The Girl in the Lighthouse (Arrington)

by Roxane Tepfer Sanford

  That night, just as Warren came to share the bed with me, I asked to sleep alone. Warren looked perplexed, almost offended.

  “It’s my time of the month,” I lied.

  “Oh, I see,” he said, climbing over me then he made himself a place on the floor. I smiled with great satisfaction and watched as he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable. The bed was lumpy and stiff, but nothing compared to the cold, hard floor.

  The next morning, he was exceptionally grumpy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as I served him his eggs and sausage.

  He refused to look at me and decided not to eat. “I have a new job, starting tomorrow,” he said before he stepped outside to gather some wood.

  “A new job?” I hadn’t realized he was looking for work. In fact, I had no idea where he obtained his money.

  “I purchased a grindstone and will be going around to farms to see if any need sharpening services. I’m going into Savannah today to bring back a wagon to haul it around in.”

  I didn’t know whether to be glad about the job or unhappy. It meant he would be able to save for land to build a house for us on the ocean, but he would be out all day and I would be left alone. I didn’t want to be alone again.

  “Can I go with you? I can sit in the wagon while you work.”

  He heard my desperation and said he would think about it. I reminded him that I would still keep a clean house and do all the laundry.

  “And the cooking?”

  I wouldn’t be able to prepare supper if I was out all day with him. My heart slowly sank.

  “We’ll see. Maybe on an occasional day,” he said, before he departed.

  Warren’s work took him away all day and well into the late hours of the evening. I found my own way to cope with his daily absences, cooking and cleaning with fervor. When he came in after a long day, he was hungry, his face was blanketed with lethargy, and I felt guilty, for I knew all of his hard work was to save up enough money to take me away. So I did all I could to ease his stomach with my tasty cooking and offered to rub his achy muscles.

  The first time I suggested it, he was unsure, but I insisted and told him to take off his shirt and sit in the chair.

  “Momma used to do this for Daddy when he had been up for days working the light during a heavy fog, and it helped him relax and sleep better,” I told Warren. He was almost too tired to refuse and appeased me by taking off his shirt.

  The skin on his back was red from carrying the grindstone, and his rippling muscles were extremely tight. I stepped behind the chair and gently placed my hands on his shoulders, then began working my fingers around each stiff muscle, slowly at first, working into a harder rub.

  “You’re so tense,” I said. I could only see the back of his head, but I could tell by the way the side of his jaw locked, that he was in more discomfort than he let on.

  “It’s helping; don’t stop.”

  I smiled and continued rubbing through his pain, moving my hands and fingers around each ripple on his back and drinking in how masculine his body was. It was the first time I had touched his bare skin, and I noticed every one of the freckles scattered along his broad shoulders.

  When he relaxed, as his muscles loosened, he closed his eyes and rested. My hands slowed to a light stroke, just the tips of my fingers easing over his skin. I noticed his goose bumps as I led my fingertips up his spine, toward his solid neck, then I started to stroke his hair. He began to ease his head back. His eyes closed, and he drank in the massage then just as his head gently fell back into my bosom, he jumped up, sending the chair crashing to the floor. I jumped back, and we both stood staring at one another, until Warren said, flustered, “I must have drifted off. I thought I was floating away when the chair slipped out from under me.”

  We bent down to reach for the chair at the same time, and our heads bumped. I started to laugh, but Warren wasn’t amused. He was flushed and embarrassed, and hastily rushed outside. I was left standing, not understanding what I did to upset him so terribly. Outside, he paced the porch and ran his hands through his hair. He was without his shirt, and it was cold outside. I picked it up off the floor and went to give it to him. The quarter-moon gave just enough light to see through the night.

  “Put on your shirt so you don’t catch a cold,” I said, handing it to him.

  “Thank you,” he said, and hurried to put it on, though he left the buttons undone. I didn’t respond and went back inside to clean up before bed. Warren sat on the porch and smoked his pipe, coming in later, just as I was situated in the bed. I had already blown the lamp out and wanted only to go to sleep. I had imagined he would be grateful for the massage; Daddy always was when Momma was kind enough to do it for him, but Warren seemed unappreciative. All I wanted to do was make him happy. I tried everything to please him, and supposed I should have been content just knowing he allowed me to live with him. After all, he had no real reason to take me in, except for the kindness of his heart. He owed me nothing, yet I felt as though he owed me the world. I was flooded with mixed feelings. Perhaps I was trying too hard, and that’s what pushed him away. Maybe I was overly grateful, or had he sensed I was taking advantage of his kindness? I didn’t know.

  I lay there and listened as he changed for bed, and I cringed when he banged his leg into the footboard of the bed.

  “Damn it!” he said, walking off the pain. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  I wanted to go to him, to apologize and say I was sorry for blowing out the lamp and making it so dark that he hurt himself, for giving him a massage that made him unhappy and mad at me, for coming to my rescue so long ago, and for making me fall in love with him.

  I finally won up enough nerve, choked back my tears, and said, “Warren, I’m sorry.”

  He stopped pacing like some kind of caged circus animal and whisked over to me. He knelt down and took both my hands, then pressed them against his cool, scruffy cheek.

  I began to sob. I felt so unbelievably lost when people were angry with me, and I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed by all of his mixed signals.

  “Dear, Lillian; stop crying,” he said in a hushed, muffled voice. He took my hands and pressed my palms against his tender lips. “I hate to see you sad.”

  I continued to drop tears as he told me he was sorry, and he wasn’t mad at me. “You have a way of making me crazy inside,” he whispered, then bowed his head. I didn’t know what I had done to make him feel such turmoil; all I wanted to do was love him and have him love me in return.

  “Is it the money, Warren?” I softly asked. Maybe his struggle was due to the overwhelming financial burden. “I want you to know I will be happy with you no matter where we live. I know what I said in the past, and I was wrong for insisting you take me back to the sea.”

  As I lay on my side against the lumps of the bed, I reached over, ran my hand through his thick hair, and added, “You will make me happy wherever we live.”

  Warren lifted his heavy head and proceeded to get into bed with me. I felt his woe; I sensed his encumbrance and thought I should give him an opportunity to free himself from the burden of caring for me.

  “All I need is a few dollars, and I can be out of your life for good.”

  It pained me to offer such a thing; it broke my heart to think he might jump at the chance to be a single man again, but I loved him enough to set him free.

  _______________

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Warren gave a weighty sigh, rolled over, and placed his arms around me. I closed my eyes and held my breath, waiting for his response. Outside, I heard the hoot of an owl, and the wind caused the branches around the cabin to scrape the tin roof. The night went on, but time for me stood still. Would Warren want more than anything to share his life with me, or was he having second thoughts? Did he regret the day he found me in the marsh, alone and scared? Was it merely pity that caused him to take me under his wing, or was it love at first sight, as it was for me? Only Warren could answer that.
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  “If you only knew,” he mumbled into the back of my hair.

  “What, Warren? What should I know?” I asked, wide-eyed. Was he finally going to reveal the deep pain that kept him from wanting me, loving me, and asking me to marry him?

  “I have made terrible mistakes,” he began, caressing my hair. “Mistakes I never want to repeat.”

  “Is being with me a mistake?”

  “No, Lillian. Don’t ever think you and I are a mistake,” Warren said.

  I could hear the anguish in his voice. “Then what are we?” I finally found the courage to ask. I desperately needed to know what I was to him. Was I a little girl in his eyes? Was I some lonely, pathetic orphan that needed his mercy, or was I a desirable woman that had stolen his heart, a woman he wanted to marry? Was there even a chance that he loved me as much as he did the woman who claimed his heart years before?

  “You and I, Lillian, are meant to be,” Warren said, slipping into a peaceful sleep, while I lay awake and wondered.

  Throughout the winter, and all into spring and summer, Warren and I fell into a stale routine without the fire and passion I thought would come of our relationship. He became used to my walking about half-dressed, in his night shirt; his eyes no longer lingered on my voluptuous bosom. Warren treated me more like a friend every day that passed, though he still insisted on sleeping beside me and holding me while he dreamed. I cooked and cleaned; he went off to work. He spoke of the different people he met along his sales route; he told me every day what a hard day he’d had. After supper, he’d sit out on the porch, often asking me to sit with him. So I’d sit in the rocker and watch him as he read the paper and smoked his pipe. It wasn’t anything like the relationship Momma and Daddy had. They adored one another; Daddy couldn’t keep his eyes off her when she was in the same room, and every night he could, he would take her and love her in the way I now craved. I was nearly sixteen and able to stop men on the streets of Savannah with my curvy body and angelic face. That’s what Richard told me one late afternoon in mid-summer in the general store.

  Warren had given me a list of supplies to get while he went to have the wagon’s axle repaired, and I stood gazing up at dolls that sat sigh high on a shelf, when Richard had stolen up from behind and said, “We meet again.”

  I hadn’t seen Richard for many months and was startled. He looked as dapper as ever in his black wool sack suit. A watch chain was attached to his top button, a white handkerchief was in his left breast pocket, and atop of his dark brown hair sat a fine crowned bowler hat.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” I said, blushing at my thoughts of how handsome he looked.

  “Please, call me Richard,” he said, giving me a confident smile.

  “Have you been out of town? I haven’t seen you in quite some time.”

  “My wife Judith and I moved back to New York. We are here to visit her sister Rachael,” he said, stepping back to get a better look at me. His copper eyes sparkled, and his grin was wide.

  “You, my dear, have become the most stunning young woman I have ever laid eyes on.”

  I looked at the ground, embarrassed by his compliment.

  “Have you thought about perhaps allowing me to sketch you?” he asked, inching closer.

  “No, not really.”

  “No? You are going to keep your beauty hidden from the world? By God, I think that should be a crime,” Richard said, though I wasn’t sure he was serious.

  “What should be a crime?” Warren asked. His eyes practically fired bullets at Richard as he stepped between us.

  “Hello, sir. You must be Lillian’s father. My name is Richard Parker.” Richard extended his hand. Warren refused to shake it and nudged me toward the counter to pay for our things. Richard didn’t back off, though Warren’s manner should have given him pause.

  “Your daughter should be in magazines.”

  Warren clenched his jaw while staring straight ahead and said, “She is not my daughter.”

  Richard was taken aback. He shifted his eyes to Warren, then to me, then back at Warren, and said, “Well, your sister then.”

  Warren ignored Richard and ushered me out to the wagon. Richard was persistent, relentless in fact. “I certainly don’t mean to be a bother, I just thought—”

  Warren hastily interrupted. “Stay out of our business. Lillian is not going to be in one of your inappropriate magazines!”

  I was stunned and humiliated by Warren’s rude behavior and almost in tears as he sped us off, leaving Richard standing in the street.

  “Why did you act like that Warren?”

  It happened every time we went to Savannah. Warren would see some man talking to me and would become angry and possessive.

  “Richard is a nice man. He is from New York.”

  “You’re not going to pose for any magazine, do you understand me?”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Well, good. Then we have no reason to continue this discussion.”

  He shot me a look of disdain while I sat beside him. He slowed the horse and sat back. Late afternoon was the hottest point of the day, and I couldn’t wait to get a drink of water. Warren unhitched the horse while I quenched my thirst with cold well water. It was awkward between us, and I was growing to dislike his ways. If I were his wife, or lover, I would understand him protecting me, but I was neither. So I decided not to cook for him that Saturday evening.

  “Why aren’t you starting supper?” he asked when he came in after washing up by the creek not far from the house.

  “I’m not your servant, Warren Stone. Make your own supper,” I said, and proceeded to change for bed. Right in front of him, I stripped off my dress, then my petticoat, corset, chemise, and pantalettes. I had never been naked in front of a man before, and I didn’t care that Warren was speechless or that his wide, astonished eyes were watching me. I slid under the blanket, not looking his way, without my nightshirt on, and closed my eyes, pretending to go to sleep. I was absolutely fed up. I didn’t have Momma’s mild temperament; I wasn’t as refined as she thought. I had a chip on my shoulder. I was angry at everyone—Momma for going mad, and Daddy for abandoning me. I was furious for my years of abuse, and Warren was going to feel the burden of my resentment.

  However, Warren wouldn’t tolerate my behavior, and just to show me, he went out and slammed the door behind him. I jumped out of the bed and ran after him.

  “Get back inside; you can’t be out like this!” he barked, refusing to look at me. He kept pivoting around when I crossed into his vision to make him look at me.

  “Is this what you don’t want Richard to draw?” I spat. “My body? My nude body? The body you refuse to look at?”

  “You stop it right now, Lillian,” he demanded, his eyes, blazing with fury, locked onto mine.

  “You’re not my father; you’re not my husband. You are nobody, Warren Stone. You can’t tell me what to do!” I yelled, striking his face. I slapped it so hard he stumbled back.

  As I went to strike again, he blocked my blow, grabbed hold of my arm, and said, “That’s enough Lillian.” His voice had softened, his anger fading into sadness. “Go and put some clothes on.”

  I ran back inside, slamming the door, and falling to the bed, sobbing. I didn’t hear him come in.

  “My God,” he gasped. He was standing over me, staring at my scarred back.

  “Go away, Warren,” I shouted.

  He didn’t listen, but came to the bed and lifted me into his arms.

  “Who did this to you?” he demanded. I buried my face in his chest and refused to answer. As much as I wanted to be a woman, I felt more like a child than ever. “Did your daddy do this to you?”

  I lifted my head, shocked and appalled that he would think such a thing. “No, of course not!”

  “Then who left you with such gruesome scars? Who whipped you, Lillian?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let me be, Warren.”

  I slipped out of his arms and curled up in a ball
on the bed, my back facing him.

  “She did that to you? That wicked, evil woman,” he mumbled, gently touching each of my scars with his finger. “How dare she?”

  My mind shut off; I was tired of losing every battle that came my way. I just wanted to sleep, but Warren, in my most vulnerable time, was unable to refrain from coming to me, cradling my body, and lightly kissing my back.

  His kiss lingered, and eventually, he put his hands on me, lightly rubbing my back the way I had once done for him. I stopped crying as my body reacted to his tender touch and warm kisses, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel such excitement, I had second thoughts about Warren becoming my lover. He confused me, he angered me, and I just wanted to be left alone.

  “Please, stop,” I whispered.

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” he mumbled through his kisses. “You poor thing.”

  Warren’s hands eased around to my front and brushed up against my breasts. My heart raced, and my body felt an exhilaration I had yet to experience, but my mind screamed for him to stop. I wasn’t ready as much as I had once thought and wanted him to stop.

  “Warren, please, please stop,” I cried. But my pleas went unheard. His hands cupped my breasts, and I felt his manliness grow and press against me. My stomach felt queasy, and I began to tremble. Warren was too aroused to sense my trepidation and panic. After fondling me, Warren forcefully turned me over and began to undress himself. I tried to squirm out from under him; I pleaded for him to stop. In his eyes, I saw the lust and yearning I had once hoped for; I felt his craving build by the second, and before long, he was naked and pressing himself on top of me. He kissed my breasts with intense delight, moving his hand down to open my legs.

  “Oh, God, please no!” I cried. His eyes glazed over, his body glistened with sweat, I sobbed uncontrollably as he brutally pushed himself inside me. Warren panted and moaned into my ear as he thrust harder and harder into me. The pain was unbearable. I was bleeding; it felt as though my body was going to split in half. I dug my nails into his back and bit his chest; I bawled and screamed for him to stop, but it was only when his pleasure came, with one last thrust, that he pulled out and rolled off me.