She set her feet onto the floor and leaned forward. “I asked Ben to do it. I know you said it needed to be done through the Coast Guard, but I couldn’t wait, Drew. And even if a more detailed inspection is needed, at least we know now that the lighthouse is viable. It can be restored.”
“Do we know that, Grace, or is that what you want to believe?”
“The engineer said it only needed some brickwork. Minor fixes. The structure is sound.”
“All right, let’s not get off track. The fact is that I told you my department handled the tests and that I’d organize it. Then you—”
“But you said it would take time.”
He raised his shoulders, frustrated. “So what? The tower’s been sitting idle for at least two years. Your cousin has been dead how many years?”
“Seventeen.” Her voice was a bare whisper.
She looked away but not before he saw tears welling up. He clenched his jaw, torn between rushing to pull her into his arms or to leave. Instead, he sat and grit his teeth, waiting for the wave of sympathy he was feeling for her to ebb. He wasn’t ready yet to yield his point. He lowered his voice. “Then why now, Grace? And why didn’t you talk to me first?”
“Because I got everyone’s approval to go ahead and you weren’t here. Because there’s a town council budget meeting in early September and I wanted to get the project started and some fundraising done before I went to ask the council for support.” She paused. “Because I was afraid you’d stop me.”
Drew’s head was spinning. “I see you’ve convinced yourself that what you did was reasonable—from your point of view—but I was only a phone call away. And we did speak on the phone, didn’t we? Yet not a whisper of what you intended!”
“You would have tried to stop me.”
“You don’t know that.” But he did, because she was right.
The talk came to a dead halt then. Drew leaned back in his chair, his mind racing through a series of possible options and ways to salvage Grace’s project. Not a single one appealed. The problem was that although Jim had instructed him to revise his report to include the teardown recommendation, Drew had not yet done that. In a few days, Jim would expect Drew’s final report on the Lighthouse Cove tower, its fate sealed. In a couple of weeks, Drew would interview for a job he’d dreamed about since he was a kid, holding his brand-new book about the Portland Head Light. There was no escape hatch for this emergency situation.
He wearily rubbed his face and sighed, exhausted not by any lack of sleep but by the high emotion in the room. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Grace.” The woman could be frustrating.
“Well...”
“Tell me. We’ve got to clear this up now.”
She stood and went into her bedroom, returning to hand him a sheaf of papers. He flipped through them, his heart rate accelerating with each turned page. They were flyers advertising the proposed lighthouse restoration/memorial project for the Cove and requesting volunteers as well as donations to the new Brandon Winters Memorial site.
Too dumbfounded to speak, he waved them at her.
“I told you that I’d need to show public support through funding to get town council approval. All of that would take time and—”
“That’s not the problem, Grace. The lighthouse is going to be torn down.”
She was struggling to speak and he waited, feeling that this was the moment he might look back on some day and realize how different his life could have been if...
“What?” A single word, but a whole book in her disbelief and hurt.
“I’m sorry. It’s not how I wanted it.”
“Then why?”
“Do you want the official summary of reasons?”
“No. I want to know why you changed your mind. You said—”
“That there was no guarantee.”
“But it passed an inspection.”
“By someone unauthorized by the Coast Guard.” Her dismissive shrug rankled. She was the person at fault here. He’d given her plenty of warnings.
“You promised!”
Drew winced at this flash of the young Gracie. “Not really, Grace, and it’s out of my hands now,” he added, wanting to thrust the blame on anyone but himself.
After a minute, she said, “I’ve got to open up the store. Maybe we can finish this later, when I close up.” Without a glance his way, she left the apartment.
Drew stared at the closed door, half inclined to dash after her and make everything disappear—the anger and hurt, the sense of being let down. And not just in him, he realized. Grace was clearly feeling the same. He remembered what she’d said about acts and consequences the time they went for a drink to discuss the fate of the lighthouse. He’d been totally confused by the cryptic remark, tossed at him as some kind of angry afterthought. But now he was beginning to understand her meaning. Consequences clearly did follow acts, but it was impossible to foresee what they would be.
He was the prime example of that truism. He’d acted last year, when his two-man crew pulled three fishermen into Drew’s Coast Guard response boat in the bay outside Bar Harbor. He’d acted when the winds picked up and the rough sea hampered their efforts to transfer the last man, the boat’s captain. And when he’d shouted, “Abort!” against the blinding rain and thundering waves and struggled to turn his boat around, heading for shore. Those acts had had dire consequences—ones he lived with every day and would continue to live with in some form or another for the rest of his life. So, Drew knew all about consequences, which is why as hurt and angry as he was at Grace, he also felt a spark of empathy for her.
He needed to come up with a plan to fix the whole mess. It was only one o’clock and Grace would be working four more hours before she’d be free to spend time with him. He sighed, knowing that his plan to have a romantic dinner somewhere in town was seriously in jeopardy. The whole weekend was now in doubt. He resumed pacing, running his fingers through his hair as if to stimulate brain waves that at the moment were dormant.
Then it occurred to him that it was Friday. Jim would still be at work and Portland only a half hour away. Perhaps the drive there would give him a chance to think of some remedy he could apply to this gaping wound between him and Grace.
Half an hour later, Drew zipped into his parking space at headquarters and dashed inside, waving his security ID at the desk personnel, and raced up the stairs. He tapped on Jim’s door and flung it open.
Jim looked up, startled. “Drew! I thought you were off this weekend.”
“Yeah, I am but something’s come up. Have you got a minute?”
“Sure. Take a seat.”
“I’ve been thinking about your decision yesterday, to proceed with the teardown of that tower in Lighthouse Cove.”
His boss frowned. “Oh?”
“Just that I’ve been thinking—”
Jim was rifling through his in-box. “I don’t see your final report here. Did you email it?”
“No. I...uh... I haven’t submitted it yet.”
“Why is that?”
Drew knew the idea he’d had on the way here was far-fetched. He also knew he was taking a chance—one he could ill-afford considering his upcoming interview. But if his assessment of Jim’s character was accurate, this might be his only chance at saving Grace’s project. Saving the potential outcome of his whole life.
“Are you busy tomorrow, sir? There’s someplace I’d like to take you.”
* * *
GRACE DRAGGED HERSELF up the stairs. She was wrung out, not by the unexpected rush of customers at the end of the day but by the horrible argument with Drew. Though to be fair, it hadn’t been an argument as such, even though there were two opposing sides and no resolution. All afternoon she’d thought about his calm but icy cold ex
pression. She could see that he was angry—maybe hurt, too—but he was so restrained she’d wanted to fly off the sofa and shake him.
Then he’d dropped his bombshell about the lighthouse and all her hopes fizzled away. The news had shocked her so much she was paralyzed by inaction, her mind blurred by useless questions like Why? How could you?
She waited at the top landing, her hand grasping the doorknob as she tried in vain to decide her next course of action. Making amends to Drew was on the list, but not at the top. Certainly below forgiveness, which she had grappled with all afternoon. He should have told her sooner, before she’d printed flyers and sent an ad in to The Beacon. The childishness of that thought brought a quick smile. Still, if she’d known... What, Grace? Would you have changed your mind? Given up? Not likely, she realized.
She took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping into a very quiet apartment. “Hello?” Nothing. She walked through the kitchen/living space toward the bedroom. Maybe the talk had drained him, too. The door was ajar and she couldn’t see if he was lying on the bed so she tapped lightly.
“Drew?” She pushed the door to find an empty room. Very empty, she noticed immediately. No backpack, no laptop case. Only a piece of paper lying on the bed.
Hi, Grace, I would have texted but hesitated to interrupt you at work. Something’s come up and I’ve gone back to Portland. I may or may not return tonight, but hopefully sometime tomorrow for sure. See you soon, Drew.
Something’s come up? May or may not see you tonight? She balled up the note in disgust and threw it on the floor. As much as she’d dreaded the evening ahead, she hadn’t given up hope that some of it could be saved; that perhaps the ambience of a nice dinner might have eased their disappointment in each other. Too late now, she thought, sitting on the edge of the bed and contemplating a lonely night ahead—until she thought of her old friend.
An hour later she was striding along Main Street to Henry’s. By the time she’d called him, Grace had mentally transformed what had happened between her and Drew to a simple difference of opinion.
Henry’s long silence when she’d phoned to ask if she could see him almost prompted her to add, “It’s okay, this is very last-minute,” but as he’d done so many times in her teens, Henry had come to her rescue.
“I’ve got one of those packaged frozen lasagnas for supper and it’s far too big just for me. I’d be thrilled if you’d join me.”
She had no appetite anyway. Her purpose in wanting Henry’s company was only to sit in peace with someone who wasn’t going to pepper her with questions or raise an eyebrow at the story she desperately needed to tell.
He was waiting for her in his favorite chair on the porch and stood to give her a bear hug. “I’ve a nice bottle of wine that Drew left behind when he was here. Would you like some?”
The sharp pang at his name startled Grace and for the first time she considered what she’d put at risk by her impulsive actions. She was tempted to dig out her cell phone and call him right away, to stammer an apology that might bring him back. Instead, she said, “Thanks, Henry. I could use a glass of wine.”
She sat in the chair next to his while he went inside. People were arriving home from their jobs in the small residential enclave where Henry’s bungalow was located, and children were playing on the sidewalks or running to the beach for another swim before dusk. It was a scene she’d witnessed and taken part in throughout her own childhood until she left for Augusta and college. She could still remember those carefree summer evenings when the only instruction was to come home at dusk. All that changed for several years after Brandon’s death.
The first Christmas Grace had come home from college—almost two years after that Labor Day weekend—her mother had told her how many parents held a tighter rein on their children, who were no longer allowed to run free until nightfall. And the unspoken, uncompromising rule was that no child or teen was permitted anywhere near the lighthouse without an adult.
She stood to get a better look at the lighthouse. Its white exterior was stained pink, reflecting the setting sun from behind the town. She tried to picture how it would look if it was operating—how it might look in the future—with its beacon cutting a shaft of brilliance onto the dark water. It would be beautiful. Then she wondered if her two friends from that summer would ever get to see it lit up again. Cassie and Ella. Or if she’d ever see them again. Unlikely in my lifetime, she figured. A sudden cool gust blew in from the sea and Grace shivered.
“Here you go, my dear,” Henry broke into her thoughts, handing her a glass of chilled white wine from the tray he was carrying. He set it down on the table between them and passed her a plate of steaming lasagna.
“That was fast,” Grace laughed.
“Miracle of the microwave. Tuck in. There’s plenty more.”
They ate in silence, watching the last stragglers trudge home from work or beach until the first stars appeared and Grace was ready to talk. She recapped most of it, going back to Drew’s caution about the inspection process, touching briefly on her impatience and subsequent call to Ben and ending with Drew’s reaction to her flyers. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the bombshell about the lighthouse. That awful news was tucked away in a far corner of her mind.
Henry sat quietly through the whole speech, his head bobbing thoughtfully a few times, and didn’t utter a word until she reached the part where she’d discovered Drew had left. Then he reached across the table to clasp her hand and murmured sadly, “Oh, Gracie.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GRACE SLEPT LATE and was opening up the bookstore when her mother phoned.
“Ben told us your good news, darling. That’s so wonderful. Let me know what your father and I can do, other than contributing financially, of course. Would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night and talk about it with us?”
Later Grace would blame her grogginess for her failure to inform her mother of Drew’s decision. She was still processing it herself. Her wakefulness all night hadn’t produced a single idea to turn the situation around. She’d walked home from Henry’s feeling better and when he’d mentioned that no doubt Drew would get over his tiff, as he’d called it, once the lighthouse restoration was underway, Grace almost told him the rest of the story. But she didn’t have the emotional energy.
On her way back to her apartment, she’d stopped at the end of Henry’s street to gaze one more time at the lighthouse. The nearly full moon cast an eerie luminescence on it, spotlighting it against the pitch-black sea beyond. If a beacon shone into the dark, people would look at it and remember Brandon. Her father said people had moved on from what happened and that was a good thing, to move on from the pain and grief. But forgetting about the lighthouse meant they’d also forgotten about that fourteen-year-old boy. She certainly hadn’t and never would.
These were the thoughts that had tormented her sleep and dogged her throughout the morning as she went through the motions of providing good customer service to the handful of people who wandered into the store. Grace was pleased the author event had garnered interest as well as sales. Something to consider for future plans, she thought, and was immediately struck by the fact that she’d just considered a future in Lighthouse Cove. Later, she would pinpoint that moment as the reason for her next move. She phoned Henry.
“How’re you today, Gracie?”
“Not bad, considering my poor sleep. Thanks for everything last night, Henry. Especially your listening.”
“Not the lasagna then?” he teased.
She laughed. “It wasn’t that bad. Your company made it taste wonderful.” She paused. “Anyway, I’m calling for a favor. Again!”
“Never use that word again when you ask me for a favor, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”
“Last night I mentioned the ad I’d placed in The Beacon about the lighthouse restoration and soliciting donations and volunteers.”
<
br /> “Uh-huh.”
“I had a brain wave early this morning.”
“Oh-oh. Not one of those Gracie brain waves?”
She had to laugh. He knew her so well. “Afraid so. In all the emotional drama with Drew, I neglected to tell him about the ad in The Beacon.”
“Oh?”
His voice registered concern and she rushed to add, “It really doesn’t matter. I doubt he’d see it anyway. The problem is that I might get responses and I thought I should make some kind of schedule or list of tasks that need to be done while we’re waiting for the okay to buy the property.” Grace closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer—please let that happen.
“And I know when we do,” she went on, “we’ll need the involvement of the Historical Society. Some of the members know the lighthouse’s history and can advise us what restoration materials will be appropriate to the time period and so on.”
“When you say ‘we’ and ‘us’, Gracie, who are you referring to?”
“Well, to you, Henry. Are you still going to help me?”
There was a slight hesitation that worried her and she thought she heard a sigh before he answered. “Of course, Gracie. I’m always there for you.”
“You’re so wonderful, Henry,” she said, her voice choking.
“Tell me what I can do.”
“Could you ask some of the Society members to meet me at the lighthouse, say about noon? I thought I’d ask my friend Julie to look after the store for me.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It’s Saturday and late notice.”
“I know and we won’t need a lot of people. Just a few to take a tour of it and give us some ideas of where to start.”
“Sounds good. Bring the keys, then. I don’t have a spare here.”
“Keys? I only have the one you gave me.”
“Drew didn’t give you the other one?”
“No.”
His Saving Grace Page 17
