but I gotta job first thing in the morning.”
“Morning job never stopped you before.” Finn dealt cards around the table. “So where is the job?”
Lucas tossed two chips in the pot. “Call.”
“Lucas?”
“What?”
They went around, all calling, and Lucas laid out another winning hand, only two pair, but kings and queens, which topped the other three.
“So you’re working on the show, huh? Rumors are true?” Finn said.
Lucas grabbed his wallet and collected the night’s winnings, a nice even hundred. “A-yep.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Neil asked.
“Oakes here is gonna be a fill-in camera man for Small Town Secrets.” Finn grinned. “Should-a known all it took was a woman with a good ass to get you back behind a camera.”
Lucas snorted and didn’t bother with a response. Wasn’t her ass. It was his mother’s insistence. It would be a nice thing to do, Lucas. Plus you can, you know, find out what they’re saying about Lindsey Point. Make sure it’s all the right things.
He supposed she was right.
But Sophie’s ass, and her legs and, hell, the whole rear view of her leaving the diner this morning flashed back into his mind’s eye. He’d skipped her invitation for dinner with the production crew, not wanting to leave his buddies without a fourth at poker, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he hoped the next twelve hours moved around the clock faster than usual.
He grabbed his leather jacket and stood. “Not a big deal. Few days.”
“Hell, it’s a huge deal.” Finn whistled. “Maybe you’ll get to spend a little one-on-one with Sophie Smithwaite, huh? After you’re done filming for the day?”
“Dunno.” He’d never admit wondering the same thing. Couldn’t get her out of his head, though he didn’t know why. Nothing special about her except her damn sarcastic attitude and that spunk that got her what she wanted every time she turned around. Okay, and the body. And the smile. Pretty damn put-together package, despite the hair. He grinned as he recalled the look on her face at his comment. He hadn’t meant anything by the observation, but he’d obviously pissed her off. He’d try his best not to put his foot in his mouth again tomorrow.
Check. He’d stand behind the camera and keep his mouth shut. No problem.
“You know Shannon O’Brien’s back, right?” Rich asked.
Lucas mashed his baseball cap onto his head. “Big deal. Haven’t even talked to her.” That was the truth, though she’d called him once and texted him twice, and he’d thought seriously about meeting her the way she asked.
“You going to?” Finn asked.
“Nope.” After he’d found Shannon in bed with some lawyer from Bluffet Edge, the engagement ring still on her finger, he’d thrown her out, left her shit on his front lawn, and never looked back.
Not even when she came crying apologies on his doorstep the next day.
Not even when she moved away, spent time in therapy, and mailed him a handful of letters he never read.
Of course, he had to consider that after Sarah’s death, Shannon had dealt with more than her share of bad karma. But hadn’t they all? Didn’t mean it gave her an excuse to trample on his heart. In some ways, though, Lucas thought maybe the whole damn break-up was the universe’s way of telling him he never should have ended up with Shannon in the first place. She wouldn’t ever have taken the place of her sister. She couldn’t have. And yet they’d tried for years to pretend there wasn’t a ghost in the house with them. In the bedroom. In Lucas’s dreams. And none of it made any sense, because he’d never even dated Sarah. It wasn’t as though he’d cheated on her.
And yet it was. In some ways, it was worse.
His jaw twitched, and he mumbled a goodbye to Rick and Neil as he pulled the garage door shut behind him. He’d figured she’d come back at some point. Shannon belonged to Lindsey Point, the same way they all did. Shaped by it, hurt by it. Like a corkscrew, it dug into them and didn’t let go. Didn’t mean he had to welcome her back with open arms.
He and Finn walked down the driveway without talking. At the curb, Finn climbed into his truck and rolled down his window. He turned the key in the ignition, and country rock blasted from the stereo. He adjusted the volume down a few notches. “Ten year memorial coming up this September.”
Lucas didn't need reminding. He dropped his head back and stared up at a sky filled with stars. “I know.” Whole town would be there. People from some of the neighboring ones too. And he knew how it would unfold. As in past years, he planned on standing somewhere halfway back in the crowd, waiting for the speeches and the crying and the damned depressing music to finish. He’d say hello to a few people, nod and smile, then go home and polish off a fifth of Jack. As usual.
“You know they’re gonna ask some of us to speak, right?”
Lucas stopped looking at the sky. “Why?”
“Bigger deal than other years, I guess. And they’re finally dedicating the park. Putting up a memorial with everyone’s names on it.”
“’Bout time.” Ten years seemed an awfully long time to wait to carve six names in stone. Of course, it didn't feel like ten years. Sometimes, not even ten days. He shook his head. He didn’t dream about it anymore, but sometimes he still found himself thinking about Sarah, or Tommy, or Erinn and the rest of them, at the oddest times. Driving past the practice fields. Picking out a Christmas tree at Wilson’s farm. Chasing a goddamn flyer for some teenage wannabe band down the sidewalk. Random acts, fragments of things he’d done once upon a time with one or two or all of them. Sometimes they drummed inside his skin, a dull ache lasting a few minutes. Other times they set the center of his chest on fire, a hot, hard, unrelenting coal that stole his breath away.
Connections. So many damn connections.
He’d never realized how loss could take the heart, fracture it, then rely on time to paste it back together. Not the same way, of course. Different pieces ended up next to each other, curving and overlapping the way they never had before. All there, yes, but not quite whole. Not quite the same.
“Luc?” Finn reached out and poked him. “You okay?”
“Ah–” He cleared his throat. “Yep.” As long as the mayor or the head of the planning committee, or, God help him, his own mother, didn’t ask him to say something about the friends he’d lost that day, he’d be fine. “See ya, man.”
“Yep.” Finn beeped the horn twice and pulled away.
Lucas walked down Rich’s driveway, happy to be heading home on foot. A breeze caught the bill of his baseball cap, and he had to reach up to keep it from flying toward the bay. He loved Lindsey Poi
nt at night: the familiar streets, the low roll of the ocean in the distance. Traces of sand crunched under his feet, and he breathed in salt air with every step. Only a few lights here and there, and a sliver of moon, but he didn’t need to see the sidewalk or the way the road bent up ahead. When he passed the knee-high cross at the intersection of State and Seagrass Streets, he didn’t even glance down. Instead he stopped and took a good long look at the lighthouse in the distance. A dark, slim silhouette, it poked through the clouds and the stars, aimed straight at the moon.
The Smiths.
The murders.
A hidden treasure, and a ghost, and a baby left on a beach.
Now that was a story he could tell. Hell, anyone in town could. It was practically part of the curriculum taught at Lindsey Point High. A lousy story, to be sure, but one that had found its niche in local history and then somehow bloomed so most of the country knew it. That’s why the fancy TV crew was here, right? Lucas stared at the lighthouse for a while longer, until the myth filled his mind instead of Sarah or Shannon or the upcoming ten-year memorial. Better. Much better. No connections there at all.
After a while he turned and headed for home. The next two blocks would be pretty dark, no streetlights once he turned off Main Street, but it wouldn’t matter. He knew the route by heart.
Chapter 7
“He said what?” Lon chomped on his nicotine gum and paced the tiny parlor of the bed and breakfast. The rest of the crew had retired to the hotel in anticipation of tomorrow’s early call, but sleep wouldn't be finding Sophie anytime soon. She tucked her feet beneath her and rocked back and forth in one of two patchwork-covered chairs.
