Torchlight

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Home. As Julia stood before the iron gates that guarded the entrance, she agreed with Anna. Torchlight was as wild and wonderful as she remembered. From the looks of the rambling mansion that had fallen into disrepair, it would take a lot of elbow grease to tame it. She paused to roll up her sleeves; she was bound and determined that Torchlight be restored to its original grandeur.

  Giving up on the rusted-shut wrought-iron gates, Julia threw a duffel bag over the old stone wall and carefully climbed up and over, the way she had as a child. She landed hard. I’m not as limber as I used to be.

  She pushed aside overgrown branches that blocked the front walk and moved toward the old house’s steps. Along the way she paused to take in peeling white paint, shutters hanging from loosened hardware, and easily visible holes in the roof above the porch. I’ve got my work cut out for me, all right. Rotting boards and rusted nails, long unaccustomed to human company, groaned their disapproval at the visitor’s approach.

  The screen door came off its hinges as Julia pulled. Laughing, she set it to one side, then turned the oversize key in the lock. The huge oak door opened inward, surprisingly without a squeak. She resisted the urge to call out, “Hello? Anybody in there?” and shook off the chill that ran down her spine. Spooky. Maybe I should’ve taken Tara up on her offer.

  Smells of dust and mold invaded her nostrils, and she unzipped her bag to search for a flashlight. The shadows were deep, and in the fading daylight the covered furniture made her think of oddly shaped ghosts. Julia was relieved when her fingers closed around the flashlight and the bulb illuminated her way. She stood in the grand entry and gazed up at a dramatic staircase that rose straight up and then divided at the landing into a Y, each arm leading to a separate wing of the house. The rust-colored carpets were dingy and faded, and the solid oak banisters needed refinishing. But it was clear that, with a little repair, the entry would be grand indeed.

  Julia moved to her left, stepping into the kitchen and a puddle of water. She moaned at the damage that had been done to the wood floors and shuddered at the thought of what she might find upstairs. Her flashlight’s beam reflected off blue-and-white tiles that decorated the large old kitchen’s counters and backsplashes. Copper kettles still hung from their rack, as if someone had left the house just the day before.

  Most of the mansion’s contents had been abandoned, unwanted, when Julia’s grandfather, James, died at the age of ninety-eight. His descendants were making their own way in the world—mostly on the West Coast—and doing well at it. They had their own kettles. The family had maintained the house for ten years after his death, thinking they’d get a chance to visit it more often, but eventually closed it up for good.

  Julia was delighted with all that remained. She idly opened a cupboard drawer, marveling at the craftsmanship that allowed it to roll so easily, even after so many years. The drawer lay empty. But, thought Julia, so many drawers to explore! She moved on, entering the dining room through the swinging wooden door. The dining table was huge, built to seat as many as eighteen. Julia pulled off the dusty sheets that covered the ancient cherry masterpiece and moved to expose each of the chairs that surrounded it. Unbelievable. How could the old place have escaped burglary through all these years?

  The china cabinet was a spectacular matching cherry piece, with a large center door of convex glass and oval glass shelves where heirloom china and crystal had once been displayed and would soon be again. Julia’s aunt, Linda, had promised to send down to her at once the pieces that remained. “They belong in the old house,” she had said, accepting no argument from her niece.

  “Well, I have no one to invite for dinner, but I sure could put on a show.” Julia moved into the hall as the house grew darker. The next door led into the room that had been her favorite as a child: the library. The odors of mold and dust and leather permeated the air. Huge, leather wing chairs sat in idle pairs here and there in the giant room; wooden tables of various sizes stood beside them. But it was the books, the hundreds upon hundreds of leather-bound volumes, that intrigued Julia.

  She flashed her beam left and right, hoping that the books, which she considered to be the real treasures of the house, still remained. The library was vast, as Anna had been a devoted reader and self-taught scholar. Julia looked forward to spending countless hours in the room. She walked to the window and peered through leaded-glass windows to the dim form of the lighthouse against the dark sea. The shadows were deepening further, and Julia wanted to see the upstairs before night completely descended. She headed through a unique arched doorway that led back into the living room, then walked upstairs and turned left where the stairs divided.

  As she reached the top stair, the house groaned, sending another shiver down her neck. Come on, Julia, be brave. She quickly circled the hallway that bordered the staircase, taking stock of the rooms as they lay: the tiny room her great-grandmother had called a water closet, several guest bedrooms, a master bedroom with its own water closet, three more bedrooms.

  Two bathrooms for all these people. It’s grounds for murder. Julia returned to the master bedroom. Spying the wood stove, she thought about lighting a fire but decided instead that climbing into bed early would be easier. She rubbed her arms, chilled even under the wool sweater and duffel coat she wore.

  Julia unzipped her duffel bag again and brought out a fresh set of sheets. She uncovered her great-great-grandparents’ huge four-poster bed and quickly pulled the clean linen over the mattress. She would need her sleeping bag; the only blankets that were left in the house were eaten half away by moths. Tomorrow, Julia decided, I’ll find some quality blankets in town to replace them.

  She drank from her small bottle of water and climbed into bed before eight. She was asleep by eight-thirty. Even the loud groans of the house, spurred on by gusting northern winds, were unable to interrupt her dreams of descending the grand staircase, wearing a beautiful ball gown, to a party held in her honor.

  Julia awoke to find herself folded in the center of the old bed, which sagged badly in the middle. She giggled at her plight as she struggled to rise. I’m in a big feather taco. I guess I’ll need a new mattress. Her mind was filled with a thousand things she needed in order to get started. It was so cold in the house that her nose—the only part of her body that peeked out of her Arctic-ready sleeping bag—felt numb. Taking a deep breath, she unzipped her polyester cocoon and ran across the room to her duffel bag. She lifted one foot and then the other, attempting to keep them off the freezing floor as she dressed.

  No water for a shower. No electricity for the old refrigerator in the kitchen. First things first, she resolved, considering her rumbling stomach. She would find the water main and then head to town for breakfast and her first load of supplies.

  Julia spent a larger part of the morning at Tara’s restaurant than she intended to, caught up in easy conversation and laughter.

  “Enough, Tara, I can’t eat another bite! And I have a ton of things to do! But let’s talk again tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you come out to the house and see her before I get the work started? I’ll show you what I’ve got planned.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll even bring my camera and take ‘before’ shots.”

  “Great idea. Say around ten?”

  “Perfect. Breakfast crowd’s gone by then, and I have an hour break before I have to get back for lunch.”

  “Good! I want someone to share this with me. Say, where do I go for supplies? I’ll need all the basics—mattresses, blankets, towels.”

  “Hit the old woolen mill on the north side of town. They have wonderful things, and the best deals on linens and bedding. You’ll have to go to Portland for a mattress.”

  Julia first stopped at the hardware and grocery stores, businesses so tiny they would have been considered small markets in San Francisco. Each store clerk met her at the counter and gazed in wonder at the amount she purchased. “Sure, we’ll send a boy with your deliver
y,” they agreed, delighted with the newcomer who was such a good customer.

  Before she headed over to the woolen mill, Julia stopped again at Tara’s to use the restaurant phone. From there, she arranged for her own phone line to be connected and the electricity to be turned on. She discovered that one of the luxuries of living in a small town was fast service; what would have taken days in the city was accomplished in twenty-four hours in Oak Harbor.

  Tara was singing old hymns in the kitchen, and Julia listened with pleasure to the woman’s beautiful mezzo-soprano voice. She hated to break in, but she needed to get back to Torchlight. “Tara?”

  The singing stopped, and her new friend peeked through the kitchen window. “Are you off again?”

  “Yep. I’ve gotta get going if I want to bring some order to the house. Which reminds me: I need to hire some help. Do you know of any reliable men in town? Most important, I need a general handyman who can work for a good solid year.”

  “None of the locals comes to mind. Most are fishin’ this time of year. There is one new guy who’s been around ’bout a week, lookin’ for work. I’ll put the word out. We’ll find you somebody.”

  “Thanks, Tara. See ya.”

  “Hey, wait! Don’t forget dinner at my house tomorrow! Six o’clock sharp.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Thanks for inviting me.”

  “You’re welcome. And pay no mind if some of the people are a little distant at first. It takes awhile to get to know folks ’round here. They’re soft as marshmallow once you get past the crusty exterior. Most of them are harmless.”

  Julia grinned at Tara. “I’ll remember.”

  She hurried back toward home, anxious to return during the full light of day. On her way, Julia stopped at the old woolen mill Tara had recommended. She had found stack after stack of plastic-wrapped, locally woven blankets and linens inside the cold warehouse. A small wood stove kept the clerks and customers warm, and Julia stood close to it as she gazed about in wonder. “This is incredible,” she said to one motherly looking saleswoman.

  “Best blankets Down East,” she said proudly.

  With the clerk’s help, Julia purchased four thick blankets, two sets of sheets, two huge bath towels, and a handmade cream-colored comforter for the bed. I’ll come back when it’s time to decorate the other bedrooms, she thought happily, dreaming of the different color combinations she would create.

  Around three o’clock Julia laid a fire in the living room fireplace to test it out. When the paper burst into flames and the kindling crackled, she smiled in satisfaction and began to drag several carpets out to the porch where she could clean them in the fresh spring air. She had just begun to pound the rugs with an old carpet beater she’d discovered in a closet when she heard a motorcycle approach the main gates. Moments later a man pulled up outside the wrought-iron fence and shut off the engine. Casually, he stood and carefully parked the vehicle. As he walked up to the gate, he took off his helmet and peered through at her.

  It was the man from the highway.

  Julia’s heart pounded.

  The guy looked back at the red convertible parked beside his motorcycle, then grinned at her. “So we meet again,” he said, his voice low and self-assured.

  Julia slapped her hands against her jeans to remove the dust from them and descended the porch stairs, acting sure of herself. She stopped ten feet from the gate. “If you call a near-suicide attempt a ‘meeting.’ Can I do something for you?”

  Trevor stared at her. She was gorgeous. More beautiful than he had been able to see from the road. Without her sunglasses and hat, and out from behind the wheel, he could take in her almost perfect figure, smooth golden mane, and violet eyes. Not to mention those lips …

  Julia repeated her question, looking a bit uneasy under his scrutiny. “I said, ‘Can I help you?’ ”

  Her question shook him out of his reverie. “I hope so. Trevor Kenbridge. I’m a newcomer to Oak Harbor too. And, lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent carpenter, plumber, and general handyman.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “Tara sent me. Tara, from the restaurant? She said you needed some help in fixing up the old place.” He glanced beyond her. “It’s a beauty. I’ve found myself dreaming of lighthouses a lot lately, not to mention a certain gorgeous driver I met on the road. Feels like I’ve been led here.”

  She appeared disturbed by his directness. Or was it his flirting? “I don’t need any help,” she said, her tone guarded.

  “So why’d you tell Tara—”

  “Look, I need someone reliable, trustworthy. And I can handle things myself until the right person comes along.”

  Trevor nodded. “So you parked outside because you wanted to?”

  “Well … the gate’s rusted shut,” she admitted.

  Trevor went to his motorcycle and dug through to the bottom of a bag attached at the rear. He came back to the gate holding a crowbar and grinned at Julia, who looked at him in surprise. “Always carry one with me, and a hammer, too. You’d be amazed how often they come in handy.” Lodging the tool between the gate and latch, he pulled quickly and forcefully, and the two pieces separated. Creaking and groaning, the gate soon opened so that nothing stood between Trevor and Julia.

  Julia’s heart pounded. He was so handsome. He moved as if he owned the world and could put anything right. As he smiled and approached, she felt guilty, thinking for the first time of Miles and how she shouldn’t be admiring this stranger so openly.

  Resolving to be strong, she stared up into his deep brown eyes. “I think I’m looking for someone else. I need someone stable, not a person with a wish to resemble road kill.”

  “Perhaps I’m more trustworthy and reliable than our first meeting has led you to believe. I’m really good at spotting trouble and finding solutions. Let’s just say I was distracted on the highway. I think I’m your man.”

  Julia shielded her eyes and looked to the ocean, then back to him. “I don’t think we’re a good match. Flirting on the highway is not an auspicious beginning for a business relationship. I have a boyfriend in San—”

  “Ma’am,” he interrupted, ducking his head with a smile. “I need a job. Not a girlfriend.”

  “I … I think it’s best if you go.”

  “Hmm. Before I put out the fire?”

  “Fire?”

  “The one in your house.”

  Julia turned around and gasped as a plume of dark smoke escaped the open living room window. She left at a dead run and disappeared into the house.

  Following close behind, Trevor quickly located a kettle in the kitchen, filled it with water, and rushed into the parlor behind Julia. The fire was small and still contained to the fireplace, but Julia was struggling with the flue. Calmly Trevor bent over and doused the flames.

  Smiling, he wiped a large smudge of soot from Julia’s cheek. She backed away.

  “Thank you. You’ve been a help. But, like I said, I think I’m looking for someone else.”

  “I think you’re wrong. This is a small town full of fishermen and mill workers. While I, on the other hand, have a variety of skills that perfectly suit me to this job.”

  “Boy, you sure don’t have a confidence problem.”

  “No. I don’t think you do either. Which is why I’m confused. Why would a confident, smart woman not hire the right man for the job?” He moved several inches closer, but Julia held her ground, resolutely staring back into his eyes.

  Flustered at his audacity, she lowered her gaze and pointed to the door. “Go.”

  He shrugged and followed her direction. At the door, he paused. “The fireplaces are probably clogged with soot or birds’ nests. I’ve done some chimney sweeping and repair. You can’t use them until they’re thoroughly inspected.”

  “Out.”

  “It was nice to meet you. If you come to your senses, I’ll be ’round for a while yet.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The following night, after a hard day’s
work, Julia bathed in preparation for dinner at Tara’s. Tired of her hair, she pulled it back into a French braid and dressed quickly. She picked out a black wool turtleneck sweater, which she tucked into slim jeans, then put on a thick black belt and boots to match and, finally, silver earrings. After a quick check in the mirror, she took a deep breath and went to meet her new neighbors.

  Warm light poured out of Tara’s windows, welcoming people as they drove up. She had invited more than twenty people and was serving hors d’oeuvres and setting up the buffet when Julia knocked.

  “Come in! Make yourself at home. You’ll have to introduce yourself, or better yet, come with me and I’ll give you a tray to pass ’round—it will give you an excuse to approach these Down Easters.”

  Julia followed Tara into the kitchen, smiling shyly at many of the guests. Tara’s house was of the classic New England style—lots of windows, clean lines, whitewashed wood, and airy rooms with high ceilings. “It was built just a few years after Torchlight,” Tara said, seeing Julia look around.

  “It’s very homey.”

  “Just the way I like it. Here. Pass these around and say hello to everyone.”

  Julia picked up the tray of fruit, cheese, and crackers and did as she was told. She began in the living room where she spotted a familiar looking man and boy. They were obviously father and son; they each had a head full of bleached-by-the-sun blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. It was clear that the boy would soon share his father’s broad, lean frame as well.

  “Julia Rierdon,” the man said easily with a smile. “We’ve heard all about you. I’m Ben DeBois, and this is my son, Mike.”

  Mike turned as he heard his name and flushed at the sight of Julia. She did not understand his embarrassment but smiled kindly and chose to ignore it. “It’s nice to meet you both. Guess in a town this small it doesn’t take long for word of a newcomer to get around.”

  “You’re right. You and Kenbridge over there have been the only interesting things to hit Oak Harbor this year.”