The Night Mark

by Tiffany Reisz

  over the horizon.

  “I should have stopped the wedding,” he said. “I should have stopped the wedding and thrown you over my shoulder and put you on a boat bound for China. There are only two reasons a girl cries on her wedding day—either she’s happy to be getting married or she’s making the worst mistake of her life.”

  “And I wasn’t happy,” Faye said, remembering her two weddings. She’d cried with happiness when she had married Will, cried in sorrow and sickness when she’d married Hagen.

  “Saddest girl I’d ever seen. And the prettiest, too. But I shouldn’t be saying things like that to a married woman. Where’s the jar? I’ll put a penny in it.”

  Before Faye could reply, Dolly stuck her head out the front door and waved them in.

  “Breakfast,” Carrick said. “Come on, before I run out of pennies.”

  The kitchen table was round and painted green to match the trim of the house. It seated four, and three places were set. That was good. She was happy to see Dolly ate with them and not somewhere else like a servant. The question of whether Dolly could read or write was answered by the presence of a chalk slate on the table. Carrick picked it up and wrote “Dig in.” Dolly laughed and Faye was so shocked by the sudden burst of sound from the girl that she jumped, which caused both Dolly and Carrick to laugh even more. She waited until they sat before taking her seat across from Carrick. Dolly sat between them. Would it be awkward and rude to talk to Carrick when Dolly couldn’t hear or understand what they said? Probably. Faye stayed quiet while eating, staring out the kitchen window at the pier and enjoying the food so much she almost forgot she would have sold her right arm to be back in her own time again.

  Dolly’s cooking was wonderful. Wonderful if Faye could forget she didn’t belong here. She could pretend Carrick was Will, Dolly was their daughter, and that nothing bad had ever happened to her and nothing ever would. A nice dream, but just a dream. The man at the table wasn’t her father. But he wasn’t her Will, either.

  She’d just taken a bite of her bacon—a bite that had her wondering if she wasn’t in heaven after all—when she heard the sound of an engine. Carrick stood up at once and walked to the window.

  “We have a visitor,” he said.

  “Who?” Faye asked.

  “Looks like John Hartwell. Must have gotten himself a new boat.”

  “Oh,” Faye said as if she knew the significance of the name. “Should I...do something?”

  “Just be yourself,” he said. “Well, not yourself. Pretend to be yourself.”

  “That’s not a helpful suggestion.”

  “Just be nice,” Carrick said. “He’s important ’round these parts. Or at least he thinks he is, which is worse.”

  Faye smiled at Dolly, who was looking from her to Carrick. Faye picked up her chalk slate and wrote, “Someone is visiting” on it as neatly as she could. Dolly’s pretty dark eyes widened and she peeked out the front window before making an exasperated sound and running back to the kitchen.

  At the end of the pier a man squatted by a pillar, tying up his boat. It was a beautiful boat, polished mahogany with a red racing stripe down the side. Carrick clasped her hand a moment, squeezed it and then walked to the front door. Faye followed him, scared to go and too scared to stay. The man had made it halfway from the pier to the porch by the time Faye and Carrick opened the front door. He wore a suit and a hat, plus what looked like goggles. Driving glasses? Well, it was 1921 after all. The windshield hadn’t been perfected yet. As he walked up to the porch, he took off his hat, took off his glasses and flashed a bright white politician’s campaign smile at both of them.

  “Howdy, folks,” the man called out, giving them a wave.

  “I should be scared of him, shouldn’t I?” Faye said to Carrick.

  “Why do you say that?” Carrick asked.

  Faye looked behind her and saw Dolly hurriedly taking her plate away from the table and hiding her dishes in the sink under a linen towel. Dolly grabbed the broom and started sweeping the floor immediately, shooting cautious glances at Faye and Carrick.

  “Oh,” Faye said, “just a hunch.”

  11

  The man, Hartwell, mounted the porch steps, his right hand extended to Carrick, his left holding his hat, a straw boater, and a fistful of daffodils. His hair was black with a severe center part and combed back with some sort of gel. Each side had a perfectly symmetrical wave in it. He was the very picture of a tenor in a barbershop quartet. He had bright blue eyes, full lips, a well-trimmed beard and a toothy grin.

  “Mr. Hartwell. Long time,” Carrick said, shaking his hand.

  “Ah, well, you know how it is. Been away on business since the winter. Seems like I stayed away too long.”

  “How’s that?” Carrick asked.

  “Let’s see, when I left, you’d just came on here as Jack Landry’s assistant keeper. Imagine my surprise when I come home to find the Landrys have shipped out, the assistant keeper is now running the whole station and making all sorts of changes and a man I thought was a bachelor like myself has a grown daughter all of a sudden. I couldn’t stay away.”

  “I know the Landrys were sad to leave without saying goodbye to their friends in town,” Carrick said. “But with a malaria outbreak in the Keys, they had to shuffle a whole lot of us around fast.”

  “Well,” Hartwell said with a shrug, “that explains the Landrys. Now, what about this girl of yours?”

  “This girl of mine is right here. Faith, meet Mr. Hartwell. Mr. Hartwell, my girl, Faith.”

  “Hello, Miss Morgan. These, my dear, are for you. And I must say it is a pleasure and a half to meet you,” Hartwell said, bowing his head, his hand over his heart. Good Lord, this man was ridiculous.

  He flashed her that same ingratiating politician’s grin he’d given Carrick. Faye found it unpleasant, although she smiled in return as she accepted the flowers.

  “Thank you,” Faye said, and she wondered if she was supposed to curtsy or not. Did people still curtsy in the 1920s? She tried a little bob, and it didn’t seem to bother either Hartwell or Carrick. “Very nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Chief, you have a lovely gal here. Although...it looks like she’s had a rough time of it. You all right there, Miss Morgan? You go a couple rounds with a grizzly bear?”

  Faye raised her hand to her face. Since she had no memory of receiving the bruise, she had forgotten it was there. “I fell on the pier. It’s slippery out there.”

  “You poor angel,” Hartwell said, shaking his head. “I always did think it was a shame you ladies had to wear such silly shoes. You be careful now. We don’t want anything bad happening to pretty ladies.”

  “Just pretty ladies?” Faye asked before she could stop herself.

  “All ladies are pretty ladies. Aren’t they, Chief?”

  “Of course they are,” Carrick said.

  “Good man. The chief knows what’s good for him.” Hartwell gave her a wink that she was sure he meant to be charming. She did not find it so.

  “Faith, Mr. Hartwell’s father built this house we live in,” Carrick said.

  “Don’t tell stories now,” Mr. Hartwell said, still sizing up Faye’s black eye. “My father was too busy to build anything but his reputation. But his was the company the government picked to build this house. Before Daddy came along, this place wasn’t fit to be called a house. But you know the government. When it comes to their own houses, they won’t spend a nickel when they can spend a dime, but when it’s a lighthouse keeper and his kin doing real work out here, they won’t spend a dime when they can spend a penny. They hired Daddy’s company to do the building, and Daddy himself made sure y’all got a real nice place out here, even if he had to kick in a little of his own money to do it. I sure hope y’all like the place. We townsfolk have nothing but affection for our keepers and their families stuck out here on the islands.”

  “The house is very nice,” Faye said to his self-serving speech. “Thank you. And thank you fo
r the flowers.”

  “I’ll pass your thanks on to Daddy. He’ll be happy to hear y’all like the house. So is it just you two, then? We always hope for a big family to man the light. It gets lonely out here, I imagine.”

  “We stay busy,” Carrick said. “The light, the house, no time to get lonely.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Mr. Hartwell said. “Now, I would love to see what y’all have done to the place while I was gone.”

  “We were having breakfast,” Faye said.

  “But it’s no trouble,” Carrick said, giving her a warning look. “If you don’t mind the dishes.”

  “I don’t mind the dishes at all. Shall we?” At that, Hartwell opened the door and walked right into the house like he owned it.

  Carrick gave a little sigh. Faye knew exactly how he felt. He held the door open for her, then followed her into the house. It was a play, she realized. All she had to do was pretend she was an actress in a play. She didn’t know her lines. She didn’t know the script. But she knew her part was to look obedient, be quiet and not piss off someone who clearly had some power in this part of the country.

  “I see you added a light in here,” Mr. Hartwell said, standing by the fireplace and looking up at the hanging brass-and-white-glass light fixture in the center of the ceiling. His hands were in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his shiny shoes.

  “First thing I did to the house,” Carrick said. “They dismantled a railroad station and sold me their lights and the wiring at a good price. Now that the lighthouse has been converted to run on acetylene, it wasn’t anything to convert the house to run on it, too.”

  “Light makes a house a home,” Hartwell said, running his fingers along the fireplace mantel as if inspecting it for dust. “You’ve got to modernize or you might as well be living in the past. You can’t stay still. That’s what I told Daddy when he said y’all made changes to his house. I said, ‘Daddy—you’ve had indoor plumbing and gas lights for ten years in this house. Don’t you think a war hero and his daughter deserve those same creature comforts?’”

  “Not everyone who goes to war is a hero,” Carrick said, looking both humble and awkward. “But I wanted Faith here to have all the comforts of home. Any father would.”

  “You’re too modest, Carrick. Is that an Irish trait? If so, I never heard of it. But anyway, Daddy conceded I had a point, and if you know Daddy, you know I had a good point.”

  “I didn’t know your father objected to improvements,” Carrick said.

  “Oh, he thinks anything he touches is perfect,” Hartwell said, shaking his head. “Myself included.”

  “The house is perfect,” Faye said. “And with more light, we can see how perfect it is. You can’t admire a Rembrandt in the dark, can you?”

  Hartwell looked at Faye and narrowed his eyes. Then he laughed a big laugh.

  “You’re exactly right, Miss Morgan. That’s what I’ll tell Daddy if he brings it up again. You can’t admire a Rembrandt in the dark. He’ll like that.”

  “Good,” Faye said. “We want to keep Daddy happy.’’

  “Yes, Miss Morgan. Yes, we do.” He turned and gazed around the rest of the living room. “It all looks mighty fine to me. Cozy. You’re a good little housekeeper, Miss Morgan.”

  “Faith hasn’t been here much more than a week,” Carrick said. “Miss Dolly is our housekeeper.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be running the whole show in no time at all, Miss Morgan,” Hartwell said. “I see a big passel of books over there. Who’s the reader in the house?”

  “We all read when we get the chance, which isn’t often,” Carrick said. “But most of those were donations. Half of them came with the house, and the other half came in a crate after I moved in.”

  “Donations?” Hartwell moved to examine the titles. “Well, that explains a few things. Some of these books over here might not be fit reading for a young lady. Or anybody.” Hartwell held up a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and opened it to the middle. The book was upside down. He picked up a couple more and opened them, but seemingly found nothing worth his attention.

  “Should we take a look upstairs?” Hartwell asked. “I imagine it looks a whole lot different without four Landry rascals running around.”

  “Upstairs is Faith’s room,” Carrick said.

  “Is it? Wouldn’t the lighthouse keeper want to stay in the room where he could best see the light at night?” Hartwell asked, fanning himself with his boater.

  “The lighthouse keeper is awake all night, Mr. Hartwell,” Faye said, although she’d planned on keeping her mouth shut. “He sleeps during the day.”

  “Is that so?” Hartwell said. “I stand corrected.”

  “A young lady needs a bigger room for her clothes and things,” Carrick said. “And her privacy. Nothing to see really.”

  “Of course. Nothing to see,” Hartwell agreed. Faye sensed he did want to see something upstairs. Was Hartwell acting funny on purpose? Or were all rich Southern white men in 1921 this high-handed, dandified and obnoxious? Whatever he was, he was driving her crazy. She needed to keep her mouth shut or she was going to say something to get herself into big trouble.

  “Would you like to see the garden?” Carrick asked. “Now, that is something worth seeing.”

  Hartwell glanced at the stairs before pasting on a smile again.

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  Faye followed Carrick and Hartwell to the back door. Dolly was currently squatting in the corner of the kitchen with a dustpan and a brush, giving all her attention to sweeping along the side and back of the stove and doing her level best to avoid eye contact with any of them. If Dolly had reason to mistrust Hartwell, Faye wouldn’t trust him, either. Teenage girls could be uncannily good judges of male character.

  “Hello there, girl,” Hartwell said to Dolly. Dolly didn’t look up or answer. “Y’all have a mouse in your house.”

  “She’s deaf, Mr. Hartwell,” Faye said.

  “Deaf? Can she talk?”

  “She’s been deaf all her life,” Carrick said. “She doesn’t speak. She writes.”

  “Writes? Her? Well, I guess she had to learn something to take orders from y’all. Must be nice not having to hear her chattering away all day,” Hartwell said. “I need a deaf-mute working for me. The girl at my place wouldn’t shut up if you gagged her with a gourd. Let me know if y’all want to get rid of your mouse. I’ll take her off your hands.”

  If this man didn’t shut up, Faye was about to gag him with a gourd. She hoped there was some in the garden. They might come in handy.

  “The garden’s right out back,” Carrick said, pointedly ignoring the comment. His jaw was clenched, and Faye could sense it took effort to unclench it. “We’ll pick you something to take home.”

  As Carrick and Hartwell walked out the back door, Faye lingered long enough to catch Dolly’s eye. She smiled at Dolly. Dolly didn’t smile back.

  When Faye reached the men, she found Hartwell standing in the center of the garden surveying the cultivated land like his own private kingdom. Faye, too, looked around, trying not to gawk. It was her first time seeing the garden, as well. It was massive, half an acre at least, with a dozen rows of corn, a dozen rows of tomatoes and at least two dozen rows of potatoes. On top of that she saw cucumber plants, onions, head after head of lettuce, red cabbage and cauliflower. Did they grow all their own food here? Most of it, it seemed. Thankfully there were also strawberry plants and blueberry bushes. She wouldn’t have to live entirely on vegetables.

  In a small fenced pasture to the side of the garden, Faye spotted not a cow but three brown goats. Oh, joy. As if unpasteurized wasn’t bad enough, she was going to be drinking goat’s milk here.

  Faye wandered among the rows and twisted a few ripe cucumbers off their stems while Carrick and Hartwell talked.

  “Where were you again before they sent you all the way down here to our little light, Chief?” Hartwell asked. Both Carrick and Hartwell had their hand
s in their pockets, but their postures couldn’t have been more different. Carrick looked humble and worn-out. Hartwell looked like a squire on a Sunday stroll.

  “Boston,” Carrick said. “I was up at the Boston Light.”

  “Boston. That’s right. Nice town. I was just up there a week ago. Very busy city. So many people you could get lost in a crowd and never be seen again,” he said, and smiled in Faye’s direction. “I must say I’m happy to be back home in a place where we all keep an eye on each other. You like our islands, Chief Morgan?”

  “Love it here.”

  “Good to hear. Very good. We’re very fond of our lighthouse families,” Hartwell said. He gave Faye a little wink over his shoulder. She pretended not to see that. “So how’s that monstrosity up there work, Chief? You got to pour in the kerosene and light a match every couple hours?”

  “Gas,” Carrick said. “Acetylene gas. The mechanism was built in the Netherlands. You should be proud, Mr. Hartwell. This is the only lighthouse with a gas lamp running in the Carolinas. If the experiment works, they might try it everywhere.”

  “Now, what do you mean if it works?” Hartwell asked. “Doesn’t it work right now? Didn’t it work last night?”