Drew glanced at the storefronts along the way to the bookstore, noting they were typical of many small towns with several family-run businesses. A sign in one window advertised a fundraiser for the new library. Coming Soon! it proclaimed, Brought to You by Winters Building Ltd., like some kind of blockbuster movie.
Winters. Wasn’t that also the name of the woman who’d sent in the funding request? Grace Winters? Then he remembered the logo below the hotel name on his room receipt. A home away from home with the Winters family. Did the family own everything in town?
He passed a café that was almost full, making it a promising bet for lunch later on, and glanced idly at the string of shops beyond. A few were targeted at tourists, their front windows displaying the kinds of souvenirs Drew had seen in many of the coastal towns and cities on his tour. Most of the souvenirs reflected fishing themes with a focus on lobsters, the primary catch in the region, and ranged from the tacky to more high-end merchandise. Everything from tea towels with grinning lobsters and cheesy captions like Trapped at Last or Caught in Your Net to saltwater taffy—The Best in Maine. But an antiques shop featuring old lobster pots and a collection of mariners’ instruments from centuries ago caught his attention and Drew took a few minutes to study the display, deciding to return later for a look inside.
When he reached Porter, he noticed the sign perched above the sidewalk a few doors up from the corner. It was an opened book, with Novel Thinking etched where a title would go. Drew hesitated, wondering whether to see this Grace Winters first or go to the lighthouse. He knew she’d been emailed that someone from the Guard would be visiting shortly, but he hadn’t contacted her himself to set an actual appointment.
First the lighthouse, he decided. He continued down the street, glancing occasionally at more shop windows on his left and the marina with its assortment of pleasure boats on his right. No actual fishing boats, he noted, as he focused on the lighthouse ahead. The distance was hardly a challenge for Drew’s long stride, yet by the time he reached the sandy beach at the end of the commercial section of the town, he’d warmed up enough to unzip his jacket.
Now the residential buildings he passed caught his interest—a collection of modest bungalows and cottages of all shapes and ages seemed to vie with one another for access to the beach. The land rose steeply above the water here and he spotted a hilltop house—an impressive nineteenth-century mansion really—that commanded an unrestricted view of the harbor and town.
He stopped, craning his head back for a better look. The house had turrets at each end along with the requisite wraparound veranda. A wooden staircase led from the veranda down through gardens to a sandy path onto the road and the beach. Motor access to the place was probably from the top at the back of the house. The place was no doubt the abode of some founding father of the town. The ubiquitous Winters family was Drew’s guess.
As he continued on, the mix of houses and cottages gave way to a string of wood-framed cottages. Many were painted in a variety of pastel colors and decorated with window boxes or hanging planters, but some were boarded up and a few had For Sale signs up on the mix of sand and grass that passed for lawns. Drew was beginning to think Lighthouse Cove was a tourist town in transition, which probably accounted for the lack of serious fishing boats in the harbor.
The road and sidewalk ended abruptly at a beach about a quarter of a mile from the narrow peninsula leading to the lighthouse. Drew looked for a way up to the dunes stretching behind and beyond the rows of cottages. Then he spotted a trail leading up from the side of a shuttered cottage. By the time he reached the summit of the dune, he’d removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Below him, the town arced along the cove and ahead, a grassy path led to the lighthouse, perched on a concrete base surrounded on three sides by a jumble of huge rocks. Sprays of seawater flung against them. The tide was coming in and Drew realized if he wanted a closer look, he’d better get to it. It was obvious even from where he stood several yards away that the lighthouse would indeed be cut off from the shore. He’d seen other towers like that, stranded from land by the tides, but none as small as this one. Safety for visitors and volunteer keepers was always a concern for the Coast Guard and another reason to support demolition rather than preservation.
He strode to the end where the sandy trail gave way to flat rock. The concrete base was chipped in places but otherwise looked okay, though one of the two steps up to the door was crumbling. The structure itself was a little more than fifty feet tall, he estimated, with a single stripe for a daymark around its circumference. The daymark, once red, was now a faded pink. The tower’s white stucco surface had been weathered away in parts, exposing patches of rust-colored bricks underneath. On closer inspection, Drew noticed that some bricks were missing, leaving gaping holes, and someone had been sanding the peeling paint in another section. Grace Winters? Impatient to get started without official recommendation? Well, he’d see about that.
The tower was topped by a typical gallery, but its copper cap was an iodized green now and the gallery’s storm panes so coated with grime, bird droppings and sea spray that Drew doubted any light—if there was even a working one anymore—could penetrate it. He walked up to the door and noticed it was locked with a salt-encrusted padlock. It looked like no one had been inside for a long time. Not even Grace Winters, Drew guessed.
As a lover of lighthouses, Drew felt a pang of sadness about the lighthouse’s condition. Obviously, the town and the harbor no longer needed a working beacon—in fact, not many in the whole state of Maine were used for marine safety anymore. But generally, single towers and lighthouse stations with their surrounding outbuildings were maintained with affection and respect by the people who lived near them. This was a lighthouse abandoned by time and by the town itself.
A splash of water against his shoe as he stood on the lower step jolted him back to the moment—the tide was coming in. Heading back along the grassy path, Drew noticed a wilting bunch of store-bought flowers resting on a small mound of other floral tributes, long decomposed. He stared at the heap, thinking that at least one person—again, the Winters woman?—hadn’t forgotten about the place.
Right then a cloud crossed the sun, throwing a shadow on the lighthouse, and a sudden chill breeze swept over him. Drew shivered. The moment passed as quickly as it had risen. He turned around and marched briskly toward town and the bookstore.
The glass-paned front door was stenciled with the store name and below it, Henry Jenkins Prop. Drew recalled the name from the email his boss had forwarded and wondered who the store’s actual owner could be. Winters or this guy? Well, he’d soon find out.
He pushed the door open, setting an interior bell tinkling. The place was long, narrow and dark. Plate-glass windows on either side of the door provided the main source of light and the other came from a lamp midway down the store. Drew paused to let his eyes adjust before walking farther, past shelves of books and a couple of metal spinner racks. He passed a cozy reading corner with a worn leather couch and an armchair to see a high wood counter where a woman was sitting, staring at a laptop screen. A Tiffany-style lamp at her elbow illuminated a head of tousled dark hair that, in spite of the door’s warning bell, rose up only when he was standing right before her.
The jet eyes focused on him expressed surprise and her smile was hesitant. She closed the laptop. “Can I help you?”
Drew gave her his best smile. “I hope so. Grace Winters?”
She tilted her head. “Yes?”
“I’m Drew Spencer, from the Coast Guard office in Portland.” Her frown leaped quickly to a wide smile as he clarified, “About your request to restore the town’s lighthouse?”
“Oh my goodness! This is wonderful. We only sent it in a week or so ago. I can’t believe it’s happening so quickly.”
She was making a whole bunch of assumptions, Drew was thinking, and he really hated to erase that smile because it was transf
orming. “Um, well, I’m here to make an assessment and submit a recommendation.”
That qualifier didn’t seem to slow her down. “Of course, I suppose you have to follow a procedure, right?”
“For sure. Anyway, I’ve been out to take a look at the lighthouse and it’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Yes, which is why it needs to be restored.”
“Frankly it’s not worth the bother or the expense. Though I noticed someone’s already been working at it—scraping the peeling paint off at the base.”
She reddened slightly, maybe due to the reproving tone he couldn’t resist. “Well... Henry and I figured we might as well get a start at it.”
“That would be Henry Jenkins? The volunteer keeper? Is he also the owner of this store?”
“Yes. I mean no. He’s retired and I...that’s to say, my father...owns the store. I’m the manager. And yes, he’s also the volunteer keeper.”
“Also retired from that?” He couldn’t resist the dig.
The color in her face deepened. “He’s had terrible hip problems the last two years.”
Or maybe decades, Drew added under his breath. “Okay, well, I’ve checked into that hotel down the way for a couple of days. I’ll come by later this afternoon and maybe you could arrange for Henry to be here, too. I assume he has the key to the tower?”
She nodded, her pitch-black eyes fixed on his.
Drew had to look away from that gaze. There was something raw about it that was unsettling. Pretending to make a note in his cell phone, he said, “We can go over your application, as well. I’ll have a better picture of its viability once I get inside.”
She was still staring at him when he tucked his phone into his pants pocket. “How long will all this take?” Her voice was less exuberant now.
“Probably not too long.” He knew he could announce the decision right then and there if he wanted to. Interviewing Jenkins and reviewing their application would just be going through the motions as far as Drew was concerned. But he hesitated to further dampen that burst of happiness he’d had a glimpse of moments ago.
“Okay. What time do you think you’ll come back? I’ll need to let Henry know.”
“Say about three?”
Another glum nod but then she seemed to rally. “Henry can tell you some wonderful stories about the history of the lighthouse.”
“Great. Do you have any books on it?”
“Not on the Cove lighthouse, but I have a couple on other lighthouses if you’d like to see them.”
Drew stood aside while she moved past, a faint scent of flowers trailing behind her as she led the way to a section of books near the sitting area and, stooping to a lower shelf, she pulled out two hardcover tomes. One Drew recognized instantly because it sat in the bookcase in his childhood bedroom in Iowa. If he knew his mother, it was probably still there, waiting for him to finally claim it. The other was devoted to one of Maine’s most famous lighthouses, the Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth.
“These are great,” he murmured, holding them reverently. “I have my own copies at work and at home.” He suddenly noticed her peering up at him, smiling as if she, too, had caught that glimpse of his childhood bookshelf. Drew handed the books back.
She replaced them, sighing slightly as she rose to her feet, standing close enough for him to realize exactly how petite she was. Their size difference somehow made her vulnerable, in need of protection. Drew shook himself out of that distracting image.
“All right then, I’ll get some lunch and come back at three.”
She pursed her lips. From worry or impatience? Of course, he’d follow protocol. Ask questions, listen politely and investigate on-site. Or perhaps she’d already figured out that he was going to disappoint her. For some reason that bothered him. He decided to relieve some of the tension he was feeling in the room as he went to the door.
“I heard the place was haunted,” he quipped.
A slight gasp caught his attention and he turned around. She ducked her head but not before he caught a glimpse of the saddest expression he’d seen in a long time. Drew hesitated, loath to shrug off her unhappiness. But his lifesaving days were over and he proceeded out the door.
CHAPTER TWO
THE WORDS TUMBLING out of Julie’s mouth might as well have been gibberish as far as Grace was concerned. They carried no meaning beyond the first few which were, “So I connected with this guy on one of those dating sites...” because that was the precise moment when that overbearing control freak from the Coast Guard stepped inside Mabel’s Diner.
Grace immediately ducked her head to stare at her roasted beet and kale salad as he stood in the doorway, scanning the room for an empty table. There was one a few tables down from where she and Julie were sitting.
“Hey, are you with me here, Grace?”
Grace risked a quick glance at her best friend, whose back faced the diner’s door. “Sure, it’s just that—” she lowered her voice “—someone has come in and I don’t really want to have to talk to him.”
“Is this someone you met online?”
Julie started to crane around but Grace hissed, “Don’t! He’s looking our way.” She picked up her fork and stabbed at a chunk of beet, keeping her head down but catching movement out of the corner of her left eye as he walked toward the empty table.
“What’s going on?” Julie started to turn her head.
“I said don’t look.” Grace poked the tip of her friend’s shoe under the table.
“I don’t have to ʼcause now he’s sitting four tables down on your side, facing me.” Julie paused. “And he’s super cute. Are you holding out on me, my friend?”
Grace felt her face heat up. “I just met him this morning. He’s from the Coast Guard, about my lighthouse project.” She leaned across the table, keeping her voice at a whisper. “I wasn’t impressed. He seemed like a bit of a jerk.”
“Well, he sure doesn’t look like a jerk. What’s the story then?”
“Too long to go into now and besides, I don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”
“Right now he’s reading the menu. Maybe he didn’t even notice you.”
“Good.” Grace set her fork down, knowing there was no way she could finish her salad.
“When do I get to hear the story?”
“Soon enough, don’t worry. Look, I can’t sit here while he’s eating his lunch. Can we go?”
“I’m not finished.” Julie pointed to the remnants of quiche on her plate.
“C’mon, don’t give me a hard time. I don’t want to have to talk to him right now. Besides, I’m meeting Henry at the store in half an hour.”
“You still have half an hour. Maybe you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“I don’t want to get friendly with him. He’s here to discuss my idea with Henry and me and...and I don’t like the way he makes me feel. I mean,” she rushed to explain after seeing Julie’s worried expression, “I just got a bad vibe from him about the whole thing.”
“A bad vibe? You’re a throwback, Grace Winters. You know that, right?”
Julie could always read her, ever since senior year in high school when Grace’s life was on hold. Julie and her mother had just moved to the Cove and she and Grace soon became best friends. In fact at the time, Julie had been Grace’s only friend.
“Please?” Grace pleaded.
Her friend tossed her napkin onto the table. “Fine. So, how do we do this?”
“I’ll go first. It’s your treat today, right?”
Julie nodded.
“Then I’ll keep walking out the door while you pay at the cash register.”
Julie sighed loud enough for the couple next to them to glance their way. Grace stifled a curse and hastily got to her feet, grabbed her purse and aimed for the front door. She heard Julie push he
r chair back and follow her.
When they were out on the sidewalk, Julie caught hold of Grace’s forearm. “That whole scene was something out of high school, Gracie. What’s come over you?”
“He just...okay, he came across like he’d already made a decision and that got my back up.” She didn’t mention his comment about the lighthouse being haunted. Although Julie had probably heard the story when she moved here—who hadn’t?—Grace had never talked to her about it. All Julie knew was that Grace wanted to restore the lighthouse as a memorial to her cousin and that the project was a secret.
“Sounds like you might be jumping to conclusions. I bet his coming here is just a formality. Your project’s a good idea and there’s no point stressing over some hypothetical problem. You know you tend to do that.”
Grace knew her friend was right, but she couldn’t admit it. That last sentence was something her older brother, Ben, would say. She was tired of people making assumptions about her responses to life’s problems as if she were too sensitive or timid to deal with them on her own. Frustration flared unexpectedly. She jerked her arm sharply enough for Julie’s hand to slip off.
“I’m sorry if I seem paranoid but that’s the way I feel. Don’t worry, I plan to keep my cool when I’m dealing with him.”
Julie shrugged. “Sure. I was just...you know...trying to point out that even if he acts like a jerk, it doesn’t mean he’s going to hassle you about the lighthouse. Don’t give up on the whole thing.”
“I’ll never do that!”
Julie raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, I see that. Okay, well let me know how the meeting goes.”
“For sure.” Grace watched her friend head down the street and, as she turned to go in the opposite direction, happen to glance through the diner’s large plate-glass window. The Coast Guard guy was staring right at her. She wondered if he’d witnessed the uncomfortable goodbye with Julie. Then she thought, What does it matter? His opinion about me has nothing to do with his decision about the lighthouse. At least it better not! She marched toward the bookstore and her meeting with Henry, determined to put up a strong front against any objections to her project that some Coast Guard bureaucrat might pose.
His Saving Grace Page 2
