Lighthouse on the Lake

by Elizabeth Bromke

  Kate didn’t have time for the mess. A headache immediately swelled in the base of her skull, and she shook her head unhappily. Her motivation to call Matt dissipated like a sandcastle in a rainstorm. Although, now she felt the need for help more than ever.

  After tucking her phone snugly in her back pocket, she bent and grabbed the first box, intent on making a quick go of cleaning the mess and moving on. She knocked the cardboard against the wall, and dust rained down around her hand. The ache in the back of her head climbed around to her temples, and she forced it down, scooping a packet of papers from the ground and shoving them back in the box until she’d filled it to the brim.

  She set the box on top of the washer and moved on to the next, knocking the dusty years from that one then plopping the doilies back inside.

  Two more boxes later, she’d recovered everything that was in plain sight. The hardware that had rolled beneath the dryer would have to wait.

  Now, having tended to what felt like an insurmountable setback, Kate’s stomach growled to life. Suddenly aware of how starved she was, she left the basement and ascended the stairs, all four boxes piled on her forearms. Kate wasn’t the sort to put off clutter. She’d rather tackle it head on, even if she had to get messy.

  Once in the kitchen with the boxes neatly stacked on the center of the island, she washed her hands and then poured herself a bowl of cereal and sat on a barstool at the island, finally sliding her phone from her pocket and opening Matt’s contact information.

  Her thumb smeared circles around his name until she finally worked up enough confidence to send him a text.

  Keeping her tone tight and her message brief, Kate simply asked if he’d be available to chat anytime soon. She had a question.

  As soon as she hit send, she realized that her vaguery might have added unnecessary weight to the text and immediately tapped a second, clearer message. I have a question about the house. It’s about some repairs. That’s all.

  She deleted several words then typed them again, but before she could send the second message, he replied.

  Sure. Can you talk now?

  Her heart dipped into her stomach and bounced back up into her throat. The skin on her neck grew hot and her back grew itchy.

  “Okay,” she murmured to herself, digging deep for the willpower to answer. Instead of texting back, she swallowed the lump in her throat and hit the call icon.

  He answered right away. “Kate, hi.”

  “Hi, Matt. Sorry for being a little vague,” she began awkwardly. After a brief pause, she pushed ahead, reminding him of her grand plans to resuscitate the house and open a bed-and-breakfast.

  “I’m happy for you, Kate. And I’m happy you’re back in town, honestly.”

  She glowed at his reply, finding the wherewithal to hit him with her question. “Thanks, Matt. That means a lot to me.” She cleared her throat. “So the reason I called is that we have some major repairs. We’re looking for painters. Someone to work on the AC unit. Some plumbing issues and other things like that—”

  “Sure,” he cut in before she could finish. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Oh, no. No, no,” she rushed to answer. “I didn’t want to pressure you into helping me or anything. I just figured you would know some people.”

  “Know some people? I am the person,” he replied with a chuckle. “I can come over whenever you’re ready, Kate. Just say the word.”

  It was like magic. His offer thrilled her and confused her. Matt was ready and able to offer assistance, but she wasn’t quite sold. Would it be a conflict of interest? Would they get along?

  She thanked him and they ended their call after an agreement that he’d swing by as soon as he could.

  The whole matter reminded Kate that she had some unfinished business to attend to. Namely, her old life. The one on Apple Tree Hill.

  On a whim, she navigated back into her contacts and found her boss at the realty company. Kate wasn’t one to rush decisions, unless, of course, she was certain.

  And now, with Matt’s kind offer and with half the house ready for business, she was certain.

  Chapter 11—Clara

  The last week before summer vacation was a veritable nightmare. Each day, Clara was battling more and more disruptions to her class. It didn’t help that other teachers were showing movies and hosting parties whereas Clara had continued on with business as usual.

  Her severe regime endeared her to only a few of her eighth graders. Most of them coped with the suffocation by asking to use the bathroom or get a drink no fewer than three times per class period.

  By the end of the school day on Monday, Clara had neared the end of her resolve, and she went as far as to promise her fifth period class that they could play games the next day. Once the last hour began, Clara’s planning period, she finally had a chance to breathe. A stack of essays stood menacingly on the corner of her desk. Instead of tearing into them with her red pen, she opted to take a walk to the front office and grab a box of tissues from the supply closet. It was as good an excuse as any, and she could use a little warm up. After school, she’d promised herself that she’d get a little packing done at her apartment. Then, after that, she told Kate she’d spend an hour in the basement with her. Clara and her sisters had so much to do, but Clara had tried to impress upon them that they had all the time in the world to do it.

  She’d just as soon work bit by bit on her own move. But Clara loved her sisters and her commitment to help them was pure.

  Her sensible clogs echoed softly against the hardwood floors as she walked through quiet lockers toward the office.

  Once there, she slipped in through the hall door, greeting the secretary politely before stealing away into the modest closet where teachers could find extra paper, boxes of tissues, and—sometimes, if they were lucky, packages of dry erase markers.

  As she rummaged through the closet, Clara heard the secretary buzz in a visitor through the front door of the school building. The visitor and his deep voice joined the secretary in a conversation. Just as Clara had rummaged through the end-of-the-year dregs of supplies, she heard her name.

  “Miss Hannigan is right here, actually!”

  Clara popped her head out and glanced toward the reception desk. Standing on the other side was a familiar-looking man.

  She winced. “Oh my goodness, Mr. Hennings!” Recovering quickly, Clara didn’t reveal that she’d completely and utterly forgotten about the last-minute conference she’d scheduled with Mercy’s dad. “I’m so glad to see you. Let’s head back to my classroom.”

  Clara whirled out of the office and met him in the hall where he offered his hand to hers. She waved down the hall. “Right this way.”

  “Beautiful day out,” he commented lightly.

  Appreciating the small talk, she agreed. “Not too hot, yet. Last night I even slept with the windows open, if you can believe that.” Clara cringed a little. It felt like an over-share in the presence of this veritable stranger.

  But Mr. Hennings didn’t falter. “This weekend’s storm was a nice break. It’s been a little dry.”

  “Are you from Birch Harbor originally?” Clara diverted the conversation as they turned the corner to her wing. She knew they weren’t. Mercy had told her as much. They were from the Detroit area, probably not far from Kate’s neck of the woods. Clara knew almost the entire story of why Mercy and her father left his good job at the college to come to a small tourist town.

  “No. We lived outside of Detroit. I taught at Great Lakes College and ran a research lab there for marine technology and freshwater studies. We did a lot of work on Lake Huron.” They paused outside Clara’s door as she fumbled with her keys. She flushed under the pressure but finally inserted the right one, turned the knob and as she began to tug the door, Mr. Hennings gripped it from above her, opening it and holding it patiently as she withdrew her key and stepped in.

  “What a neat job,” she replied, smiling up at him. “And, thanks. We can leave this ope
n or close it if you’d like?” Normally, Clara kept the door open during parent conferences, unless an administrator or another teacher happened to be present too. She should have just done that, prop it open. She silently cursed herself for another awkward moment.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter to me. Whatever you prefer.” He tucked his hands in his khaki shorts pockets and waited by the door as she dumped the boxes of tissues on a nearby student desk.

  The door naturally swung shut, and Clara chose to leave it be. Not make a bigger deal. “Come sit down,” she said to him, waving at a chair beside her desk.

  He waited until she sat then followed her example and eased down.

  Uncertain just how to begin, since their conference was the result of a flippant offer she’d made a few days before (rather than anything out of necessity), Clara swallowed and asked, “So what brought you to Birch Harbor? A research project, or...?”

  Mr. Hennings glanced left then replied after an extended beat. “Just a fresh start.”

  Clara blinked. Maybe he didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t blame him.

  “So,” she answered brightly. “Mercy.”

  A broad grin swept across Mr. Hennings’ face. He leaned forward, closer to Clara. Warmth crawled up her neck.

  “Yes,” he said. “First of all, thank you for suggesting the conference. I don’t... I haven’t always come to parent-teacher-type meetings. Her mother used to do that. Not that she needed to either. Mercy is more responsible than me, probably.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands along his shorts.

  Clara forced herself to focus on her computer screen as she navigated into her online grade book. “Well, she’s certainly more responsible than me,” she joked, laughing lightly. Then she turned serious. “Mercy is truly an exceptional young lady, Mr. Hennings.”

  “Thank you for saying that. I happen to agree with you, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else, you know?” He hesitated and a thoughtful expression darkened his face. Clara slid her hand off her mouse and swiveled in her chair to face him. He looked up at her, a frown crinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “I worry about her sometimes.”

  “Mercy?” Clara fell back a little. What could he possibly worry about with Mercy? She was brilliant and kind, smart and hard-working. His comment left her to ignore for the moment just how nervous she seemed to be around him. “What are you worried about?” Clara felt her face flush as she wracked her brain for any incidents in the past couple weeks. Anything to suggest Mercy was less than thriving. She came up empty.

  “New girl. New school. I know how teenagers can be, and Mercy, well,” he pressed his lips into a thin line. “She’s more concerned with straight A’s than happiness.”

  Clara thought about that for a moment. “To Mercy,” she began, treading on thin ice. It was never smart to cross the line between teacher and parent, especially when Clara had no children of her own. No parental experience to speak of. But she pushed ahead. “Straight A’s are happiness.” She shrugged and felt lame.

  “That’s no way to spend a childhood, though.”

  She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. For being the father of a fourteen-year-old, he lacked the middle-agedness that most of her students’ parents bore. No silver hairs at the temples. No paunchy stomach. And yet, despite his evident youthfulness, he reflected the wisdom of an old soul.

  Clara immediately conjured images of her own father and crossed them with each man she had ever been on a date with. It was complicated and confusing, the feelings that currently fought their way to the surface of her mind. Nonetheless, she pushed them down hard and addressed his concern.

  “You wonder if Mercy fits in?”

  He looked at his hands then back up at her. “Something like that. I just want her to have a good life. I want her to have close relationships. Friendships.”

  Clara understood exactly what he needed to hear. He needed to hear that Mercy was more than a student—that she was a joiner, too. But the problem was, she wasn’t. Mercy was a mini Clara. Isolated, nervous, and introverted. She tried a small smile, lifting her hands. “Mr. Hennings, Mercy is a kind-hearted girl. She’s a leader, academically. She might not want to be a cheerleader or join the drama club, but I think you’ve done a great job with her. You and her mom, I mean. Mercy is perfect just the way she is.” As the words curled off her tongue, Clara realized she was saying those things to herself as much as she was to the girl’s father. And, it felt good. She bit her lower lip and raised her eyebrows.

  Mr. Hennings was smiling back and nodding his head. “You’re right. You’re right. I guess it’s just what dads do. Worry, that is. Thanks for your time today, Miss Hannigan.”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Hennings. Call me Clara.” She narrowed her gaze on him, and suddenly he seemed ten years younger. His face free of worry now, he looked more like a peer to Clara and less like a parent, less like her father.

  “Clara. Oh, and you can call me Jake.”

  ***

  Somehow, one thing led to another and Clara had walked Jake clear out to the front office. The secretary gave her a knowing look, but she tried to ignore it, instead turning her focus on her after-school plans.

  As soon as Clara left school and headed to her apartment, her phone rang.

  She glanced at the screen. Amelia. Clara hit Accept. “Hey.”

  “Are you still at school?” Amelia asked, breathlessly.

  “I’m just leaving. Why? Is everything okay?”

  “I’m at the lighthouse with Michael.”

  Clara squinted through the late afternoon sun. “Michael?”

  “The lawyer. Yes. We can’t get in. It’s locked. Kate can’t find a key at the house. Can you swing by the cottage and dig around for a bit?”

  Just as she was about to swing left onto the main drag, Clara flipped her turn signal in the other direction, toward where the cottage sat inland on Birch Creek. “Sure,” she replied, though deep down Clara knew it was a fool’s mission. She had no idea where to begin to look. It was going to take days to sort through everything in that place. “Are you sure it’s not at the house on the harbor?” she pressed, skeptical.

  “No, I’m not.” A crackling sound cut across the line before Amelia came back on. “But if you could look that might help, okay?”

  It felt like Clara had no choice. Her packing session had officially been derailed by Amelia’s urgent need to get into the lighthouse. Impatience was distinctly a Hannigan virtue, but one that had not been passed on to Clara. “Fine,” she murmured through the phone. “I’ll call you if I find something.” She clicked off, accelerated down the road and toward the cottage. Her future home. At least, Clara thought to herself, she enjoyed being at the cottage.

  ***

  After walking up the cobblestone path, Clara unlocked the door to the cottage and pushed it open, stalling for a moment on the threshold. She hadn’t been in the little house since just before the funeral, when she and Kate carefully selected a pretty white lace nightgown for their mother. It had been a specific request. Nora wanted to rest when it was time for her final rest. Don’t have them drape me in some ridiculous gown, she’d said.

  Clara already knew which nightdress to select. It was one Nora had purchased on vacation one year in New York. She’d never worn it, and when Clara asked her why not, she said she was saving it.

  Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes and she silently cursed Amelia for making her go there alone.

  Sucking a deep breath in, she walked directly to the little table by the door and slid open the drawer. Rummaging around inside proved useless. There was nothing in there except a book of matches, a flashlight, a candle, and a back-up key fob for Clara’s own vehicle. Nora had gotten rid of her own car years earlier.

  She shoved the drawer shut and dipped her hand into the basket on top, finding a couple of plastic-wrapped mints, Nora’s late Chihuahua’s collar, and a packet of bills. Clara grabbed the bills and tucked them into the crevice of the front door
so as not to forget.

  Then, she began to forage in the junk drawer in the kitchen. As expected, mostly junk revealed itself. Highlighters and notepads, screws and a tape measure, another flashlight, a packet of flossing sticks. As Clara began to close the drawer, it got jammed. She yanked it out and pushed again, but something was stuck in the far back. Her fingers crawled to the back of the drawer, alighting on the cause of the jam, a thick notebook.

  As she drew it out, her eyes danced across its surface. It was bound in a dusty fabric and bore no indication of what might be inside.

  Clara wondered if she even ought to look.

  If it was her place to look.

  After all, the last time a secret document surfaced, it changed everything.

  Chapter 12—Megan

  Exactly one month earlier, Megan had applied for a position with Mistletoe, a matchmaking app based out of South Carolina. From what she could tell (and assuming she landed the job) she would be able to work remotely from Michigan and simply travel down for training or conferences. It was a dream for Megan—not necessarily moving away from Michigan—but working with a matchmaking company.

  When Megan had revealed her hopes about it to Amelia, she had continued to press her on why she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes off her phone the prior week. Amelia did not act surprised that Megan had an interest in matchmaking, but she claimed she was surprised that Megan kept the application so secretive.

  The truth was Megan knew what people would think. There she was an almost-divorcee about to bear the burden of an empty nest. How cliché to struggle to find something to fill her time now. And how pathetic that she’d have to start making a living on her own, without the help of her fumbling techie husband.

  Plus, Megan wasn’t the sort who immediately inspired someone to find his or her soulmate. Her dark wardrobe, black nails, and thick eyeliner aligned better with a mortician than a matchmaker. Still, set-ups were Megan’s thing. They always had been. Even Brian had sometimes joined her in pairing off friends and engineering successful courtships. In fact, that’s how she and Brian had met. Through a set-up; a blind date.