Widow's Tale

by Miller, Maureen A.

  She drew her mouth open, prepared to shout her findings, but the outburst died on her lips as she turned towards Brett.

  He cased the loft like a predatory creature, searching the room, stopping to look out the front window, while muttering a subdued oath that didn’t threaten her—instead it warmed her.

  As if Brett sensed that he was being watched, he dropped the curtains back in place and met her gaze.

  "What?"

  Serena looked at him. He was a tall man with a stalwart build and dark hair, nearly black, disheveled enough to make him endearing. He had eyes the color of a winter’s strongest gale, and delving into those eyes was like tossing yourself to the whim of the ocean—but the water was warm.

  As impossible as the situation was, she knew that she was falling in love with Brett. Acknowledging that bittersweet fact, she could not allow him to go into the night and battle her demons.

  This was something that she must do alone.

  "Serena?"

  "It’s been a hell of a day," she yawned. "I think I’m going to bed."

  Skeptical, he nodded. "Go on and get some rest. I’ll watch things out here for awhile."

  Panicked, she struggled for another strategy to preoccupy him while she made good on her escape.

  "Actually you look tired, Brett." She touched his arm, just the softest nudge towards the hallway. "Why don’t you go get some rest and I’ll just finish cleaning up here?"

  Brett’s eyes narrowed. "What are you up to, Serena?"

  "I’m not up to anything. I feel bad that you’ve basically exhausted yourself at my expense—you probably haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week. I’m fine. I’ll turn in shortly.

  Arms crossed and eyebrow arched, he stated mildly, "Someone was just in your house, kicking back, having a beer, searching through your stuff, and you want to stand there and tell me that you’re fine?"

  Serena strived for an impish grin, but it appeared more painful than anything. "Resilient?" she managed weakly.

  "Resilient, my ass. Go to bed." he ordered.

  CHAPTER XII

  Serena stood before the dormer window waiting for Brett’s pacing to end. She added another half hour to ensure he was fast asleep before she dragged on a heavy down jacket. Thrusting her hands into a pair of insulated gloves, she yanked a blue knit cap over her head, frowning at the reflection in the pane of glass. For a moment in this dark light, she caught a glimpse of herself as a teenager. A tomboy, sneaking out to climb the cliffs at night.

  With a steadying breath, Serena convinced herself that it was fifteen years ago—and that the adventure she was about to embark upon was as innocent as it had been then.

  Cringing as her door squealed, she opened it just enough to slip through. She peeked around the corner and located Brett sprawled across the loveseat, one leg hooked over the armrest, one arm crooked over his forehead. She stood at his feet, waiting for his eyes to open and put an end to her endeavor, but he just shifted, mumbled, and settled back into slumber.

  Unable to resist, she bent to pick up the folded blanket and draped it across him. She lingered, mesmerized by his features. Even in slumber, he was awe-inspiring. So strong this man was. Her protector.

  But it was time for her to step up and defend them both.

  At the front door, Serena cursed the frigid Atlantic blast that lashed past her to penetrate the loft. She expected the cold to wake Brett, yet miraculously he slept on. Closing the door, she faced the ocean and black cliffs, wondering if she truly had lost her sanity.

  She zipped the jacket all the way up so that her chin disappeared into the collar. Hurrying down the steps, she broke into a swift jog. Her destination was the menacing silhouette projected over the sea cliff. From this perspective, Victory Cove’s lighthouse looked like a tall gravestone.

  And she was about to walk across its grave.

  A brisk ascent up the incline did little to keep the cold air at bay. Serena’s breath clouded her sight. She moved instinctively, traveling a path she had trekked since childhood, when the lighthouse was once operational. Extinguished more than fifteen years ago, replaced by the modern, high-tech model further down shore, this empty beacon stood as a lofty symbol of Victory Cove’s romantic past.

  As the outline drew close, her pace stalled. She circled the tall edifice. The aid of moonlight came and went as the fickle north Atlantic current forced along a patchy cloudbank. She took advantage of the brief moments of clarity to discern the single stone building at the base of the tower. In the past, gale force winds had lashed the waves high enough to mount the cliffs and engulf the tiny abode. Nonetheless, it survived through the years−a testimony to the hand-laid rock walls.

  She hoped the underground shed still offered the same access it had when she was a child.

  Serena’s feet crunched over the frozen turf. Air billowed from her mouth as her eyes began to tear from the wind. She tucked her chin even deeper into the down collar. Seeking relief by walking backwards against the wind, she focused on the floodlights illuminating the tavern’s deck. From this perspective, O’Flanagans represented a warm and inviting symbol of hope, the lights on the third floor reminding her that Brett lay safe and asleep.

  Most importantly, safe.

  Turning back into the blustery weather, sounds came to her in muffled echoes within the cocoon of the jacket hiked around her ears. She nearly missed the grinding tread to her right.

  Instinctively, she crouched, cursing the open knolls that lead to the lighthouse. She prayed for cloud cover—any form of camouflage, but the moon glimmered across the fresh snow.

  Spinning about, she studied the dirt path that led to the light keeper’s house like a black vein scarring white marble.

  The path was empty. She was alone.

  Hastening into a jog, she felt the tears of windburn on her face, and cursed when her boot skidded on a slick rock, pitching her into a heap. In frustration, she smacked her clenched fist on the rigid dirt and yelled at the pain.

  Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Serena tipped her head back and stared up at the bright orb, searching its wizened face for insight.

  "Sunning yourself?"

  Her head snapped down so fast that her teeth rattled. She shrunk in fear from the tall silhouette.

  The voice finally registered.

  "What are you doing out here?" She struggled upright.

  Brett’s laugh was lost in the wind. "Taking a stroll. Seeing the sights, wondering what you’re up to."

  "You followed me?"

  Concerned by the way Serena’s body shook, and freezing himself, Brett extracted his bare hand from the sheepskin pocket and reached for her shoulder. He used his grip to steer her towards the stone building, but she shrugged out of his grasp.

  Deferring to her superior knowledge of the lighthouse, Brett trailed a step behind. His eyes roved the bleak terrain as a grim apprehension began to steal over him. Something felt drastically wrong. Granted, he’d never been here before in his life, but the stillness—the abrupt cessation of wind put him on edge.

  Locating the pair of rusted panels lodged in the frozen earth, Serena forcefully tugged one of the handles. In a graceless move, she ended up on her rear, the curved metal protrusion still clutched in her palm. Belligerent eyes flashed up at him from beneath her knit cap. There was a challenge in her glare, but he disregarded it and stooped over to give the second panel a quick jerk. He felt it give way. Using both hands this time, he was able to hoist the door fully open. He dropped it onto its back and looked down into the black hole, which even in this strong current produced the foul smell of trapped air.

  "That’s great." he said. "We’re going in there?"

  Serena seemed to battle the desire to smile at his reluctance. A frown wove between her eyebrows though as she studied his silhouette. She surged to her feet and grabbed for the flashlight protruding from the back pocket of his pants and used its scope to test the first step down into the weather cellar.

 
"Hey, anytime you want to cop a feel, just ask, okay?" Brett grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her out of the pit.

  "What the hell—"

  "Give me that thing." he uttered, taking the flashlight from her hand. "Now stay right behind me."

  "You don’t know your way around down there."

  "You’re going to show me then, aren’t you?"

  Flashing the light down the wooden stairs—stairs that looked like they could barely support a rat, he shook his head and questioned his common sense.

  "There’s no need for you to be macho, Brett. I grew up here. I can handle this. You should have stayed back in the loft."

  Brett tested the first step, flinching as he felt it give under his weight.

  "Let me ask you this logical question." He dared the second step, ready to leap up to safety if the ancient wood collapsed. "What the hell has you out here at this godforsaken hour by yourself?"

  Serena crossed her arms. "I saw someone out here—from the window—after we came upstairs." Her teeth began to chatter. She hugged her arms tighter.

  His head tipped back in frustration. "And you didn’t tell me because—?"

  "Because it’s my problem," she retorted.

  "Dammit, Serena!"

  He negotiated a careful retreat so that he could stand before her. "You’re my problem."

  Gently, he traced the back of his knuckle down her cheek.

  "Look," he said. "I’m not about to get into this with you right now because I’m freezing, I’m tired, I want you, and there’s a murderer potentially waiting for us in that lighthouse—if we don’t kill ourselves on these damn stairs first." Brett took a deep breath. "So please—just stay close behind me and let me know when I’m about to make a wrong turn. Okay?"

  Mouth agape, Serena managed a concise, "okay" before her jaw snapped shut.

  With Serena’s feral grip on his arm for support, Brett navigated the steps. He was cautious not to let the beam of light stray from the decaying planks. Several boards were missing. With an awkward gate, they dodged these obstacles to reach solid ground. A rank scent of mildew pervaded the stale air as the arc of light glanced across a rusted generator. Unmarked crates, looking like they dated back to the battle of the colonies, were strewn in the corner. Flicking the flashlight above them, he found that the worn beams of the ceiling barely accommodated his height and looked like they might give way at any moment, allowing the earth above to tumble down on them.

  "And I used to come here for fun." Serena mused quietly.

  Running the light over the solid clay floor, Brett couldn’t tell if anyone had recently tramped across it, but assumed the worst. His muscles tensed.

  Serena’s whisper sounded like a gale force wind in the stillness of the crypt as she tugged on his arm. "To the right, there should be a door leading up the light keeper’s house."

  He veered in that direction, noting with dismay that the shaft of light was losing its intensity. An orange glow. That’s all he got.

  He searched for the portal and cursed as his hand scaled over wood, coming away with a splinter. "Yeah, I found it," he grumbled.

  The light keeper’s house consisted of a single chamber that had once been divided by a bed to represent the sleeping quarters, a coal stove and table to symbolize the kitchen, and a spacious roll top desk, overlooking the Atlantic to signify the office. Now all that was left was the sagging metal bed frame, the coal stove with its door hung askew, and the roll top desk engulfed in years worth of grime. Drawers were removed from the desk and upturned on the floor.

  The moon crept behind a cloud, turning the windows into impenetrable black panes which concealed an ocean detected only by its steady rumble.

  Brett stooped down and trained the beam of light on the overturned drawers. With a grunt, he noticed that the handles had fresh trails lancing the thick layers of dust.

  "Someone’s been here recently."

  Serena crouched down beside him. "There’s nothing here. They either got what they were looking for, or someone beat them to it."

  "Mmmm—" He stood up, drawing her with him. "They’ve rifled through here—come up empty, so they decide that whatever they’re looking for is in your house—and create some elaborate scheme to scare you out of there so that they can search the premises?" his voice trailed off . "No, something’s missing—we’re missing some critical detail."

  "Yeah—who? Who is doing this?"

  Brett arced the beam of light around the room and trained it on a doorway tucked behind the rusted coils of the bed frame. "Does that go to the lighthouse?"

  "Yes." Serena’s voice sounded distracted as he found her leaning over the roll-top desk, peering into the night.

  "Can you actually see something out there?"

  Her head shook and she withdrew to join him by the door. "I don’t know. For a second when the moon came out—I swear there was something down on the cliffs—"

  "We’ll check it out. First, let’s take a look and see what your old lighthouse is hiding."

  The door was unlocked. Wary, Brett proceeded with the flashlight. He entered the cylindrical edifice, scaling the beam up a spiral staircase, past the network of cobwebs, into obscure shadows that tortured the soul with unlimited possibilities of danger.

  If one believed in ghosts, this place seemed like a potential breeding ground for them.

  He flinched against the chain of echoes. Their footfalls resonated with chilling clarity while the waves that crashed below sounded as if they would tow the precarious structure off its moorings and out to sea.

  "And this is where you would come to play?" he asked of the dark.

  "It was beautiful then," Serena whispered. "So big—fascinating. An adventure."

  "Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Suddenly I’m not big on the adventure part." Brett reached for her hand to ensure she was still behind him. "How trustworthy are these stairs?"

  "They supported me fifteen years ago."

  "That’s just great, Serena." Turning, he held the flashlight so that both their faces were illuminated.

  "Look, let me go up there." she said. "I’m lighter. I know the layout—"

  "No," he commanded. "I’ll test a few first. If someone hid something up there, I’d venture the stairs are still pretty reliable."

  "And if someone didn’t?"

  "Catch me."

  Brett made it exactly three stairs before the fourth caved in under his weight. Grabbing the railing and gaining his footing on the frame of the stairwell, he continued climbing and used the rail in the fashion of a ladder.

  "Brett, stop. Nobody would go through that much trouble to hide anything."

  "This is Alan we’re talking about." he grunted from above.

  He had a point, Serena thought. Nevertheless she was certain this was futile.

  As he passed the first bend, she called out, "Brett, come on down. This is just silly. We’re not going to find anything here. Let’s call it a night."

  "But you saw someone—they had to be here for a reason."

  "Yeah, making as big a fool out of themselves as we are. I wish you never followed me.”

  Rather than picking his way back down, Brett let go of the rail and dropped down to her side, grimacing as his feet struck the earth.

  "And miss out on the adventure of climbing a dilapidated lighthouse at two in the morning?” He winked at her, and then his eyes spanned the circumference of the room. "There’s got to be an easier way out of here than that godforsaken cellar."

  Brett tested a recessed doorway and it yielded as he used his shoulder to manipulate it fully open. The sudden assault of gusting wind made Serena burrow down into her collar, yanking the knit hat deep over her ears. He lunged the beam of light out onto the cliffs as it pitched a feeble glow for a yard or two and then drifted ineffectually to darkness.

  "Come on," he said. "Let’s get back to the loft."

  Brett’s words were nearly stolen by the blustery gusts, but his nod of encouragement wa
s sufficient translation. Serena plummeted into the night, her head pitched against the wind as she caught a brief and welcome glimpse of the lights of O’Flanagans.

  One hand aimed forward with the unproductive flashlight, Brett extended the other backwards, seeking her fingers. She reached for it, but at that second, she detected a blaze of color in a world that was black and white.

  Black were the cliffs, as distended white waves billowed against them like sheets on a clothesline. Black was the ocean until the radiant moonlight bathed the surface with white diamonds. And in the midst of night, a slash of red spilled like blood across the rock face.

  "Brett!" She yelled against the wind, tugging him to a halt.

  "What?" As short as Brett’s hair was, it whipped frenziedly atop his head.

  "I—I see something. Down there—down below on the cliffs."

  Cursing as the moon disappeared behind a full cloud, Serena watched listlessly as a patch of shoreline further down the coast benefited from its glow. With the current as strong as it was, it did not take long for the clouds to disperse and the slice of color to become visible again. Inching close to the edge for a better view, she felt Brett’s hand fist around her down jacket.

  "Careful, dammit."

  "Don’t you see it?" she called over her shoulder, leaning forward to discern the strip of crimson lodged between fissures of rock and churning surf a hundred feet below.

  Still with a protective grip on Serena’s arm, Brett squinted against the wind and caught sight of the object.

  Something wrenched deep in his gut, but he managed a controlled voice. "I’ll go down and check it out."

  "Are you crazy?" Serena’s voice was loud. "Brett, there’s no way you can scale those rocks. For God’s sake, let me go then, I’ve been down there before."