"Sorry to have forgotten my manners like that!" He declared, with an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. Ana savored the warm cocoa, cupping the lid with both hands.
"Alex, you're my hero," Ana said, smiling gratefully. When he gave her a dismissive wave, she continued, "No, really. You've been a godsend to me since the day I arrived."
"Aw, its nothin'," Alex replied, blushing deeper now. "'Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.' Matthew 5:16. You a churchgoer, Ana?"
Although Ana was raised Catholic, her father had never taken them to church. Amidst Alex's warmth and kindness, for the first time in her life she felt ashamed to say, "No, I am not."
Instead of shaking his head, or some other gesture of disapproval, Alex just smiled at her. "No, I don't s'pose as many of you youngins are nowadays. And that was the case with Miss Carla, too, at the end, though it was more than just a lack of faith that ruined that girl."
"So what happened to her?" Ana pressed, leaning forward with her hot cocoa cupped protectively.
"Well, ya know that wild rides always come to an end, one way or 'nother," Alex said with another sad shake of the head. Outside, the rain was coming down in relentless sheets. She could hardly hear Alex over the din, but she did not miss the sparkle of tears playing at the corners of his eyes.
"One night, the two had an awful spat," he continued. His voice cracked slightly. “No one knows fer sure what it was about, but there were rumors that Lionel was running around on her.”
“Carla pushed him from the top of the lighthouse, and then jumped in after him. They both died near immediately, the coroner police said, though the coroner told me in confidence that she hit the rocks on her way down, snapping her poor legs and arms like twigs.”
"'Twas her father that found them, and he closed the lighthouse right quick; just boarded it right up and left it to rot. He died the followin' year, and Camille the year after. God rest their poor souls."
“Goodness,” Ana said, processing his story. Though she had never met the teenagers, she couldn't help wondering what had transpired between them. She could not imagine the desperation or emotions that drove them to such a sad, final end. "How did they know she was the one who pushed him? Not the other way around?"
"I 'spose no one knows fer sure," Alex conceded, "but days leading up to their deaths, Carla went around tellin' folks that she was gonna end Lionel for what he had done to her. Folks assumed she meant that Cartwright girl he was s’posedly runnin’ with. 'Course, no one expected they should take the words of an angry young girl so literal.”
"So that's why the railing is broken?"
"Nah," Alex replied. "That was later." Without asking, he poured more cocoa in her empty cup. She smiled gratefully, again, thanking him.
"Sandra Finnerty was an island girl who moved to Portland hopin' to do big things with her life." Alex was pacing again, and his eyes had a dreamy quality. "When her parents’ money ran out, she resorted to...well, less than savory activities." With that last, he twisted his mouth. Ana could see he did not think it was proper to talk about prostitution with her. She smiled inwardly at his properness.
"She was the next one to come up to Edgewater Point to end her life. After that was the sweet Miss Emily Caldwell. She was a young woman who had lost her husband in a boating accident. The poor dear walked around the island like a ghost long before she made herself one.”
"That's when the town council finally put them signs up, and closed it down. 'Course, people were calling for the lighthouse closure the very morning after Carla and Lionel died, but back then Summer Island was still on the shipping routes and we couldn't just close the lighthouse, ya understand. But after the last two women died here, the council put their foot down and told the city of Portland that they had better take a look at adjusting the shipping routes, because the Casco Bay Lighthouse was retired. Heron Hallows, e'eryone called it from then on."
"How did you get involved with it?" Ana asked. The rain had started to die down outside, but she was so focused on Alex's story that she hardly noticed it.
"Well, I s'pose I got tired of looking at it. Ignoring history don't make it go away," Alex replied, wisely. "So I went to the council with a plan to get the lights turned back on, and offered to take it on as part of my caretaker duties."
She smiles sheepishly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but-"
Alex interrupted her with a chuckle. "You noticed it ain't the most pretty, didn't ya?" He shook his head, smiling. "No offense taken. I'd like to get her all gussied up, but the council flat refused to fund any restoration, and they made me keep those awful signs up."
Ana was reminded of the Preservation Project, a group her father started at Deschanel Media Group that targeted old, historical fixtures and funded their restoration. After wondering briefly if he would be interested in taking this on, she resolved to find out. She especially wanted to do this for Alex, for it was clear how much the lighthouse meant to him.
"Folks like to say that they see Miss Carla, and Miss Emily, roaming around up here. The ghosts of Heron Hallows," Alex went on. When Ana raised a skeptical eyebrow, he went on, "No one really believes in ghost stories, of course."
"Of course," Ana said, slowly.
Ana glanced up the winding, spiral staircase leading to the top, where the light was. She read somewhere that most lighthouses were now electric, and didn't require someone to man it constantly. Still, she pictured Alex sitting up there, all day and night, staring into the sea, alone. The thought filled her with sadness. He deserved happiness, and companionship, with all he did for others.
"I should get home," Ana said, standing up and dusting herself off.
Alex's face fell for a brief moment, and then he brightened up again. "All that talk of ghost stories soured ya, I 'spose," he said with a chuckle.
"I can handle it," she said with a smile, "but I do need to get into some warm clothes."
"Better do that ‘fore the chill sets in," he agreed. "I'll see ya safely home."
Ana followed him to his truck. It was sitting at the end of a paved road that was obviously the main route up to the lighthouse. As she climbed in, she looked out the window toward the direction of the four, white crosses that stood defiantly against the dark, ominous sky.
I could believe there are ghosts here, Ana thought, as Alex turned the truck around and started back toward her house.
Chapter Six: Alex
Alex spotted her immediately, and edged his way through the crowd of people in the True Value line. The lone hardware store on the island was always busy this time of year, just before the major storms hit, with people vying for last minute supplies. She hadn’t been difficult to find, as she was only one of about four redheads on the whole island, but he had gone through Flanders Grocery, Wells Fargo, the library, The Clam Shack, and even Jack’s before finding her here.
“Oh, hey, Ana!” He called out casually to her, waving as he moved toward where she stood near others looking at rock salt. “Fancy seeing you here!”
She looked up at him, and her blue eyes widened in surprise. Alex thought he detected a little happiness as well. He stood a little straighter.
“Well, Alex, your timing could not have been better.” Ana was eyeing the different brands and sizes of rock salt, in confusion. “I suppose I can’t go wrong with any of these?”
Alex puffed his chest out a bit and tilted his head, speaking with confidence: “Ayuh, they’ll all work, but for yer money you really can’t go wrong with this,” he said as he pointed toward a blue bag that was almost sold out. “I reckon you’d be buying twice s’much with the others, and you’d be back here before ya could say ‘snow.’”
She smiled gratefully. “It’s settled then. And you’ve saved me once again, Alex.”
His heart swelled at those words. “Aw, s’nothing really, but if I can save ya some time and money, ya betcha I will.”
She thanked
him again and he studied her as she maneuvered through the crowds to the register. She was so unsure of herself; a small fish in a cruel sea, he thought. It was a good thing she had him or she might be even more helpless and lost.
He had been keeping a vigilant watch over her since she arrived. The Deschanel house had been his charge for twenty years, and now she was a part of that charge and this meant she had a guardian angel, even if she was unaware of it.
“Ya have a kind heart, Alex,” his mother used to say to him. “You’ll make someone a fine husband someday.” At almost fifty, Alex had yet to fulfill her prophecy; but then, she was a silly woman who had married a man who didn’t love her and treated her worse than the dirt under his feet. Alex gave up on the idea of a wife and children years ago. Ana was not the first woman he had helped along the way. Helping others in their time of need gave him a sense of purpose like nothing else ever had. He was certain that it was more fulfilling than any family he could have had. Marriage had only made his parents miserable.
He had so much to teach Ana. She had been like a lost lamb when she came to Maine, helpless as a child. She had watched with appreciative eyes as he showed her all the things she would need to know to prepare for a long winter on the island: how to run the generator, how to care properly for her pipes. And what if he had left a valve loose so that she had to call him back to fix it? Alex Whitman knew from experience that women were afraid to ask for help, but would often take it if offered. And, of course, when he would return to the house to fix a problem, she would have ten more questions for him.
Alex left the store without buying anything and watched Ana as she walked down to the alley to where her car was parked. At the same time, he saw Jon St. Andrews locking up his vet office, two doors down from the hardware store. When Jon turned around, he ran right into Ana, and she dropped her bag of rock salt in shock. Instead of apologizing or offering to pick up the bag and help her, Jon promptly spun around in the other direction and left her standing there, mouth hanging open.
Alex’s eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he could not tolerate, it was a lack of chivalry and decency. He rushed over to Ana and knelt down to pick up the bag, apologizing for Jon’s rudeness as so many others on the island often did.
“What is his story, anyway?” Ana asked as Alex loaded the bag into her trunk. The rock salt was heavy, and he was kicking himself for not offering to help her carry it when she was still in the store. It was over fifty pounds.
Alex hesitated. What could he say about Jonathan St. Andrews that would not be unkind? Alex supposed Jon was a decent enough vet, although he could not say firsthand as Alex didn’t have any pets. But Jon had always been odd, and even unpleasant. Most people on the island learned to just leave him alone. Surprisingly, some even felt protectiveness over the young man. Alex was disappointed that a son of the venerable Andrew St. Andrews could be such a killjoy. The young Finn was not much better, dishonoring his father’s memory by becoming a fisherman, when he could have been something great. But then, their mother, although a very good schoolteacher, had been Irish...
“Alex?”
“Sorry, um, yes, well...” He searched for words. “He’s always been a ‘lil diff’rnt, even as a boy. My ma babysat the boys a few times and said he would just sit ’n stare out the window sayin’ nuthin’ fer hours until Claire picked ‘em up.” He realized that sounded like gossip, and added: “I know he seems rude, but he’s never caused anyone any trouble here, and the family still donates generously to the schools, just like their father always did.”
She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in thought. “I mean...why is he so unpleasant?”
Alex shrugged. “No one knows why, I reckon. His father was quiet, but was always real social and involved in things in the town, and his mother was the sweetest ‘lil thing...” He cleared his throat. “Is there anything else ya need? Are ya good fer dinner tonight?”
“What about the brother? Is he like that, too?” Ana probed. Alex was not real keen to discuss the St. Andrews brothers, but she was obviously determined to do just that.
“Finn? Nah, Finn’s a good boy; he won’t cause ya any trouble. Always quick to help, although he does have a temper, from that Irish mother of his I ‘spect. Used to get in fights at school defending his older brother...” No use telling her about all his girlfriends; that was just gossip, too.
Ana was processing all of this, and he worried that she was going to keep drilling him so he was relieved when she smiled and said her goodbyes.
“I’m just a phone call away, remember,” Alex told her as she waved from the driver’s seat. She nodded and smiled, and drove off; as he watched her, he was disappointed that he would not be seeing her again this evening. He pulled out his small, tattered notepad and wrote down: Picked up rock salt from True Value, and then scratched Rock Salt off another page entitled Needs.
As he was walking to where his truck was parked around the corner, Alex saw Sheriff Horn walking toward him. Alex thought about ducking into the alley, but it was too late, as the sheriff was tipping his hat at him. Alex grudgingly nodded back.
The sheriff was a burly man in his sixties, who liked to wear uniforms that were a size or two smaller than he had any business wearing. Alex thought he did it because it made him look tougher, as if he was ready to burst out of his clothes at any moment from sheer strength. But Sheriff Horn had lost his youthful physique years ago, and was now just simply fat.
“Getting ready for the storm season?” The sheriff asked, with a nod toward True Value.
“All set myself, just helping out the Deschanel girl.” Alex always dreaded conversations with the sheriff, who had never liked him. He always felt like the sheriff suspected him of anything bad that happened in town, and for no reason other than the fact that he had hated Alex’s father Bill when they were growing up.
“Are ya now?” The sheriff’s tone suggested he did not think much of whatever help Alex was offering. “I was getting ready to check in on her, introduce myself. Make sure she has everything she needs and whatnot.”
Alex bristled at this. “I’m taking good care of her. Ya needn’t worry yerself.”
The sheriff laughed, his belly trembling. “Oh, I don’t doubt that ya are, Alex, but I’ll be stoppin’ in just the same. G’day.” He tipped his hat again and trudged back down the street.
Alex’s fists were balled at his side and his face was on fire. There was nothing he hated more than being made to feel like he wasn’t useful. He dreamed of a day when the sheriff would need to turn to him and Alex could, with a proud satisfaction, turn him away. Alex’s face erupted in a slow grin at the thought.
Unfortunately, there were more people on the island that thought like Sheriff Horn than those that didn’t, and so Alex was used to people who did not see his value and did not appreciate his helpfulness. But there were a few that did...and for every hundred Sheriff Horns there was at least one Ana, who needed him, and wanted his help. Alex Whitman could handle, and would even permit, the snide comments from the sheriff and other townies, because he could almost feel sorry for them and their meaningless lives. His pity for them meant that they were entitled to their opinions all they wanted, but Alex drew the line at interference.
He would not tolerate anyone coming between him and his purpose.
Chapter Seven: Jonathan
Jonathan St. Andrews awoke at 6:50 in the morning when his alarm sounded. He hit snooze once, and promptly got out of bed without complaint at seven.
He slipped his legs off the right side of his bed, and his feet found the slippers he had methodically laid out the night before, as he always did. Slippers on, he turned and made the bed, making extra sure the pillowcases were turned so that the open end faced inward and that the sheets were even on both sides.
Jon went to his dresser, opening the second drawer down, where he kept two neat rows of white t-shirts and black shorts. He chose one of each, careful not to disturb the folds of the others,
and went downstairs, to the small room near the back porch where his treadmill was. He set the timer for 30 minutes, at a pace of 8 MPH, and set his music while the treadmill slowly ramped up. He never started his music before the treadmill started moving, and he always stopped it a minute before the timer ran out.
After a quick shower–where he first washed his hair, then cleaned his body–Jon went back downstairs to have coffee and breakfast, but not before a quick scan around the room to ensure nothing was out of place, and that all doors were closed.
The coffee was already made, as Finn had already been up and gone about an hour before. Although still warm, Jon microwaved his cup for thirty-seconds before adding two precise teaspoons of milk. He heated up a muffin–40 seconds–and placed it on the table first, before the coffee, but did not sit down until he had pushed in another chair that had been only pushed in halfway. “Finn,” he muttered.
It was not important what day this was, because this was the same thing Jon did every day, even on weekends. But, in the past three weeks, Jon had added one more item to his daily ritual: checking to see if the lights were on at the neighbor’s house. He harbored an irrational fear of an unexpected knock on the door, and while it might be unavoidable, he did not like being caught unaware. Ever.
At eight, Jon unlocked the doors to his small office in town, which was located next to the City Hall on one side, and an empty building on the other. His office didn’t open until nine, but Jon liked to spend the first hour checking in on any overnight patients and reading up on his files.
You could have been a fine doctor. His father’s words, once so hurtful, now rang hollow. He knew what he had given up, and it had been his choice; it was never one he regretted.
Sometimes he still opened the door to his father’s old office: that large, dark room that had started as a converted den, and later Jon had helped expand by tearing down the walls into the family room. The equipment–both that which his father was approved to use in his home and that which he was most certainly not–remained untouched, buried under sheets and dusty plastic. In his father’s final years, patients extended beyond the island to some of the surrounding islands and even the mainland. Dr. St. Andrews not did only the procedures willingly, but he was also able to do them at a fraction of the cost that the larger hospitals would charge. He never turned away a patient who was unable to pay.
The Storm and the Darkness Page 4