Lighthouse on the Lake

by Elizabeth Bromke

At that, Kate lowered the pillow. Her lips curled up at the corners. “Actually, Matt,” she began, taking a slow step closer to him. “I think we already started this. Thirty years ago.”

  ***

  With the basement well underway and an afternoon of innuendo and flirtation (and only one surprising visit from her nosey sisters), Kate and Matt climbed up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Her notepad was flipped open on the island, and as Kate took his glass and hers to the sink, she caught him peek at it.

  “Call me a dreamer,” she confessed, trying to hide her embarrassment before he could tease her.

  He covered for his snooping by shaking his head. “What do you mean?”

  Kate indicated the list she had compiled. All the to-dos of setting up a small business. It looked silly when handwritten on lined paper with a pencil like she was some schoolkid. “I’m probably making a huge mistake,” she answered half-heartedly.

  “I’m lost. A mistake regarding...” he passed his hand between them, and Kate felt her heartbeat double.

  “Well that too.” Her skin grew warm beneath her t-shirt, and she wondered if he could see the splotchiness climbing up her neck, a dead giveaway for when Kate was overwhelmed with emotion.

  Matt licked his lips. “Turning this place into a bed-and-breakfast is a no-brainer. You’re smart to do it. You’ll need help, though.” His voice deepened into a playful warning.

  “I can’t disagree there.” Kate made a mock-serious face, narrowing her eyes and batting her lashes up at him, like a helpless damsel. Then she drew back, playing coy. “It’s a good thing I have my sisters for help.”

  He smirked. “True. I guess you don’t need my help.”

  Suddenly, they were standing just inches apart, and Kate had no idea how it happened. Was she floating toward him? Was there some magical magnetism at play? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Leaning in, she hooked her hands on his shoulders and raised onto the balls of her feet. Matt lowered himself, gently holding her waist in his hands.

  Had he done that ten years ago, she’d have squirmed away. She could stand to lose ten or fifteen pounds, and her body parts weren’t the same firm, supple accoutrements that they had been in high school. But Matt’s gentle touch and kind, weather-worn face made her feel at once at ease.

  Kate pressed her lips to his cheek then whispered, “I don’t need you in my life, Matt.” He pushed away and stared at her, apparently caught off guard. She giggled before pulling her face back to his, kissing the other cheek and then adding, “I want you in my life.”

  Chapter 23—Clara

  “As far as iced tea goes, we can probably get to-go cups from the deli.” Clara pointed at the open-air bistro just ahead of them. To the right, incoming boaters shouted jauntily to each other. Speed boats and Ski Dos whizzed across the water, adding more noise to an already busy Village. Clara had always liked the idea of Birch Village more than she liked being at Birch Village. She wasn’t about to have a panic attack or anything. She could handle it. But lots of people and loud places drained her of energy rather than engorging her with it, like was true of Amelia, who subconsciously began humming and walking with a little rhythm ahead of Megan and Clara.

  “Is she dancing?” Megan stage-whispered to Clara. “I think she’s dancing.”

  Clara just smiled and shook her head. “Yes, she’s dancing.” Clara shrank back a step from her sisters, neither of whom minded the attention. They turned and laughed at her before falling into the easy beat of the busy tourist station. A crowd of bikini-clad teenagers cut between Clara and her sisters, forcing her to fall farther behind.

  “Miss Hannigan?” One of the girls pulled down her Ray-Bans, her jaw falling open at the sight of a teacher outside of the classroom. Always an odd situation both for Clara and for the students in question.

  “Girls, hello!” she cheered, noting the jarring lack of fabric that the fourteen-year-olds were walking around in. She tried to reserve judgment, recalling that peer pressure sank its teeth deep.

  The group each giggled awkwardly, taking turns in saying hi. She knew all of them except for one, a taller, blonder, tanner version than her students. And, though Clara wasn’t in the position to classify pubescents based on their objective beauty, well, the unfamiliar girl was markedly prettier. As pretty as Mercy, the poor outsider who hadn’t quite harnessed her potential. Perhaps, she never would. Clara smiled at the beachy bombshell, trying to hide her awe at just how intimidating children could be.

  It was no wonder Mercy was afraid of high school.

  Clara would be too.

  ***

  “Miss Hannigan?”

  Just as Clara was about to catch up to her sisters, a second, deeper voice called out to her, mimicking the earlier one from the precocious promoted eighth grade crew.

  Turning her head toward the dock and the source of the greeting, Clara winced when she identified it.

  Jake Hennings.

  “Mr. Hennings!” Clara replied, her voice a little louder and a little higher than it would be normally. She glanced quickly back at the group of girls who’d just passed by. Was Mercy with them? Confusion clouded her thought process, and she looked back at him and frowned.

  “It’s Jake, remember?”

  Smiling now, she hooked a thumb at the group of girls. “Are you chaperoning Mercy and...” The word friends caught in Clara’s throat, and a flicker shone in Mr. Hennings’—or, Jake’s—eyes. She shook her head and began to backpedal, as though she’d almost endured a faux pas, but he read her mind.

  “Oh, those girls? Are they in Mercy’s class?”

  It was a loaded question, Clara realized. He was at once asking if the prematurely beautiful and buoyant young ladies were the same age as his own socially disinterested and waifish daughter. And, if they were, that fact could cast a glare on Mercy’s status as a loner.

  Then again, Clara could be projecting. She swallowed her worries and smiled brightly. “Some of them are in her grade, yes.” She glanced at his t-shirt, which bore a pinned nametag, then looked beyond him to the dock. “Are you... working?”

  He scratched the back of his head and followed her gaze. “Yeah. I manage the marina.” He waved a hand around, but it wasn’t a gesture of embarrassment. It wasn’t one of pride, either. Jake wasn’t aware that Clara knew a great deal about him. He wasn’t a dock jockey or a boat boy. Jake Hennings was a professor and a researcher. He was educated, and though he didn’t put on airs of sophistication or the like, he oozed self-assurance and intellect. Confidence and calm and cleverness and perhaps even bookishness. The job wasn’t a fit. She could see that as plain as day. Yet, there he was, happy as a clam. Jake Hennings was more than her student’s handsome father.

  To Clara, he was a charming enigma. Something—someone—who might work into her daydreams and thoughts. A summer crush, even. Her legs began to feel rubbery beneath her weight. “I’d better let you get back to work,” she said, her voice trembling.

  If she didn’t know any better, she’d have said a shadow of disappointment crossed his face.

  “Tell Mercy I said hello!” Clara added, offering him a final smile before striding off toward the deli. When she got there, she looked behind to see if she could spot Jake among the crowd. Maybe he was still looking at her.

  But he wasn’t. A new group of bikini-clad bodies had taken Clara’s place. This set was an older one. College-aged girls, perhaps. He was pointing toward the dock, obviously giving them directions they definitely did not need.

  ***

  “So, what’s the next step, here?” Clara asked Amelia as they crossed back toward the beach after all three had gotten their drinks. She kept an eye out for Jake, but he was nowhere to be seen. He probably took off on a cruise around the lake with some gorgeous tourist. That’s how it went in Birch Harbor. Tourists became as appealing to lonely locals as Birch Harbor was to destination-craving tourists. Maybe he’d already learned that.

  “What do you mean?” A
melia smiled broadly to an unfamiliar group of people who’d just descended from the dock and were looking around as if to pin down a tour guide or something.

  “Do you know them?” Megan asked.

  Amelia pointed. “Yes. That’s Mr. Carmichael. Don’t you remember? Our old principal. He looks lost.”

  Clara looked over her shoulder. The group who received Amelia’s wave did seem confused and lost, in fact, and the man leading the way did not look familiar at all, but of course he wouldn’t have been Clara’s principal. “I don’t think he recognizes you,” she pointed out impatiently, ready to move off the marina and onto the cove.

  “True,” Amelia admitted, coming to a complete stop. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and called past Clara to the strangers. “Mr. Carmichael?”

  “Nooo,” Clara hissed beneath her breath. She hated that sort of thing. Her mother did it all the time, stopping to talk to strangers and acquaintances alike. It drove Clara nuts. The conversations were never ending. Twenty minutes in, Clara would have to make the decision to either extricate herself from the situation and wait elsewhere, to avoid a total panic attack, or rudely interrupt to remind her mother they had somewhere to be.

  Megan sighed too. “Amelia,” she said under her breath, “make it fast. I’m not in the mood to rehash past suspensions.”

  “Yes?” the older gentleman in a Hawaiian shirt and white shorts said to Amelia, his face the color of paper beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat.

  “You might remember us,” Amelia replied, passing her hand between Megan and herself. Clara shrank in embarrassment. He clearly did not remember them.

  Still, the man smiled unsteadily and nodded his head. “Let me guess. Former students, no doubt?”

  “That’s right!” Amelia appeared to glow. It occurred to Clara that being recognized was an important thing to her older sister. “Amelia Hannigan. And this is Megan Hannigan.” She continued to babble for a few moments, sharing the year they graduated and a silly memory about some school play gone wrong. As she did. Clara watched a spark catch in the old man’s eyes as the others in his group grew bored.

  “Hannigan,” he said once Amelia stopped to take a breath.

  “That’s right, sir.”

  To Clara’s surprise, he reared back a step then slowly looked over his left shoulder toward the house on the harbor. “Nora Hannigan. You—” A deep frown furrowed his eyebrows and set him back a second step.

  But Amelia just smiled. “Yes, Nora’s our mother. You probably know her. Or, knew her, I mean.”

  He stood a little taller and turned to the woman at his elbow. “Of course,” he said to her and the others who began meandering behind him. “Nora Hannigan.” He turned back to Amelia. “Your mother and I went to school together. A long time ago. I do remember you girls.” A crooked grin shaped his mouth, distorting his features as a gold molar flashed in the far corner.

  Clara narrowed her eyes on him, a sense of foreboding sweeping beneath her skin.

  The woman to Mr. Carmichael’s right side wrapped a papery hand around his arm and leaned into him. “We have lunch reservations, sweetheart.”

  He turned in a choppy circle, his travel mates following his unsteady gaze over to the Village, “My wife and I moved inland years ago, but we brought some friends for an overnight trip,” he gestured behind him to the row of vessels, each nestled in its mooring.

  Clara followed his wave, her gaze seizing a modest houseboat. The name on the side of it caught her attention. Harbor Hawk. The school mascot was the hawk. Made sense.

  Megan cleared her throat behind Clara, urging the conversation to wrap up, but Amelia couldn’t help but to pipe up one more time.

  “Are you staying on your boat?” Her eyes grew wide, and she threw a look to Clara and Megan. Clara felt nausea rise up in her throat.

  Mr. Carmichael’s wife and group now detached themselves from him and moved off the path and to the wooden planks of the plaza. He stuck his hands in his shorts and jangled them a little. “Yes.” His smile left his eyes but lingered on his puffy mouth. Clara inhaled sharply, about to pull Amelia away and save them all.

  “Well if you decide you’d rather sleep on dry land,” Amelia began, her eyes brightening and one hand flashing up like she was starring in a commercial, “our oldest sister, Kate—you might remember her? She graduated a couple years ahead of me?” Amelia left out a big detail there. “She’s converting our house,”—Amelia pointed clearly at the Inn just next to the harbor—“into a bed-and-breakfast. I bet she’d be thrilled if you and your group wanted to test it out.”

  Clara squeezed her eyes shut and shrank away, officially turning and taking a few casual steps away from her embarrassing sister. Kate would be absolutely mortified if she had to scramble to set up for her old principal, of all people. And Clara didn’t find him to be the sort of person she or anyone would want to make special accommodations for. Why Amelia was so happy to throw him a bone was beyond her. He seemed like a smarmy tourist. And a houseboat? What school principal owned a houseboat?

  Turning to assess the situation, Clara caught Megan’s eye and they exchanged a silent agreement. Clara strode back just as Megan took a cue and spoke up. “We’ve got to be going, but how about we take your phone number and let you know if Kate has a vacancy this evening?”

  The man’s face fell, and Amelia glared at Megan then Clara. “I’m sure she does. They don’t want to spend the night on a boat.” Amelia jutted her chin out down the dock. “Even if it’s a houseboat.”

  He grinned. “I’d love to stay at your sister’s bed-and-breakfast. Maybe another time. We could have a Birch Harbor High reunion. Have I got stories about your mother.” His voice softened, and he stared off toward the house. “Say,” he went on as his wife returned, probably to forcibly extract him from Amelia’s affable grasp. “I heard about your father. Please accept my condolences.”

  The three of the sisters were stunned into silence.

  Finally, Megan spoke up. “You must mean our mother,” she pointed out.

  Confusion spread across his face. “Your mother?”

  His wife tugged his arm. “The others are waiting for us, dear.”

  “She passed at the end of last month,” Clara murmured, studying his reaction.

  He passed a hand over his mouth, his expression entirely somber. “I’m terribly sorry to hear it.”

  Amelia, Megan, and Clara now stood silent. Even Amelia came to her senses enough to let the poor, confused man be on his way.

  “Oh, girls,” the wife said, once Mr. Carmichael broke from his odd reverie and started to turn. “Do you know if there’s a Visitor Center or a place we can get some information about local attractions?”

  Amelia raised her eyebrows and looked at her youngest sister. “Clara? Do you know anything about that?”

  Clara had never once played tour guide. She could direct them around the Village and up toward the school and any other main locale, but her mind was turning a blank. “Um,” she began. “We used to have a museum...” It was the best she could offer.

  “A museum sounds lovely,” the lady replied earnestly.

  Amelia replied, “I’m sorry, I think my little sister is right. Birch Harbor doesn’t have a museum anymore. Maybe if you go to the marina office, they can give you more information about local sightseeing. As far as I know, it’s the marina and the lake that people come for.” She smiled sweetly, and the woman thanked them again, finally wandering off as Mr. Carmichael lifted his hand in a weak wave. “Nice to see you, girls.”

  The three of them mirrored his wave, muttering low goodbyes as his wife tugged him gently in the direction of Fiorillo’s. “Come on, Gene. Let’s find the others.”

  ***

  “That was weird,” Clara observed once Mr. Carmichael and his wife were out of earshot.

  Amelia shrugged. “Memory gets weird when you’re old. Everyone was sort of amazed when Dad left. It was a bit of a town scandal, ironically.”


  “Ironically?”

  “Well, Mom thought Kate’s pregnancy would doom her reputation. In fact, it was Dad’s departure, clearly.” Amelia passed a hand back toward the confused former principal. “It was even Mr. Carmichael’s most vivid recollection, clearly.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Megan lifted her eyebrow. “Seems like he remembered Mom pretty well.” She grinned and together Amelia and Megan seemed to shrug off the whole exchange.

  Clara let it go. It occurred to her that Birch Harbor history was a tapestry of personal connections and bizarre remembrances. It wasn’t the first time someone apologized about Wendell Acton’s absence. And she had better get used to people doing the same for Nora now.

  “Where do tourists go when they come to town?” Megan asked once the trio had made it down a sandy set of wooden steps and onto the beach, their iced teas sweating in the late morning warmth.

  Clara took a long drink from her iced tea then came up for air. It was funny that she possessed some knowledge her older sisters didn’t have. She felt a little like a gatekeeper, even in the wake of being left out of the reunion with Principal Carmichael. “I have no idea. Mom was always involved in that sort of thing, though. You’d have thought she was Birch Harbor’s official greeter. But she always dragged her guests and visitors to the country club or church. Or here,” Clara waved back toward the Village.

  “What kinds of visitors did Mom have?” Megan asked, throwing Clara a sidelong glance.

  A laugh escaped Clara’s mouth. “All kinds,” she answered. “I mean, you know.”

  “Not really,” Megan answered.

  Clara looked at Amelia for confirmation from the oldest among them. Amelia nodded her on, granting permission to dish out details. “You have a special insight into the secret life of Nora Hannigan, babe,” Amelia said, lowering her drink and pulling her sunglasses from her head onto her nose.

  “What are you talking about?” Clara asked.

  “Girl,” Amelia answered, “We had Nora as a typical mom. Flighty, sure. Distracted, yes. And of course, she had already begun her country club nights and church commitments, but by the time we were out of the house, it was just beginning.”