Linda had the leathery skin of one who has worshiped the sun too fervently. She wore ill-fitting dentures and her mouth looked sunken.
"I knew your mother," Linda said in a husky voice. "She was a real lady."
"Thanks. I kind of liked her," Mark smiled.
"We were friends once not close friends but you couldn't be friends with Marybeth Valente and Cindy. Your mom never forgave Cindy for the way she treated Pete. I can't say I blame her. But I was Cindy's best friend, so I guess I was guilty by association.
"Is it true what I hear around town about Pete?"
Mark repeated the same few paragraphs he'd become accustomed to delivering whenever anyone in the small community of Cape Ann asked about Peter. Then he turned the conversation back to Cindy.
"When did Cindy pass away?" Mark asked.
"It'll be a year ago on September 27th. It was breast cancer."
"I'm sorry."
"Somehow I doubt that. But what else can you say? You want something, or else this is the last place on Earth you'd be."
"Please, Linda, I didn't even know her."
"Well, let me tell you a few things about Cindy: She was my best friend since kindergarten, and she was always there for me. We were always there for each other. We helped raised each other's kids, and took them camping together and to baseball and soccer practice.
"We worked together at the processing plant—we made the fish sticks—not very glamorous, but we liked to think of ourselves as the Laverne and Shirley of the North Shore. We partied together too. Man, did we ever party."
"That sounds nice."
"Cindy was really generous with me. We'd swap clothes, lend each other money, and tell lies to cover for each other, especially where men were involved. But I was the only person that Cindy would ever do that for. When it came to the rest of the world, she didn't give a shit about anybody. She would use people for whatever she could get. And if something was the least bit inconvenient for her? Forget it. If you were on fire, and Cindy happened to be standing right next to you, and she had to pee anyway? You might stand a chance. Otherwise, you'd be toast."
Mark grimaced at the image.
"She was so pretty, though. I always felt like a frump sitting next to her. We'd go to a bar and guys would, like, flock to her. In thirty years, I don't think we ever bought a drink for ourselves.
"But that was her downfall. She never had trouble getting a guy, but she didn't keep 'em. It was like that was where she got her self-esteem. She always had to feel like another guy wanted her. Dr. Phil would say it's where she got her validation.
"I'd always be telling her, This is a great guy, why do you want to screw it up by going out partying? And she'd be, like, I'm bored.
"But she wasn't bored. She just had to have that next guy flirting with her to make her feel...I don't know...worth anything, you know?"
Linda must have seen something in Mark's expression that didn't sit well with her. "Hey, Mr. Fancypants, before you go judging, consider this: Not every girl gets to go to college and be a teacher like Marybeth Ahearn, you know. All some of us got is our looks, for however long and far that will take us."
"I didn't mean to offend, I just came here hoping to find some answers," Mark said meekly.
Linda paused and took a gulp of her iced tea, and then examined her airbrushed fingernails. Somewhere in the small yard, two squirrels chattered loudly to each other.
"Anyway, what do you want?" she asked.
Mark wanted to both give her a plausible reason for his questions and make them seem as inconsequential as possible. "Well, like I said earlier, Pete has these memory problems, and the court has appointed me his guardian because I'm his closest living relative. I have to take care of all his affairs, but I was so young when he disappeared that I don't really know much about him. So I've been talking to a bunch of people who knew him back in the day, and one thing leads to another, you know?
"I was chatting with Jimmy Vasconcelos down at the market because he used to deliver groceries to the lighthouse. Out of curiosity, I asked him if Uncle Pete ever had a girlfriend after Cindy. Jimmy said he didn't know, but he remembered being down at The Wharfside Bar one night when you and Cindy were talking about her and Pete. She had gone to see him at the lighthouse. Do you remember that?"
Linda thought for a moment. "Oh, yeah, Cindy was really pissed off that night."
"Pissed off? Why?"
"Well, her husband, Chip, had bolted. People who didn't know any better thought that I'd be pissed at Cindy when she and Chip hooked up, but he was never anything to me. We just played a little kissy-face when we were younger, that's all."
You protest too much, Mark thought.
"Anyway, Cindy was left flat broke with a new baby. And she was living back at home with her mother, which she hated. So, knowing Cindy and how her mind worked, she probably figured she could move into the lighthouse, have Pete be her built-in babysitter, and go out and party whenever she wanted."
Linda lit a long, thin menthol cigarette and took a deep drag. "But when she got up there, Pete wasn't putty in her hands like she thought he'd be. In fact, he kind of blew her off.
"Cindy used to brag about how she had never been dumped by a guy. She was always the one who did the dumping, that was a big thing with her. Now that I look back on it, I wonder if she didn't dump all those guys just so they couldn't dump her first. I don't want to get all Freudian, but Cindy was devastated when her father left. I don't think she ever really got over it.
"Anyway, when she was leaving the lighthouse, another girl with black hair down to her ass shows up and this girl and Pete are, like, all over each other."
"Did Cindy say who it was?"
"No, she didn't know. But she said she knew where the girl lived and was going to find out who she was. I got the feeling that what pissed her off the most was that this other girl was drop-dead gorgeous.
"But that was it. I could tell she was done talking about it."
Linda sipped ice tea, and then dragged on her cigarette. "Within a few days Cindy had roped in another guy, a mechanic. She moved in with him, like a week later."
"Can you think of anything else, Linda? Anything Cindy might have said?"
"Not then. But not long after, I was helping Cindy move into this new guy's apartment, and we were sitting at the kitchen table having coffee and reading the newspaper. All of a sudden, she says, He did it."
"Who did what?" asked Mark.
"That's exactly what I said, Who did what? And Cindy gets this faraway look in her eyes and says, Pete, and it's all my fault.
"So I said, What? And then she came out of her trance and said, Nothing. But I knew Pete must have done something."
PART FOUR
Confessions
Chapter 54
MARK EASED HIS TRUCK to a stop in front of the cottage on Rose Hip Point Lane and parked it behind Renie's SUV. Renie hadn't answered any of his messages, including his latest plea that he urgently needed to speak with her. Now he felt like he had no choice but to come to her and tell her the rest of the story.
He was tired, tired of being lied to, tired of carrying around secrets, and tired of feeling guilty for not believing Uncle Pete, and even guiltier for falling so hopelessly for the woman his uncle loved.
He dug his iPhone out of his trousers and hit redial one more time. The call went straight to her voicemail. He took a deep breath and hopped out of the truck. He strode up the flagstone path, and knocked on the red door.
Renie opened the door just a crack. She looked exhausted and embarrassed.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I'm sorry to just show up like this, but you haven't given me many options. You don't answer my calls or return my messages. There are important things I need to tell you about the Keeper's Log. Believe me, I wish I'd never even seen this damn thing," he said, holding the book up.
"But I did. And I know what's in it, and—believe me—it's something you need to kno
w too."
Renie let out a sigh of resignation and opened the door wider. "Come in, but you'll have to make it fast, my mother and aunt will be home soon."
Renie led Mark through the living room. The oil painting of Uncle Pete leaning against the lighthouse door hung above the mantel. Mark followed her into the kitchen. She glanced at the clock, and then folded her arms across her chest and turned to face him.
"When did your father die?" he blurted out.
"My father passed away a long time ago."
"When did he die?"
"I don't see what..."
"Please."
Renie sighed again. "May, 1975, all right? Are we done now, Mark?"
"No, you have to finish the Keeper's Log."
"Excuse me? I don't have to do anything."
"No, of course, you're right. What I mean is you really should finish it."
She appraised him for a few moments, and then stared at the Keeper's Log in his outstretched hand before fully extending her hand, palm up.
§
May 2, 1975
That bastard fisherman is back. We had such a beautiful week: talking, painting, making love. Renata knows all about plants, and it's a good thing, because I've already forgotten a lot of what Bridey taught me. She helped me get a lot of veggies into the ground and told me what kind of annuals to get. She doesn't know it yet, but the three lilac bushes I ordered through a catalogue arrived today: one purple, one pink, and one white. She's gonna be surprised.
§
Mark knew that Renie was about to turn the page to the final entry, dated May 4, 1975. This was the moment he had been dreading. He needed to somehow prepare her for what was to come.
"Renie, wait."
Startled, she looked to Mark for an explanation.
"Before you read any more," he said, "there's something I have to tell you..."
The kitchen door opened. Mamãe and Branca walked in carrying brown paper bags full of groceries. Branca looked at Mark. With a deep Portuguese accent, she said "Ooo, who have we here?"
Renie said, "It's not what you think, Auntie Branca." Renie turned to her mother. "Mamãe, this is Mark Valente..."
Auntie Branca cut Renie off. "Nice to meet you, Mark Valente." She stuck out her hand to shakes Mark's. "You be good to my little niece, she is a keeper. Are you Portuguese, by any chance?"
"Half," Mark said, flustered. "From my father's side of the family."
"Auntie Branca, please," Renie said. "Mamãe, Peter Ahearn, the light keeper, is Mark's uncle."
Mark noticed that Renie had put a strange emphasis on the word uncle.
Mamãe turned to Branca. In an identical accent she said, "Thank you, Branca, I will call you later."
"Let me at least help you put the groceries away," said Branca.
"Branca, I love you like a sister, but go now."
"That is because I am your sister, and, as your sister, I forgive you. But you better tell me everything later," Auntie Branca cooed as she left, closing the door behind her.
Mamãe turned back to Renie. "What's wrong, meu coração?"
"Oh, Mamãe," Renie cried as she fell into her mother's arms. Mamãe glared at Mark as she comforted her daughter.
"Mrs. Raposo, my Uncle Pete is at the Soldiers' Home near Boston..."
Mamãe gasped.
"...Pete suffers from dementia and can't live on his own anymore. This is a journal he kept when he was the light keeper here, and in it he...well, he confesses to something that impacts you and your daughter."
Still holding on to Mamãe, Renie looked up at her and then at Mark. "I was just about to read the final entry. It's dated May 4th, 1975."
Mamãe spoke after a long silence. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Valente. I am certain that this was a very difficult thing for you to do. I hope you'll understand, but my daughter and I would like to be alone now."
Mark's every instinct told him to stay. He wanted to be there for Renie. But Mrs. Raposo's tone was adamant, and he had absolutely no justification to stay after being ordered to leave.
"Of course," Mark said. "There's just one more thing, and then I'll leave you alone." He reached to the inside breast pocket of his sport coat. "My uncle has written a letter to you, Renie. It's sealed, and I want you to know I didn't open it." He held out the yellowing envelope marked For Renata.
The kitchen door cracked open. Auntie Branca's head popped through it. "Renata, just one quick question: Are we still meeting for lunch tomorrow?"
Renie hesitated before she answered. "Sure, I'll call you later."
"Not you, Renie, I'm talking to your mamãe. Of course you are welcome to come with us. Renata?"
Mark looked alternately from Branca to Renie to Mamãe. There was a long pause, and Auntie Branca looked increasingly perplexed.
Finally, Mamãe answered her, but kept her eyes focused on Mark. "Yes, lunch tomorrow, Branca."
Branca was bewildered. After a moment she shrugged. "Was that such a difficult question?" she asked. She pulled her head outside and shut the door.
Two Renatas! Mother and daughter share the same name, and one gets a nickname to avoid confusion: Renie.
Mamãe and Renie studied Mark as his eyes darted here and there, and he tried to fit this new puzzle piece together with the old ones. He thought back to the Keeper's Log and rearranged the characters in his mind, substituting mother for daughter. Not everything fit yet, but he was certain of one thing. He held the envelope out to Mamãe. "Mrs. Raposo, I think my uncle meant for you to have this."
Renata Raposo took the envelope from Mark slowly, turned it toward her, and read Peter Ahearn's cursive For Renata through misty caramel eyes. At last, she spoke. "I will go to my bedroom for some privacy, but please, both of you, wait here."
She gathered up the Keeper's Log and left Mark and her daughter standing in the kitchen.
§
After a while, Renie led Mark out into the backyard. Hydrangea and wild rose bushes shared a view of the sea. Speaking little, they wandered around the yard for a long time. Eventually, they found themselves on Rose Hip Point Lane, and strolled the half mile to the lighthouse.
The Atlantic Ocean pounded the cliff as it had for millennia. The two milled around the grounds in silence. Mark realized that he'd never actually been to the lighthouse, except in his imagination. He'd only seen it from ships and boats from the sea below. When a gentle mist began to fall, Mark and Renie returned to the cottage. Renie asked if he wanted coffee.
"No thanks," he said.
Renie nodded absently and turned to look at the ocean through the window above the kitchen sink. Mark moved close enough to her that he could smell the tropical scent her shampoo had left on her thick black hair.
"You knew the truth right away, didn't you?" he asked quietly.
"Not right away, but I'm sorry."
"No, that's not how I meant it. It's not an accusation. I know that you were only trying to protect your mother. But I'm still a little confused. Earlier in his journal my uncle clearly talks about a teenager."
Renie hesitated for a moment, and then turned to face him.
"That was me. I was very timid and Pete tried to draw me out. It worked. Eventually we had some lovely conversations.
"I didn't realize the truth until I read, Her name is Renata and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I knew then because that entry was in September, and I was back in school. And I had never painted the lighthouse, only sketched it. The painting he wrote about—the one with him in it—was done by my mother, and it's hanging in the living room. And Pete, like everyone else, called me Renie."
Renie shook her head and spoke softly, as if to herself. "After my father died, my mother never showed interest in another man. But, believe me, many men showed an interest in her. I think I understand now. I think she had found her true love in Pete. All this time...just...wasted."
"I'm sorry," Mark said. "I should never have come here."
"No, Mr. Valente," came
a voice from behind him.
Mark turned around to face Renata Raposo. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she clutched the Keeper's Log and the opened letter to her breast. "You have done us a great service."
Mark gave her an embarrassed half-smile.
Renata held out the letter. "I want both of you to read this."
"That's not necessary, Mrs. Raposo."
"Please, I insist. I see from Peter's journal that you know some very intimate things already, as does my daughter." The three seemed to blush in chorus.
"But before you read the final entry, meu coração, and this letter, you deserve to know the whole story, including some things that even Peter did not know."
Renata Raposo slowly paced the kitchen floor. Mark studied her closely and realized what a handsome woman she must have been, and indeed, still was. Her hair was streaked with grey now and piled atop her head, but her skin was smooth and her body, erect and slim, like that of a dancer's—like her daughter's. Her face assumed a faraway expression and she began to speak.
Chapter 55
RENATA RAPOSO STARED through the kitchen window at the sea. "I have held too many secrets for too long a time. They scratch at my heart and disturb my sleep. It is time for confessions.
"I was born in a village called Horta, on the island of Faial. The Azores were not yet the stylish tourist destination they are today. When I was young, Horta was like so many other simple fishing villages of the islands. My father was a fisherman, as was his father, and his father's father, just as my mother, and all of the women in my family were the wives and mothers of fishermen for as far back as any of us could remember. It was August 7, 1956, the evening of my fifteenth birthday. I remember feeling so happy.
"I had been running on the beach, running like the wind with my friend, Mateus. My mamãe called me to supper and told me, with great excitement, that I had been promised to a fisherman in America.
"It was quite a coup for her to have arranged my marriage to an American. It guaranteed that I would enjoy a life of comparative luxury, complete with modern appliances and even a family automobile.
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