Lighthouse on the Lake

by Elizabeth Bromke

  Megan couldn’t help but revisit those early days in her mind's eye. Brian waiting awkwardly in front of the Italian restaurant just down the street from her dormitory. Their first kiss just outside her room. He didn’t even ask to come in, and never would. He left so much up to Megan in those college days. She never stopped to think if he ought to have. Maybe their lives would be different. Maybe college would have panned out for her without the pressure of managing their blossoming relationship.

  Yes, Megan began college.

  No, she did not graduate.

  Sometimes, she wondered if that was her own fault or Brian’s or what. Maybe no one’s. Maybe just one of those things in life that was ever and always undone. Much like her divorce was shaping up to be.

  Presently, she sat at her in-home office desk. Neither she nor Brian had taken one step toward packing. They stood firmly at an impasse. And their lawyers were the only ones benefiting. Although, even the money-hungry attorneys were tired of the indecision.

  A digital clock on the desk reminded Megan that Sarah would be home soon, probably giddy with excitement that summer was so near at hand. Having quit volleyball, the teenager had no plans except to get back to Birch Harbor, which Megan partially appreciated, since she’d like to be anywhere other than in a shared space with Brian Stevenson.

  She clicked open a browser and navigated to her email. Having received no phone call or message from the hiring manager at Mistletoe, she was forced to access their online interface to check the status of her application. Over the past four weeks, she’d watched as her application advanced through three out of who-knew-how-many steps of the hiring process.

  Week one, her application was marked as received.

  Week two, her application was marked as processing.

  Week three, her application was marked as in review. Megan didn’t know the difference between processing and in review.

  And last week, nothing. No progress whatsoever. She hoped to see something—anything—to assure her that she was good enough to be a social media manager for some small-beans dating app.

  Clicking through the confirmation email to their applicant interface, Megan noticed a new note in her application status.

  Rejected.

  Her jaw nearly hit the desk and her face grew warm. A feverish anxiety crept beneath her blouse and her knee began bobbing in rapid succession.

  Rejected.

  No. No. No. It had to be an error.

  Didn’t they know who she was? She was smart and witty and had a great sense of social media management. She had a teenager for goodness’ sake. A direct connection to the stupid app’s future demographic!

  She searched the page for anything else—a link to personal notes or some sort of reply, but nothing. Nothing to explain why she couldn’t join the workforce like every other middle-aged, former-housewife, mid-life crisis-stricken woman. Now, she was worse than a cliché. She was a reject.

  Sobs crawled up her throat and tears filled her vision as she pushed the heels of her hands hard into her eye sockets.

  “Are you okay?”

  The deep voice roused Megan with a start. She looked up, tears staining her cheeks, her mouth wet with spittle. “No,” she sobbed to Brian, who stood helplessly in the door frame. Megan didn’t even know he was home.

  She pushed her hands back into her eyes and slumped onto the desk, but his footsteps drew close and—to Megan’s great surprise—he rested a hand on her shoulder. Still, despite the unwanted relief that filled her heart, she didn’t turn and look at him.

  “Megan,” he said softly. “Is it the divorce?”

  At that she turned, shaking her head weepily. “Actually, no. It’s not that.”

  His hand fell from her shoulder and he studied the computer screen. “What’s this?” he asked.

  Embarrassed now, she clicked out and rubbed the tears from her eyes. “Nothing. I just... I applied for a job. Didn’t get it. That’s all.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, but she looked away out the window, wondering where Sarah was. She should be home any minute. Megan had better pull herself together and push away the disappointment. She had a daughter to be normal for.

  “I’m fine, really. It’s just been a hard few weeks.”

  “Actually,” he answered, stepping back and lowering himself into the wooden chair that stood to the side of the desk.

  The chair was meant to be a piece of decor, not a piece of furniture, but men didn’t understand those things. In over two decades of marriage, Brian had never learned to stop drying his hands on the decorative towels. He slept on throw pillows. He often dragged a perfectly poised flannel blanket off the arm of the rocking chair and over his lap during their nightly viewings of JEOPARDY! even when there was a stack of cuddling blankets in the basket by the TV.

  For a very long time, Megan found his willful ignorance somehow endearing. Like so many things, though, the habit lost its charm and turned into a pet peeve for her.

  She rubbed her eyes hard, like a child, and propped an elbow on the desk, staring impatiently at him, waiting for him to lean into some lecture on how they needed to get the paperwork done.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about everything, Megan.” His voice had dropped lower, and his gaze was on his lap where he picked at a hangnail.

  “What are you talking about?” Her disappointment over the job still clung to her heart, but his apology softened the tension in her shoulders.

  He shrugged and squeezed his eyes shut. “I should have come to the funeral... I should have insisted.”

  “Are you talking about Mom’s funeral?” She narrowed her eyes on him, a little bewildered. “I told you I didn’t want you there,” she replied, her voice flat and lifeless. It was the truth. Nora didn’t need her daughter’s marital drama in death, too.

  “I should have gone. It’s... Megan, it’s killing me that I didn’t.”

  Megan looked up, now entirely baffled by this sudden show of sympathy. “Why is it killing you? We’re getting a divorce, Brian. It doesn’t matter if you show up to my family commitments. In fact, you shouldn’t anymore, if that’s not obvious. That’s what a divorce means. That we aren’t family anymore. You know?” As the words sliced out of her mouth, a bitter taste developed on her tongue. She didn’t believe a thing she was saying. She frowned and shook her head, looking away again. Megan could not face this hypocrite of a man who requested a divorce from her but now decided he wanted a piece of her life still.

  His tone changed abruptly. “I’m going to Birch Harbor on Wednesday. I’m visiting your mom’s gravesite. I hope that’s okay with you.” He rose shakily, and Megan’s eyes crawled from his jeans to his shirt to his face.

  “You’re what?”

  “I can’t live with myself about it anymore. I’m going to say my goodbyes to her. I loved your mom. Despite... despite everything.”

  Megan shook her head, wincing at an oncoming headache. “Brian, we’re getting a divorce.” She didn’t know how much clearer she could be.

  He had turned to leave but now whipped back around, his hands tucked neatly in his pockets. “Yeah, well. We’re not divorced yet.” She was about to protest further but he pulled a hand out from his jeans and waved it to the door. “You and Sarah can come, too, you know.” And with that, Megan’s husband had the gall to smile at her. A sincere, heart-stopping smile.

  ***

  “I’m coming back to town on Wednesday.” Megan was on the phone with Kate. Sarah had made it home from school and was now freaking out about her parents’ news that she’d be missing the last day. Megan had already tried to reassure her daughter that the Yearbook Signing and Cafeteria Social would not impact her ability to graduate the next year.

  “Why Wednesday?” Kate asked.

  Megan shook her head as she poured herself an early evening glass of wine. “Brian is going to a conference on Thursday and won’t be home until Sunday.”

  “Wait a minute. Back up please.” />
  Megan winced. Here it came. The Spanish inquisition. Or, rather, the Hannigan Inquisition. She cleared her throat, took a fast swig then launched into an awkward explanation of the fact that Brian was struggling with guilt about missing the funeral and wanted to pay his respects, and Megan thought it would be weird for him to go without her, and, well, they were all going together. Like one big happy family.

  “Brian? As in your husband who you keep trying to convince us that you’re divorcing?”

  Megan felt her face flush, though it might have been from the wine. “That’s the one,” she replied, leaning back into her recliner as she clicked the television set on. She didn’t want to talk to Kate. She wanted to talk to Amelia, with whom she could share news about her job rejection. Plus, Amelia was always more sympathetic than Kate, who often took the position of critical mother more than empathizing sister.

  “That’s great,” Kate said, her voice bright.

  Megan frowned. “It is?”

  “Of course it is. I was surprised he didn’t come to the funeral to begin with.”

  “I told him not to, and he listened for once in our marriage.” Megan bristled under the judgment. Despite their inevitable dissolution, she felt she had to defend the guy. How humiliating. “He wouldn’t have anyway,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Yes, he would have. Brian isn’t one to miss family functions.”

  “Well, we’re not family anymore,” Megan reasoned, although her voice was growing wobbly.

  “Whatever,” Kate shot back.

  Megan felt hurt at her sister’s edgy reply and heaved herself back into an upright position. “Well, anyway, we probably won’t stay the night. Just drive down and back. I’m not even sure why I told you, except I might not make it to town this weekend.”

  “Why not?” Kate pressed.

  Megan let out an exaggerated sigh. “If I have to drive down tomorrow, then I probably won’t feel like driving down again in two days.”

  “Megan, we have a lot to do here.”

  Kate’s voice was full of guilt, something Megan was particularly experienced with. Even so, Megan had bluffed. She would return for the weekend. After all, she had nothing better to do, especially now that she had no job offer. A distraction would be useful. “All right,” she replied at length, setting her wine glass down and flipping blindly through channels.

  “So, you’re coming this weekend, too?”

  “Yeah,” Megan answered. An idea surged in her head, but the logistics would be tricky. “Maybe I’ll even leave Sarah there for the rest of the week, actually. She’d love to help, and she’ll be done with school since Wednesday would have been her last day of the semester.”

  “Sounds great to me.” Kate’s voice lifted at the offer of help, and Megan couldn’t help but wonder if her oldest sister was on the verge of turning into Nora.

  “Maybe we can meet for a late lunch after we go to the cemetery. How does Fiorillo’s sound? One o’clock?”

  Kate hesitated a moment before replying, “I already have lunch plans tomorrow, actually...”

  Megan’s interest caught on a particularly mind-numbing reality show. “Plans? What, with Amelia or something?”

  “No,” Kate answered. “With, um, Matt. Matt Fiorillo.”

  A cackle slipped out of Megan’s mouth; she couldn’t contain it. She apologized quickly then slapped a hand on her thigh. “You know what, Kate? Why don’t we just make it a double date then?”

  Chapter 13—Amelia

  Amelia had just finished a third phone call with Kate after a second phone call with Clara. Both had come up empty in response to Amelia's request. No key. Nowhere. No how.

  Now she stood outside of the lighthouse with Michael but with no way to enter the premises. Were it just Amelia there, she’d take a rock, pop it through the window in the door, reach in, expertly unlock said door, open, enter, and explore.

  All that proved impossible in the presence of a serious-minded attorney. Amelia shoved her phone into her boho bag and crossed her arms, studying both the lighthouse and Michael in turn. Somehow the two went together. White paint chipped off at the corners and along the seams where the walls met the windows and the door met its frame. A square, modest house, really, its height stood no chance against the stone tower. Still, it carried a charm and charisma that wasn’t necessarily an effect of its situation. It could be a sweet little house all its own.

  Michael, for his part, also presented something of a duality. His good looks and evidently single status didn’t quite go together. But, beneath the surface was no charming ladies’ man. Instead, he was serious and earnest. And maybe, Amelia thought, rather cautious.

  She wondered, briefly, what it was like to be a fearful person and if it wasn’t a quality she’d do well to embrace at times. Okay, maybe not fearfulness... but, well rather cautious. Too often in Amelia’s life she’d acted recklessly, hiding behind her impulses instead of taming them. She identified as free-spirited, bohemian, and creative but in reality, was little more than a directionless dreamer.

  Amelia bit down on her lip and squinted as she began trekking back toward the house—and Michael.

  “Let’s do another loop,” she suggested to him once they met back up. They’d already circled the lighthouse twice, looking for a point of egress, which Michael still felt uncomfortable about.

  He cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. “All right. After that, we can jump online and search the Registry of Deeds or, if you’d rather, head into the County Assessor. Someone is paying taxes on this place. It’s not totally abandoned.”

  She nodded then took off along the house and toward the tower, or whatever it was called. Amelia figured now was as good a time as any to learn about lighthouses. Growing up, the one in Birch Harbor should have been more relevant to her. After all, her grandparents had lived there, and it was the same place her father grew up.

  The truth was, however, that Amelia and her sisters had little to do with the Actons. Nora and Wendell, for the years they were still together, always hosted family events. The few times the girls had visited their grandparents in the creaky old lighthouse, they were not allowed to play anywhere near the tower. Instead, they were relegated to their father’s old toys—rusty metal Tonka Trucks and shovels and pails on the modest stretch of beach that technically belonged to the county.

  Amelia recalled one summer when Megan was splashing in the water—she must have been around seven or eight—and a boat sped close to the shoreline, sending up a heaving wave that toppled Amelia’s little sister face first into the water. She’d come up choking and sputtering, panicked. Grandma Acton didn’t even stop washing the dishes when Kate sent Amelia in to report the news. The old woman wasn’t too concerned—she’d never been as warm and nurturing a grandmother as the girls might have liked. Austere, old, and always concerned over money: those were Grandma Acton’s attributes.

  Kate, on the other hand, tended carefully to Megan, forcing her to cough and blow her nose into Kate’s ratty beach towel.

  Amelia recalled watching with interest at how well Kate handled the emergency. Now, for the first time, it dawned on her how dangerous it could be for young children to play in the water with no supervision.

  “Mom’s estate,” she mused, as she ran a hand along the chipping brick tower. She turned to catch Michael’s reaction.

  “You mean you think your mom’s estate covers the taxes? It wasn’t in her paperwork, though.” He scratched his head.

  “Hmm,” she replied, frowning. “If not her, then who?”

  Michael shrugged. “It’ll be easy to figure out once we sit down to it.”

  Nodding, she had reached the lake side of the property. Only a few yards of sand broke the distance between where they stood together and the dock belonging to the lighthouse.

  “What happened when your dad’s folks passed?” Michael asked, his voice nearly fading away on a light breeze that crossed up from the lake.

&
nbsp; Amelia shrugged. “We weren’t close to them. Before they passed, they moved together into an assisted living facility in Detroit. They didn’t have other children than our father, but they did have younger siblings and relatives they were closer to. When Grandpa and Grandma Acton passed, we were in our twenties. Megan had just met Brian, I think. She didn’t go to the funeral. I remember that very clearly because she was close enough to go, but it was... I’m not sure. It was an uncomfortable thing, for some reason. I was living in California at the time. You know, I think Kate and Clara went. We could ask them,” she suggested.

  He seemed to consider what she said for a moment, adding only a quiet utterance as if he understood. She supposed he probably did. After all, didn’t attorneys see the worst of humanity? She was quite confident the Hannigans weren’t the worst.

  They strode side by side to the dock, and Amelia studied it carefully. During its use, the Actons had their own vessels tied up there—a modest rowboat which Grandpa Acton had called his greatest weapon in times of stress (Amelia never understood that as a child, and even now she wasn’t quite sure). He also had a Coastguard issued speedboat which he used to provide maintenance on the buoys and other navigational tools that existed away from the lighthouse. A thought occurred to her as she took note of the barren dock that seemed precarious enough to detach and sink directly into Lake Huron.

  “He didn’t even own his own speed boat here,” she said as much to herself as she did to Michael.

  His head whipped up to her. “That’s right,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing up at the tower.

  She went on, “I don’t know if the Actons actually owned this place.”

  The thought horrified her for a few reasons. One, it was sad to think her grandparents didn’t have something that belonged to them. Two, it meant that Nora’s diary entry was either a mistake or a lie. Amelia scrounged her memory for the date of the entry, wondering if the poor woman had committed the information to paper in the throes of her illness. And lastly, if the Actons didn’t own the lighthouse, then neither could Amelia nor her sisters.