Lighthouse on the Lake

by Elizabeth Bromke

  However, once Clara parked the car, and Amelia caught a glimpse of Michael standing in the sand near the water, the late summer sun throwing his shadow into lazy waves, she felt differently.

  “Can you wait here?” she asked Clara, her hand on her little sister’s arm.

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  Amelia pushed out of the little car and ran her hands up her waist, smoothing her stomach into the waist of her jeans beneath her white tee. A light burst of wind tousled her hair into her face, but she just shook it out, leaving it to fly around as she strode toward Michael.

  Pulling her father’s watch from her jeans, Amelia considered its worth. The other items from her mom’s will ran through her mind, too. They never found his gun. Or his wedding band. But they hadn’t finished looking. Anyway, Amelia thought, what difference would the discovery of otherwise mundane objects really make? None, probably. Their search would continue unless Gene Carmichael could answer some very big, very old questions.

  But then, maybe getting in touch with Gene wouldn’t end their search either. Maybe, the whole hunt was one borne of boredom and nothing more.

  Then again, why would a lucid Nora Hannigan write those three possessions into her will? Why would she add the lighthouse if she knew it wasn’t theirs for the taking?

  Was it a wild goose chase? A game? Or Nora’s way to control their lives from the grave?

  Or was their mother, for once, trying to help?

  And then there was the matter of this man. This virtual stranger who, apparently had taken a liking to Nora and extended his kindness to her all-but-estranged daughters.

  He was different from any man Amelia had ever taken an interest in. Serious and careful. Intentional and surefooted. Older, but only just. Handsome.

  Yet Amelia was able to set that aside. She didn’t quite see those qualities. What she saw was a Birch Harbor local who wanted to help her. And, for once, she was accepting it.

  What help could Michael offer though? The lighthouse was off the table, for all intents and purposes. And the estate was settled. Nothing to bill. No legalese to wade through.

  “Michael,” she called out. The late afternoon felt different up at the lighthouse. It was quiet. The air was thinner, maybe. The sky took on a red effect that didn’t happen at the Village with all its bright lights and boats. Normally, Amelia didn’t like quiet. Silence, to Amelia, was lonesome and suffocating. Silence meant no attention. It meant she had to be alone with her thoughts. With who she was.

  Who she wasn’t.

  He turned slowly from the water, his hands tucked neatly into khaki shorts. He’d probably changed since being at the office. This was not lawyer Michael.

  This was after hours, beach Michael. Friendly family research assistant.

  “Amelia.” His reply came like a gentle echo. “How was your day?”

  In another universe, they wouldn’t be meeting with Clara waiting in the car. They wouldn’t be soaring off on some sort of spy mission. They’d be... discussing funding for the Birch Players next show. Or drinking wine in Adirondack chairs after throwing together a small-town film festival. Amelia began to recognize a chemistry between them that buzzed a little differently than her usual flings.

  Brief though their time together had been, Michael felt like a partner. An equal.

  The banal question was a welcome relief. After all, was there really any rush? Clara had given her full permission to soak in the setting. The lighthouse did not belong to them. This may be their last time there. Particularly if Amelia did decide to leave again.

  “It was...” she searched for the right word to capture exactly how her day had gone. Moments from her life in New York City flashed through her mind like a running Venn Diagram. In New York, her day consisted of sleeping in, waiting tables, and trudging around for auditions until it was time to hit the bars with the younger set. She was eternally tired. Eternally hopeless. Eternally, and ironically, unhappy. “Exciting.”

  “Exciting?” he asked, his mouth curling on one side into a lazy grin.

  “Yes, actually.” Amelia smiled broadly. It was the truth. For the first time in a long time, her weekend was full of life. Real life. Not the empty life of a forty-something who chased twenty-somethings around a soulless city in search of a ripped-off version of her dream job.

  “So, no luck on Liesel Hart?” He gestured toward the lighthouse which glowed with the back-light of the sinking sun.

  Amelia shook her head. “Unless you have your grandfather’s old paperwork.” She offered a smile, but he shrugged.

  “We can get her address and send her a letter to ask about it. Or call the Coast Guard. I’m sure they have a record of how this place came to change hands.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Amelia’s smile fell away, and she stepped up to the line of water in the sand, tapping at it with her knock-off Birkenstocks, making miniature splashes.

  He cleared his throat then chuckled. “Honestly?”

  She smiled, waiting.

  “I think it’s interesting. This old place teetering on the edge of town. Your eccentric mom—” his face reddened. “Sorry.”

  Amelia laughed. “That’s okay. She was kooky.”

  His shoulders dropped a little. “Well, I loved that about her. She always had these tall tales. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, but the appointments she made—and her drop-ins—well, they were memorable. She was a character. And charitable, too.”

  At that, Amelia couldn’t hold back an eye roll. “That came later in life. When she got bored, I think.”

  “She talked about you and your sisters a lot. Sharon felt like she knew you four.”

  Michael’s secretary was enough of a busybody that she probably did think she knew the Hannigan sisters. And if that was true, maybe she could be of some help with the mystery. But Sharon wasn’t a local. She was a transplant. And the mystery was a local one that needed local knowledge. Insider stuff.

  “Don’t you have other things to do?” Amelia asked, turning to him.

  “Not really. I’m not one to go out a lot. I like history and reading. I like to see shows, too, but we don’t have that here. Culture, I guess. That’s my thing. So, when we read your mother’s final note, I was captivated, you know? I don’t think there’s a better way to spend your time than by meeting new people and, well, helping them.”

  He was skirting around something, and Amelia had a suspicion about what it could be. But it wasn’t the time or place to pursue her hunch. Instead, she just nodded her head, accepting his half-truths for the time being.

  “So where to?” he asked, apparently pleased that she wasn’t pushing the matter.

  Amelia shook the nagging feeling that they had an opportunity they were squandering, threw a longing gaze to the lighthouse then turned back to him. “The marina. I’m pretty sure he’s there tonight.”

  “Right, you mentioned that. Are you sure you want to... confront him, though?”

  She considered the question seriously, thankful that in light of Kate’s absence from the whole ordeal someone was stepping up and offering a responsible vantage point.

  “I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t know,” she admitted at last, peering across the sand up to where Clara was parked. Her face appeared in the driver’s seat, placid and patient as ever.

  Michael crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. “What do you think you’ll learn from him?”

  “Maybe nothing. But what I want to learn is why my mother named him as the cause of my father’s disappearance. And why the police didn’t.”

  Chapter 33—Clara

  After a while, Amelia returned to the car. Clara started the ignition but waited, looking over at her sister for a moment.

  “You look different all of a sudden.”

  Amelia whipped her head toward Clara. “What?”

  “You look different. You seem different. What did you two talk about out there?” Clara wasn’t the sort to pry, but i
t was true. Amelia had gone through some sort of transformation in the span of fifteen minutes on the beach at the lighthouse with the family lawyer.

  Amelia eased back into her seat and stared out the window, directly at the old, rickety property. Clara followed her gaze. She’d been to the lighthouse less than a handful of times. Mostly, she’d driven by it on her way out of town, actually. Though she knew it was once part of her family’s collection of harbor properties, Clara felt no real attachment to the place. Her visits there had never been tied to the Actons, whom she never quite considered to be her grandparents even before she learned of her true beginnings.

  The white paint was peeling off the siding, that much was obvious from their position inside the car, yards away. And the house seemed to sink away from the tower into the sand. Clara spoke up. “Whoever does own it must not live there. Right?”

  Amelia gave her a hard look. “Yeah. I mean, obviously.”

  “It looks like she doesn’t even care about it. This Liesel woman.”

  Nodding, Amelia looked back at the lighthouse.

  Clara went on. “It doesn’t make sense, then.”

  “What doesn’t?” Amelia asked.

  “If this person bought the lighthouse which would have been when the Actons died... what? In the early 2000s? Well, why would it be sitting here empty? I never remember anyone coming in and taking over. I feel like we’d have known.”

  A lightbulb seemed to flash in Amelia’s mind. “Oh my gosh. You could be right.” Then she shook her head. “Mom wouldn’t have cared, though. She was so... burned by the Actons, it wouldn’t have made her radar, you know?”

  “Mom was a gossip. First and foremost. If someone bought and moved into that place, she’d have known about it.”

  “Maybe they just never moved in? Maybe it was on the down low,” Amelia argued.

  “Maybe. Then why would they buy it at all?” Clara frowned and put the car in reverse.

  “Properties change hands all the time with no fanfare. I bet she didn’t know.” Amelia patted her thighs as if she’d settled it. But Clara was less convinced.

  ***

  In time, they’d made their way back to the house on the harbor, the Inn. According to her texts, Kate had plans to meet Matt for drinks at The Bottle. Clara cringed at it, still uncomfortable with their reunion, the truth, and the new normal that was taking shape in her little town among her oldest sister and this complete stranger.

  Still, Kate wanted to be deep in the loop on the whole Gene Carmichael situation, so she’d told them to call her immediately with any news or if they needed backup. After all, she would be sitting but a stone’s throw from the dock.

  They hadn’t heard from Megan yet, but she, too, had dinner plans at the Village. Clara was excited to see her niece—or cousin, as the case may be. But she knew her place was there with Amelia, as emotional support during a very bizarre turn of events. Anyway, Megan also declared she’d be nearby.

  By the time they got out of her car, Michael had parked his truck on the street and Amelia had arranged for a family breakfast at seven o’clock sharp the next morning to debrief after that evening’s events.

  Clara felt that seven was way too early, and that a late-night gathering might be more appropriate. Anyway, what if they learned something that changed everything? Neither Amelia nor Clara could sleep on a juicy revelation.

  Evening was falling slowly on the shore, the sun still hanging steadily above the horizon behind them as they walked to the marina, Clara in front, Amelia and Michael beside each other behind her. Clara didn’t like the role of chaperone, which is what she was fast becoming, but once they arrived at the marina, Michael took her position and had Clara step back.

  “If it’s all right with both of you, maybe we should make a game plan, first?” he suggested.

  Clara peered around him toward the marina office, looking casually to see if Jake Hennings was in there. Surely, he wasn’t. Surely, he didn’t work all day and all evening. Her heart sank, and she returned her attention to Michael. “A game plan is a great idea. How exactly are we going to spin this? Maybe we should just take his number and tell him we’d like to call him in the future.”

  “What?” Amelia asked. “That would be way weirder.”

  “I could easily contact him on your behalf,” Michael offered. “I have his number and email address somewhere. I’m sure of it.”

  Amelia shook her head. “I believe in fate. And we bumped into him earlier today? What are the odds of seeing him, stopping and talking to him, then coming across Mom’s journal entry?”

  “Probably relatively high,” Clara reasoned. “I mean, he comes to town all the time, and we were actively looking for some things in the cottage...”

  Amelia shot Clara a look, and she knew well enough to shut up.

  “It’s your call, Amelia. You’re the one who read Nora’s letter about the lighthouse. You’re the one who took this on. We’re here for you, right Clara?” He flicked a glance to Clara who felt a sudden urge to prod Amelia on. A sudden sense of adventure. With Michael there, she felt safe. She imagined Amelia did, too.

  “We’re going in. I have to know. We all have to know. Even Kate and Megan who are off doing their own thing. This is our Dad we’re talking about.” The plea was meant for Clara, but when they locked expressions, awkwardness filled the space between the sisters. Wendell, in fact, was not Clara’s father. But even so, Amelia was Clara’s sister. And finding him mattered. It was her fate. Their fate, perhaps. And if this Gene Carmichael character had the answer, then they had to pursue him.

  “I’m in. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 34—Amelia

  The plan was simple. They’d walk to Gene Carmichael’s houseboat and call out to him. Michael would re-introduce himself then hand it over to Amelia. If there was one thing she could pull off, it was improv. It was her best talent. And here was her one shot to use it. An important shot, too.

  Amelia felt her skin tingle with life as the trio strode past the marina office and onto the broad wooden pier. For a small town, Birch Harbor offered several docks with dozens of boat slips, each organized neatly by an assigned letter.

  The platform carried them off land and into the life of Great People, as Wendell had always called boaters and sailors of Lake Huron, including himself. It was a lame joke back when Amelia was a girl. But as she grew up, she came to understand it. She’d seen her fair share of lake people across the States. They were nice, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth types.

  Still, her dad had been right. We aren’t lake people. Lake people crack open a Coors Light on their stern, toss a line in the water, and buzz around in circles spitting cud starboard until they have to pack it in for the day. Those of us who sail the Great Lakes aren’t lake people. We’re Great People! Amelia smiled at the silly memory, happy to greet it. Funny enough, Wendell was no snob. He just took life on the lake seriously. The water was not just for recreation to Wendell. It was life.

  As they walked, Lake Huron slipped in and around the docks, lapping up against the moorings in the hollow spaces between the boats, its rhythm churning a nautical time.

  Turning onto C Dock, Amelia lifted a finger. “Here it is. Right, Clara? This was the one?” The third dock on the right hosted larger vessels in ample berths, but Gene Carmichael’s was the only houseboat currently moored. Modest as far as houseboats went, Amelia began to worry if it was even his.

  Clara nodded urgently. “Yes, look.” She pointed, too, to the side of the boat where the name glowed from beneath a string of lights. “Harbor Hawk.”

  Amelia nodded at the name, faintly remembering it from earlier in the day.

  The boat was alive with lights and the faint sound of jazz, even though the sun had yet to set. Muffled voices roared up and lowered like a tide. She was silently grateful they were back. It was luck. Or, fate. Meant to be. Amelia clung to her belief in destiny and that everything was working out because it was meant to.

  “W
ant me to do it?” Michael asked, standing impossibly close to Amelia.

  Emotion overcame her, and she squeezed his hand. “Thanks, but I’ve got it.” Then, stepping up to the edge of the dock, she shook her arms out and cleared her throat. A quick glance back to Clara, who gave her a thumbs up, nearly pushed Amelia to laugh at herself for what she was about to say. “Um,” she began, biting her lip and then again shaking out her arms. “Okay, here we go. AHOY!”

  Behind her, Clara and Michael fell into veritable hysterics. Amelia turned and glared. “It’s all I could think of!” She shushed them and tried again, pulling volume from her diaphragm and bellowing deeply over the ambient sounds. “Ahoy! Mr. Carmichael!”

  Like magic, her old principal, the man named in her mother’s angry, missing diary entry appeared from a low door amidships. His face glowed, the sun behind him creating a halo and changing his entire look. Gone was the wan, older gentleman who kindly ruled over her high school and fumbled through recalling who she was earlier that day. In just hours he’d turned into a flamboyant houseboat partier, not yet past his prime. In that moment, Amelia saw an unwelcome connection between Mr. Carmichael the principal and her mother the country club queen. She frowned.

  “Hi!” he called back, moving through his boat and to the side carefully, shedding some of the charisma he’d boasted just moments before as he took care to avoid falling. “Amelia, right?”

  Impressed he’d remembered her name this time, she nodded and glanced behind her.

  Michael took a step forward. “Gene. How are you?”

  Mr. Carmichael cocked his head to the side, studying Michael for a moment then snapping his fingers. “Well I’ll be darned. Matuszewski’s boy. Michael, hello.” He passed a gnarled hand over the side of the boat and onto the dock, and Michael shook it. “I’m here with Amelia and her sister,” he cleared his throat, “Clara. As a friend, mainly. We, or they, rather, had a question.”