by Erica Vetsch
Nick swung his feet out of bed. He might as well relieve Ezra at the light. When the nightmare hit, there was no going back to sleep. As long as he was at the lighthouse, he was Nick, not Noah. If he worked hard enough, maybe he could forget.
five
Annie squinted at the kitchen clock and placed her hands at the small of her back, arching to stretch out the stiffness of a night in a strange bed. A yawn forced its way out, nearly cracking her jaw. Her eyelids sagged as if they had anchors attached to them. On a few occasions—first nights, galas, soirees, and such—she’d come home at this hour, but never had she risen from her bed so early.
The bacon sputtered and popped in the skillet. Annie poked the ragged strips with a fork. She had no idea how long to cook it. Just getting the stove lit had seemed a monumental task, the pungent odor of smoke still lingering in the air as a testament to the wisdom of opening the damper first thing.
“Good morning.”
Annie whirled at the sound.
Mr. Batson, white shirtfront gleaming in the early morning light, stood in the doorway.
“Good morning … sir,” she remembered to add.
“Imogen won’t be down for breakfast, I’m afraid. She’s feeling a bit under the weather. All the excitement yesterday, no doubt.” He fingered his tie, as if checking that all was in order. “Clyde should be here soon, and Nick. Nick had the early-morning watch.”
She nodded, her middle flopping as if seagulls were fighting over a piece of bread inside her stomach. “Should I take a tray up to her?”
Mr. Batson nodded, and a rush of satisfaction bubbled through Annie. She’d said the right thing.
“Perhaps midmorning. And keep her in bed as long as you can. She’s worn herself out trying to get things shipshape before Inspector Dillon shows up.”
Inspector? The very thought made anxiety wriggle up her spine. Please, Lord, let me figure out what I’m doing before You bring down inspectors.
Steam spurted from the oatmeal pot, rattling the lid. A mist of sweat coated Annie’s forehead when she checked the contents. The cereal popped and bubbled like the tar the workmen had used to patch a neighbor’s roof last spring in Duluth. Was it supposed to be this thick? Her shoulder complained when she tried to stir the sticky mass.
The kitchen door opened and banged shut.
She dropped the lid from nervous fingers, and it bounced off the corner of the stove and clattered to the floor. Nick. She prayed he wouldn’t bring up her seasickness or her sudden departure from the dock. If he did, she might just melt right through the floor. She would thank him eventually, but she wanted to do it without onlookers.
Nick didn’t even glance her way. Instead, he removed his cap and hung it on a peg by the door. He scanned the kitchen, breathed deeply, and frowned, looking at the ceiling.
Annie followed his gaze. She chewed her lip in consternation. Scarves of smoke lingered near the crown molding, evidence of her fight with the stove and the first batch of bacon she’d burned. She lowered her eyes and went back to fretting about breakfast.
But Nick drew her attention without even trying, making her pulse speed up. His shoulders seemed so broad he must’ve had to turn to get in the door. While he exchanged good mornings with Mr. Batson, Annie studied him. Dark brows shaded deep blue eyes, eyes that seemed to hold a wealth of sorrow. His somber expression didn’t keep him from being handsome though. If anything, it gave him an air of vulnerability that made Annie want to offer him solace. Had he suffered a heartbreak? Had he lost someone dear to him? She suddenly wanted to know all about this man who had saved her life.
His glance right into her eyes yanked her back from spinning fanciful yarns. She grasped for some cool aplomb but failed. Nothing witty came to mind to say, so she lifted a hand in a slight wave.
He tilted his head to the side and looked at the stove behind her, eyebrows raised.
Annie sucked in a deep breath then coughed as air caught in her throat.
His left eye bore the faint shadow of a bruise. With a rush, Annie remembered flailing at him in the water. She must’ve given him that shiner during the rescue. Embarrassment trickled from her crown to her heels.
A scorching odor wafted around her. The bacon! Annie pivoted back to the stove, greeted by spitting, snarling, smoking grease. The strips of meat lay stiff in the hot fat, coated with charred blackness. She’d ruined another batch. But there was no time to cook more.
Chairs scraped behind her. She caught sight of Clyde sliding into his seat at the table, his hair sleep-tousled.
She plunked the meat onto a platter, wincing as hot bacon grease hit the top of her thumb. Good thing she’d set the table when she’d first come down. If they were going to be this prompt for breakfast, she might have to get up even earlier. The oatmeal defied her attempts to get it out of the pot, sticking like concrete to the metal. She finally tossed a trivet on the tablecloth, grabbed two cloths, and horsed the heavy pot to the table. They could serve themselves.
When everyone was seated, Mr. Batson bowed his head. “Almighty God, we thank You for Your bounty. Make us worthy. Amen.”
Annie clenched her fists in her lap. And please don’t let anyone die from my cooking.
Mr. Batson cleared his throat, and Annie looked up. He lifted a strip of bacon onto his plate, frowning.
Clyde reached for the spoon sticking out of the oatmeal. He tugged, but when the spoon wouldn’t budge, he let go, his eyes wide. He shot a look at Nick, who shrugged. “This cereal’s sure”—Clyde scratched the hair over his right ear—“hearty.” He smiled, as if relieved to have come up with a good word.
Nick grabbed the serving spoon and wrenched out a hunk of doughy oatmeal. The gray material defied gravity, clinging to the spoon, refusing to drop into his bowl—not even when he held it upside down and whacked the heel of his hand against the table to jar the oatmeal loose.
Annie closed her eyes. Humiliation coursed up her neck, through her cheeks, and into her ears. It prickled across her chest. She opened her eyes in time to see Clyde cover his mouth with his hand and shoot Nick a sympathetic look. Her chin went up. Who did they think they were, laughing at her?
“What did you say this was again?” Nick picked up his fork and scraped the cereal off the serving spoon and into his bowl. It landed without changing shape.
She shifted in her chair, wringing the life out of her napkin. “It’s oat–meal.” She enunciated each syllable.
“Hmm.” He poked the mass with his fork. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Clyde snickered then wrestled his own spoonful of oatmeal. “Sure wish we had some fresh milk to thin this out a bit.”
Annie sat helpless. So far, no one had braved to taste the food.
Mr. Batson touched his fork to a slice of bacon and it cracked into black bits.
She supposed she would have to be the first to eat a bite. When she lifted her bowl, Nick obliged her by dumping a spoonful of cereal in. Her arm wobbled at the unexpected weight.
She took her fork, licked her dry lips, and pried off a hunk of cereal. She put it in her mouth and was immediately reminded of damp newspaper and glue.
She chewed, keeping a pleasant expression on her face. Her hand gripped her water glass, and she took several big swallows to get the horrid stuff down. “Mmm. Just like home.” She stared Nick in the eye, daring him to contradict her.
Clyde sniffed his before he put it in his mouth. He, too, must’ve needed water to coax it down his throat. “Ma’am, if this is what you ate at home, I have to say, I’m impressed.”
As if on cue, all three men pushed back their plates. Annie tried not to look at their stares at one another.
“I guess we’re not all that hungry this morning.” Mr. Batson smoothed his already smooth shirt. “Don’t forget to check on Imogen.” His eyes twinkled. “And I don’t believe she’s hungry this morning either. Just tea should do her until she can come downstairs.” He went into his office and shut the door.
Nick headed toward the porch, pushing Clyde before him. Annie couldn’t help but notice both men take an apple from the bowl on the table by the door.
She hung her head. She’d be lucky if they didn’t put her off the island at the first opportunity. Then what would she do?
“Lord, why aren’t You helping me? Are You even listening? I can’t do this by myself.”
She clacked knives and forks together, scraping everything into the heavy pot of oatmeal to dump into the lake later. Plates clattered into the washtub. With a guilty start she remembered Imogen trying to rest upstairs. Poor lady. At least she’d missed having to eat breakfast.
A smile tugged at Annie’s lips. Maybe God had answered one of her prayers. No one had actually died from eating her cooking. At least not yet.
Nick wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of vinegar. He dampened the cloth and rubbed a spot on the window.
Waves crashed against the rocks over one hundred feet below, an incessant accompaniment, especially loud when, as now, the wind from the north pounded the waves into the caves just at the waterline. The Sutton Island Light perched on the edge of the cliff, embedded in the rock, as solid as the cliff itself.
Nick gripped the black rail of the catwalk with one hand and bent to the bucket at his feet. He enjoyed his task of washing the windows every day, inside and out, as well as wiping down the prisms of the clamshell Fresnel lens; but he would be glad when warmer weather came along. His hands, chapped by the vinegar and the wind, stung in the cold.
The glass gleamed, throwing back the sunlight. Rainbows ran along the curved prisms surrounding the kerosene lantern inside.
A sense of satisfaction settled over Nick. How quickly he’d dropped into his new routine. Familiar with the discipline of being a captain, the many regulations and duties of keeping a lighthouse didn’t chafe him as they did Clyde. Nick’s shoulder ached pleasantly from the scrubbing, and he dropped the rag in the bucket with a plop. Never again would he underestimate the efforts of his ship’s crew when they swabbed the deck.
Nick brought himself up short. That all belonged to his past life. He narrowed his eyes and forced the thoughts aside. His life was here now, where he couldn’t hurt anyone.
Several gulls shot up from the cliff face, squabbling and circling, pulling his attention away from the past. Noisy, messy birds, but as familiar to him as the waves lapping the shore.
A flash of gold caught his eye. Sunlight glinted off hair the color of ripe wheat. Miss Annie Fairfax. She lugged a bucket toward the edge of the cliff, the birds swooping and darting overhead. What was she doing? The rocky edge was stable, but the winds could be tricky. She should be more careful.
He ducked through the open window into the lantern deck, set the vinegar solution on the floor, and all but sprinted down the spiral staircase, through the watch room, and out into the sunshine. “Miss Fairfax,” he called to her above the sound of the gulls diving on the contents of the bucket as he crossed the open space.
She gave a guilty start, lowering the pail.
The birds pecked at the gray lumps on the ground, flapping and hopping. They stole bits from each other, dropped them, and attacked the oatmeal again. Poor birds were in for a bit of indigestion.
“You shouldn’t be so close to the edge.” Nick took her elbow and guided her back a few steps. “We don’t want you taking another tumble into the lake. I might not be able to fish you out from up here.”
Her cheeks reddened, and her eyelashes fell to cover her surprisingly dark eyes. What an odd combination with hair so fair. It caught the light and threw it back, so shiny and bright. He’d never seen hair that color before. She wore it piled up, like one of those Gibson girl pictures. A few wisps touched her temples and cheeks, the breeze playing with the strands.
He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. “What are you doing up here?”
The tip of her tongue darted out to touch the corner of her mouth. “I was getting rid of the leftovers.” She waved a hand toward the bucket.
“Ah, disposing of the evidence?” He cocked his head to one side. “I doubt the birds will thank you.”
She dipped her chin, and he immediately regretted teasing her. Every cook could have a bad day, and the first attempt in a strange kitchen should be allowed some leeway. No doubt lunch would be better.
Before he could apologize, she looked up. “I’ll try not to kill the local fauna.” She skewered him with a stare.
Hmm, not the delicate flower he first thought. She had some fight in her. And she looked so pretty all riled up he couldn’t resist pushing her a bit further. “See that you don’t kill the local human population either. And stay away from the cliff. I don’t have time to keep an eye on you every minute of the day.”
Her mouth dropped open.
A tingle of warmth raced through him at her hot glare.
“No one is asking you to.” She bunched her skirts in one hand and stooped to pick up the bucket.
The gulls keened, swooping closer.
She turned away from the cliff and brushed past him.
Without thought, his hand jumped out and caught her arm. “Wait. Has anyone given you a tour of the buildings?”
“No, there’s been no time.” She tugged her elbow, trying to get away from him.
He tightened his grip. Why was he reluctant to part with her? “There’s time now. You’ll need to know what is safe and what isn’t. Come, let me show you around.” That was it. He was concerned for her safety.
Annie studied him out of the corner of her eye, her mouth pursed, her chin high. She looked like she would refuse him but finally said, “Very well.”
An unreasonable happiness surged through him. What was the matter with him? He released her arm and took the bucket from her. “Let’s start with the lighthouse.”
She walked beside him to the red brick tower, looking up and blocking the sunlight with her hand.
“This lighthouse was built in 1899, so it’s just seven years old. This little ell off the side of the tower is the watch room.” He set the bucket down, held the door for her, and showed her through the sparse, tile-walled office that consisted of a plain desk, a wall lamp, and a small stove. They entered the tower, and he motioned for her to precede him up the shiny, black staircase. Their footsteps rang on the metal. The higher they climbed, the tighter the spiral, and the tighter her grip grew on the handrail.
They stepped into the lantern deck. Light shattered into a thousand rainbows through the prisms of the lens, dancing in the air, on her cheeks, in her eyes. Her hair glowed even brighter.
She sucked in a breath and laced her fingers together, tucking them under her chin. “It’s so beautiful. Look how far you can see.”
He followed her gaze across the cobalt water to the thin, white line of the horizon. Puffball clouds graced the pale sky. Foamy wave tips appeared and disappeared on the ever-moving lake. Far to the north, he could just make out the dark blot of a ship approaching. He turned to study Annie once more.
With her lips parted, eyes wide in wonder, she enchanted him. No one had ever affected him this way, making his heart thump faster, his palms sweat. Her lips, rosy pink, smiled at the vista before her.
Reality nudged him. Kill those thoughts, buddy. There’s no way she’d ever fall for you. If she knew the real you, she’d despise you.
He turned his back to her. “This is a third-order Fresnel lens made in Paris with an incandescent oil-vapor lamp. Its official range is twenty-two miles. It gives a half-second flash every ten seconds.” Much better. Keep the conversation on facts. He clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the top of the light above his head.
“It’s quite impressive.”
“I clean the windows every morning, wipe down the prisms, and trim the wicks, ready for lighting at dusk. According to the manual, the light must be completely ready for service by 10:00 a.m.”
“Do you always follow the manual?” She held his gaze. “I ca
n see the need for it, but don’t you tire of the rigidity? The monotony?”
“No. I used to think life was no fun if you didn’t take some risks, but I’ve learned better. The rules are there for a reason. They make the choices for you so you don’t make mistakes that can be costly. There’s safety in following routine. Without rules, you have disorder, chaos, and unnecessary risk.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the window.
She shrugged, curling a tendril of hair around her slender finger. “I suppose, but if you only live inside the rules, there’s no spontaneity. And you miss an awful lot of adventure.”
“Adventure isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Even if you do everything right it can still end badly, but doing things spontaneously always leads to disaster.”
She regarded him skeptically and with what he thought might be a tinge of pity. He put it down to her age and inexperience. She’d soon learn how hard life could be.
“Let me go down the stairs first. That way, if you stumble, I’ll be able to stop you from going all the way to the bottom.” He started down the steps before her, listening to the clang of her shoes on each tread. They emerged into the sunshine once more.
“In addition to the lighthouse tower, there are four buildings on the island.” He motioned to the two-story dwelling sitting at the foot of the lighthouse, the same red brick construction. “The main house, as you know, is for the head keeper and his family. Then there’s the fog-house. A gasoline engine drives the air compressor that sounds the horn. We have to use it pretty often. The fogs can be bad on the lake.”
They walked across the open space on a gravel path as he pointed out the various buildings and what role each played in the daily operations. He surprised himself at how much he was talking. He hadn’t said so much to anyone since he’d been here, mostly preferring to work alone and retire to his room to read rather than socialize. But with Annie, he found himself more at ease than he’d been since arriving on the island.