* * *
DREW HESITATED OUTSIDE the door of Novel Thinking. It was exactly three o’clock and though punctuality was a requisite of his training, it didn’t always apply to civilians. He’d made a plan during lunch while watching the odd behavior of the Winters woman at the diner: the constant whispering to her friend and sidelong glances his way; the hasty exit followed by what looked like a spat outside. He didn’t have to be an expert in communication to figure out some of that drama was connected to him. But why he had no idea.
No matter. He’d have a look inside the lighthouse, get Winters and the volunteer keeper to outline their scheme and leave town as soon as possible. Although he’d paid in advance for two nights at the hotel, one would be enough. Thankfully he wouldn’t have to give his decision in person. A short email in a few days or so about the demolition would suffice.
He pushed his camera bag farther up on his left shoulder and opened the door, its tinkling bell alerting Winters, who was handing change to a customer. Drew stood aside for the woman as Winters approached. She gave him a curt nod and asked, “How long do you think we’ll need?”
He frowned.
“I mean, should I set the time for an hour? Two? More?”
When she held up a sign featuring a clock with two movable arms, he understood. “Uh, well, I thought the three of us would have a talk, go have a look inside the tower and take some photos. So, maybe an hour?”
She tightened her lips. Unhappily, he thought. “An hour and a half?”
She nodded, moved the little clock arms to four and six and hung the sign on a hook just inside the door. “Henry’s at the back,” she said, turning to lead the way.
Drew followed like some well-trained dog. It had taken her mere seconds to gain the upper hand and he didn’t like the feeling. Never mind, he told himself. A couple of hours and she—heck, the whole town—would be history. As they neared the sitting area, Drew spotted a partially balding, white head bent over a book.
“Henry?”
The man craned round and slowly got to his feet. He was almost as tall as Drew but stooped and as he moved slowly forward, his right hand extended, Drew noticed he clearly had joint issues. He took care not to grasp the man’s hand too firmly.
“Mr. Jenkins? Drew Spencer.”
“And is there a military attachment to that name?”
“Well, yes, except I don’t often use it. It’s lieutenant, though Drew works for me.”
“And Henry works for me, too. Yet it still took Gracie here a few weeks before she made the transition from Mr. Jenkins.” He chuckled and gestured to the armchair opposite his. “Have a seat, please.”
Drew liked him instantly. Here was a friendly face, as opposed to the stern-looking Grace Winters pulling up another chair. As they sat down, Drew noticed some papers scrawled with handwriting and a few sketches on the round coffee table and wished he’d thought to bring along a pad and pen, rather than rely on his cell phone for note-taking.
“Gracie? Do you want to start?” Henry prompted.
She flushed and reached for the papers. Coughing a couple of times, she began to speak, her voice wobbling at first.
Drew puzzled over this, trying to connect her obvious nervousness to the serious woman who’d met him at the door. Even more, to the clearly flustered person he’d witnessed having what looked like a set-to with a friend outside the diner. He realized he’d have to be more careful about reading her. Gracie. A childhood nickname he presumed.
“I’ve made copies so you can take these with you,” she said, handing him a sheaf of papers. “But I’ll go over some of the details anyway.” She peered down at her own notes. “Henry and I have made up a rough plan and budget. I mean, in case our project gets the okay.”
Drew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Should he speak up now? He noticed the older man beaming fondly at her. Okay, give them their five minutes, Spencer. It’s the least you can do.
“I don’t suppose there’s a chance of getting some money from the Coast Guard for this?” she suddenly asked, her voice faint enough to suggest she already knew the answer.
Drew bit back the cynical reply poised on the tip of his tongue. “Sorry, but that would be a very remote possibility. Cutbacks. This is how it will work,” he explained, realizing they had no idea of the process. “After my inspection, I make a decision to decommission the lighthouse or not. Then there are two options. Theoretically, the lighthouse would be sold or torn down. In this case, demolition is the logical choice.”
“But tearing down wouldn’t be necessary,” Grace quickly pointed out, “because we want to restore it. And we’d buy it.”
“Not if the structure isn’t sound. If the site’s unsafe,” Drew stressed.
“It just needs some basic repairs,” she went on, her voice rising.
“More than a coat of paint.”
She flushed, biting her lower lip.
Maybe he could soften the blow and let them have their say. “Okay, so to be clear, you want to restore both the inside and outside.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Does the lamp work?”
“Not anymore,” Henry said. “The glass outside is pretty dirty, too—you maybe noticed that when you went to see it. The bulb and even the lens might have to be replaced. Our goal is to get the light working again. We figure that a good cleaning, fresh paint and some minor repairs should do the trick.”
It would take a trick all right, Drew thought. A magic trick. He peered down at his papers again, giving the impression—he hoped—that he was considering their ideas. He skimmed through the notes but lingered on the sketches. They were good. Someone had an eye for detail and a steady hand at drawing. One particular drawing held his attention. It showed the lighthouse from the path leading down from the dunes and featured what seemed to be a rock cairn holding a plaque.
“Are these sketches yours?” He looked across at Grace, who nodded. “They’re very good. I see a plaque in this one. A dedication or something?”
A look passed between the two that Drew couldn’t interpret.
“Yes, it’ll be a dedication of some sort but we haven’t finalized the wording yet,” Henry said.
Drew noticed Grace staring at the papers in her hands. Her trembling hands.
“Not that it matters,” Drew went on, “because once the tower is decommissioned, it’s no longer our concern. I’m just curious.” After another moment’s silence, he added, “I suppose we should go take a look inside and see how it bears up structurally. We can continue our discussion afterward.” He figured it was the least he could do but knew seeing the tower inside wouldn’t change the ultimate decision.
“Good idea,” Henry announced, laboriously getting to his feet.
Drew noticed him raise a questioning eyebrow at Grace.
“You two go ahead. I’ll reopen the store,” she said.
This arrangement had already been decided between them, Drew guessed. He gathered his papers and shoved them into his camera bag. Grace went ahead and Drew heard Henry shuffling from behind. After she opened the door, Drew caught her sneaking a peek at her cell phone.
He paused in the doorway. “If there isn’t time to meet after I’ve seen the site, I can email you my findings. Then I’ll submit my report to my supervisor. The whole process might take a week or two.”
Her whole face tightened at what he’d meant as a conciliatory gesture, but her dark eyes held his. “Please do whatever you can to help us save this lighthouse,” she said quietly.
Drew swallowed hard, knowing disappointment would soon replace the pleading in those eyes.
“Shall we walk there or drive?” he asked Henry as they left the store. “I have a car we can take most of the way.”
“Walk. Absolutely!” the older man blustered.
Drew checked the time on his cell phone. T
hree thirty. No wonder Grace Winters had such a sour expression as she closed the door behind them. The meeting hadn’t taken anywhere near as long as she’d obviously anticipated.
Sunlight glinted off the water as he and Henry walked along the concrete boardwalk fronting the marina. Henry pointed to the collection of boats moored at the docks. “You can see most of them are pleasure craft,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Twenty years ago, there’d be nothing but trawlers here.”
“Was the place always a fishing town?”
“Yep—mainly lobster—and really a village back then, albeit one of the larger communities along this part of the coast.”
“What accounted for the change? Decline in the lobster industry?”
“A bit.” He shrugged. “But more like a decline in the desire for a simple life. Young folk wanting something else. Something only a city can offer.”
Drew could relate. Growing up on a farm in Iowa, he, too, had wanted something more than a rural future. Not a city so much as an ocean. An expanse wider than the eye could see. But he understood what the older man was getting at, knowing how some Midwest towns had also shriveled up, abandoned by younger generations in search of more opportunities.
They came to the end of the boardwalk and climbed the few steps there to the sidewalk leading to the residences beyond. A narrow beach at their right curved in a sweeping arc to the rocky tip and the lighthouse, which Drew noted was inaccessible from the beach area. Just as well, he thought, considering the pile of large, jagged rocks around it.
There were people scattered about the beach—mostly mothers and children, sunbathers and a few beach walkers. Henry stopped to gesture to the hilltop Victorian that Drew had spotted yesterday.
“That’s the Winterses’ place. Gracie’s great-grandfather bought the land and began the house, but it was finished by his son, Desmond—her grandfather.”
“Lobstermen?”
“The old man most definitely was! The work was good then and he was a saver. Avoided investing in the stock markets and the like. But lobstering was—and still can be—a hard life. I think he encouraged Desmond to go into something more reliable. Like construction.”
Like Winters Building Ltd. Drew recalled the billboard as he pulled off the highway. “Who runs the company now?”
“Gracie’s father, Charles, is the head honcho.” He shook his head. “For the moment anyway.”
“Oh?”
“Charles had heart surgery a little more than six months ago. He’s recovering well but slowly. His only son, Ben, came back from Augusta then and was followed by Gracie, shortly after.”
“And before?”
“Before what?”
“I mean Grace. Where was she before?”
“She was in Augusta, too,” Henry said, “working as a librarian.”
“Ah. That explains the bookstore.”
“Yep. I was considering retiring and Charles got wind of that, I suppose, ʼcause Gracie had only been back a month when he made me an offer on the store. At least his lawyer did.” Henry chuckled. “As the saying goes, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I was living above the store, which is where Gracie lives now, and the stairs were getting to be too much for me. And to be honest, I think it might have taken me a long time to sell the place. Not as a bookstore anyway. Not with those big chain ones just down the highway to Portland.”
“Convenient timing.”
“Charles Winters has always been ahead of the game when it comes to timing. That’s what’s made him so successful hereabouts. In Portland, too.”
“I meant convenient for Grace.”
“Would seem so on the surface, but I’d bet money on Charles making it convenient for himself. His wife needed help and he was bedridden. He got his son to run the company for him and what better way to get his daughter to stay than to buy her a business?”
Drew was still pondering this insight into the Winters family dynamic when they reached the end of the road. He stared at the lighthouse.
Henry followed his gaze. “It’s not striking like other lighthouses hereabouts, but it’s all ours.”
“Grace told me there are no books on its history.”
“Not yet, but I’m working on one.”
“Oh? I’m curious because to tell the truth, I hadn’t even heard about it until very recently.”
“Well, it’s been here since 1918, but construction started the year before.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The Cove wasn’t much bigger than a village at the time,” Henry said, “and a lot of the younger men had gone off to war. Old Man Winters was still in the lobster business then and maybe he had some concerns about safety for the few who were still setting out traps. When you get to the site, you’ll see those rocks extend quite a way into the bay. People were anxious about the surf in stormy weather—and we get a lot of that here—so Winters got up a petition to request a beacon.”
“He’d have gone through Lighthouse Service.”
“Yeah?”
“They were in charge of lighthouses until the Coast Guard took over. Thing is, I’m surprised the request was granted for such a small place.”
Henry nodded. “Maybe the war had something to do with it. People in power thinking about the security of our coast. Plus, I think the old man had some influential friends.”
“Even then?”
“He was still lobstering, but not personally. Had a fleet of trawlers and was the wealthiest man in these parts.”
“Makes sense.” After a moment, Drew asked, “So how’s your book coming along?”
“Slowly. Writing isn’t as much fun as researching.”
“I’m interested in seeing some of your notes. There’s not much information about the tower in my field guide.”
“That so?” Henry frowned. “Forgotten?”
“Seems so.” Drew flashed a look Henry’s way, catching the man’s expression, and quickly added, “For a long time. Not just recently.”
“I gotta admit, it’s been a while since I’ve been able to take care of it. My hip. Other things.” His voice drifted off.
Drew knew the fault wasn’t entirely Henry’s. A responsible officer of the Coast Guard had messed up, too, and now it was up to him to put things right. “I can go back for my car,” he offered, realizing the climb up the dunes might be a challenge for the older man. “Maybe we can reach the tower from the highway.”
Henry waved a hand. “You can only get to it on foot from there anyway. And don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong with my heart. It’s only my dang hip. A bit of pain but nothing life-threatening.”
His bark of a laugh didn’t fool Drew. The man was clearly struggling. Henry was definitely not going to be able to work on any restoration project. Both he and Grace had high and unrealistic expectations.
“If you give me the key, I can go check it out myself.”
He took a few seconds to finally agree, confirming for Drew that he was both proud and stubborn. Drew pointed to a couple of weathered Adirondack chairs under a tree at the front of the shuttered cottage nearest them.
“That place looks deserted. I’m sure no one will mind if you sit there.”
“That’s the old Fielding place. Poor Violet Fielding’s been in a nursing home in Portland for several years. Dementia.” Henry sighed. “All right, then. But let’s keep this between us. Gracie was hoping I’d give you the history of the place while showing you around.”
“You can do that when I come back. It shouldn’t take too long, right?”
“Maybe not.” Henry thought for a minute. “Just that...the place is very important to Gracie. To the whole family but most of all to her.”
The emotion in the man’s face and voice suddenly took Drew back to the bookstore when he was leaving it yesterday and Grace Winters’s expression. What was it
about this lighthouse?
CHAPTER THREE
DREW SPENT A few frustrating seconds using the key Henry had given him until he managed to pull the old padlock free, but the tide was low and there was no rush. Henry was sitting comfortably in the shade and Drew could explore the tower by himself. In the months since he’d taken on the lighthouse maintenance program, he had yet to inspect a site on his own. Usually the volunteers hovered, awaiting his comments or recommendations until his reassurance that all was good set them at ease.
As soon as Drew pushed hard on the weather-beaten door, a hundred years of history stopped him on the threshold. He coughed, clamping his hand over his nose against the swirl of dust motes that enveloped him on their way out the door. This lighthouse was young compared to many in Maine, but its oversight—heck, neglect—made it unique. There obviously wasn’t enough land here on the end of the spit to build a complete light station with outbuildings. Besides, the village hadn’t required one. Lighthouse Cove wasn’t an actual port and likely never had been due to its proximity to Portland. The only ships coming into the town’s natural bay would have been fishing boats and pleasure craft.
All of that made the tower’s construction a small miracle. The Winterses who got the project started must have been very persuasive or had some clout with politicians. As far as Drew was concerned, the tower’s lack of historical or architectural distinction as well as functionality made it a solid candidate for a teardown. He stepped cautiously into the watch room on the ground floor, spotting a wide crack in one of the bleached wooden floorboards. Traditionally used for storage of supplies, it was a smaller area than a typical watch room would be in bigger towers. There were no gaps in the walls that he could see, which meant the missing bricks he’d spotted outside were from the exterior layer. A few shelves had been drilled into the red brick inner walls and they held some curious items—a flashlight thick with dust, some candles that had been nibbled by rodents next to a cheap cigarette lighter and a dented thermos. Left behind by Henry?
His Saving Grace Page 3
