Cape Light

by Thomas Kinkade

  Tucker didn’t smile, as Charlie expected him to. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. When he put it down, he stood up and righted his hat. “I want your word, Charlie. Look me in the eye and tell me again you had no part in this.”

  Charlie’s mouth twitched. He rubbed his ear with a large calloused hand. “Why don’t you just believe me? Don’t we go back to kindergarten together?”

  “What are you saying, Charlie? That you won’t swear to it?”

  “I swear to it,” Charlie insisted. “But it’s a shame to see you press me like this, I’ll tell you that much.”

  “Yeah, it’s a shame.” Tucker looked down a moment. “I hate to say this, Charlie, but I’m warning you, as a friend—if you’re a party to this mess, I can’t protect you.”

  “Your best friend forever and you wouldn’t help me out?” Charlie chided him, smiling nervously. “You surprise me, Tucker. You disappoint me.”

  “I hope I don’t have to, my friend,” Tucker said solemnly. “I really do.”

  Tucker nodded good night and left Charlie alone again in the diner. Out on Main Street, Tucker adjusted his hat and the heavy radio hanging off his belt, then walked on, grateful for the cool breeze blowing in off the harbor. He still didn’t know what to think about Charlie. He hated to think the worst, but he had to admit he suspected it.

  The shops on Main Street were closed. Everything looked quiet and sound. As he approached Bible Community Church, Tucker saw a single light burning in a window, the Reverend Lewis’s office. He paused as he saw the reverend pass the window, then sit at his desk. Tucker wondered if he should stop in and check, just to see if he needed help of any kind. Maybe Reverend Ben was writing a sermon or whatever preachers worked on late into the night. Tucker didn’t want to interrupt. He decided he would pass by again later and check up.

  REVEREND BEN LEWIS SAT AT HIS DESK, A PILE OF blank stationery before him, his favorite pen in hand. He knew it was late. Carolyn would be waiting for him, even if she was in bed already. She never really let herself fall all the way asleep until he was home. He had been at the church tonight for a meeting of—something, then decided to stay, knowing there was something he had to do, better done perhaps away from his home, in a quiet place where he could gather his thoughts.

  He had thought about it and prayed about it and come to the decision that he needed to write a letter to his son, Mark. Not a chatty letter, updating him on family and village news, or even telling him about Rachel’s pregnancy. No, Ben needed to send a different kind of letter, one that would reach across the giant rift between Mark and his family.

  But it was very hard to know how to start, to really know if he should do this at all. What if he did more harm than good, by making Mark feel pressured and driving him even further away? Was the boy ready to listen—to reconnect, to forgive?

  Ben had not told Carolyn of his intention. He worried about her reaction, too. But he would tell her once he sent the letter off. Secrets were not good; they were not an option for him and Carolyn.

  He frowned at the return address on the last letter they had received from Mark. Mark wasn’t there any longer, but it was the only address they had. Ben hoped that his letter would be forwarded to wherever Mark was now. He could, of course, wait for Mark to send him a new address. He always did, eventually. But Ben felt a certain urgency to get the deed done. He felt a strong intuition this was the right thing to do. And the right time to do it.

  He closed his eyes and clasped his hands. “Dear Heavenly Father,” he prayed, “please give me the right words. Words that will heal and help, not do more harm.”

  He opened his eyes and sighed aloud. “Oh, Lord. I must be a poor minister, indeed, if I can’t even heal this rift in my own family.”

  Yes, poor old Ben, he admonished himself for giving over to the wave of self-pity. That would not get the job done.

  He took a deep breath and began writing.

  Dear Mark:

  I am not sure if this letter will even reach you, but I feel the need to speak to you, son, from my heart. The first and most important thing I have to say is that I love you. We all do.

  I sit here and hope and pray that no matter where you go, or what you do—or what you feel toward us, your family—you will believe this simple truth.

  And feel our love with you, always. . . .

  CHAPTER TEN

  SARA WAS SETTLED IN COMFORTABLY AT THE Cranberry Cottages. She had a pot of flowers from a farm stand on her front steps and a poster tacked up over her kitchen table. Since renting the cottage, she’d seen very little of Dr. Elliot around the property, but as the summer wore on, vacationing families would come and go in the neighboring buildings, arriving with their carloads of luggage, bicycles, kayaks, golf clubs, and other vacation necessities.

  She would see them slamming screen doors, lighting barbecue grills, hanging out wet bathing suits, or taking them in. The children ran free, chasing butterflies or each other from early in the morning. Sara didn’t mind the noise too much. The other tenants helped her feel less isolated, though she rarely spoke to any of them.

  She had been living in sight of the Warwick Estate for a month now, passing it every day on her way in and out of town. But so far, she hadn’t driven through the gates or entered the mansion. The funny thing was, the longer she lived at Cranberry Cottages, the more she thought about the estate, wondering what her birth mother’s childhood was like. Sara had heard stories about the Warwicks and the scandal that drove them out of Lilac Hall. She even spent a day in the village library, looking up old newspapers articles to help fill in the blanks.

  According to the newspaper stories, her grandfather, Oliver Warwick, was the sole heir to a small fortune that included two canneries, one in Cape Light and the other in Newburyport. He was also part owner of a lumberyard and had various other business interests. But he was a poor businessman. The newspaper articles didn’t say as much, but Sara surmised it. When his canneries began to lose money in the late 1960s, he took large loans to keep them running. To pay back the loans, he borrowed even more money and then tried to build up his capital by gambling with the borrowed funds. Somewhere along the way he reached into accounts that were off limits to him.

  He was caught red-handed, embezzling funds from his corporation, mainly out of the retirement account for his employees. He gambled away the money at the racetrack and in high-stakes card games for society gentlemen. His debts mounted, and he couldn’t recoup his losses. He ended up owing money all over New England.

  In the reports of his trial Oliver Warwick professed that he always planned to pay the money back. Looking at his picture—a handsome man with a stunned expression and a mournful gaze—Sara could believe his testimony was sincere.

  But by then the situation was hopeless. The family was ruined and the townspeople outraged when the cannery that employed so many was forced to shut its doors.

  Sara had used the library’s copy machine to copy some photos of her grandfather. Now she pulled them out of an envelope and spread them out on her kitchen table. In the pictures taken before the trial, Oliver Warwick appeared to be dignified and intelligent, with a thin, neat mustache and wire-rimmed glasses. He also seemed surprisingly friendly; nearly all the photos showed him smiling widely, which made Sara wish she had had a chance to meet him.

  Her grandmother was another story. Even in the early photos Lillian looked disapproving and severe. Sara had seen her around town once or twice. The old woman always wore a sour expression. Then again, Sara thought, Lillian had had a hard time of it. Oliver died only a year after his trial, leaving Lillian to pick up the pieces. Lillian liquidated the businesses, cashed in the investments, sold the antique furniture, paintings, even jewelry in order to repay as much money as she could. She arranged with the town to take over the estate and mansion, Lilac Hall, and turn it into a historic house and park. Sara guessed that time must have been very difficult, not just for Lillian but also for Emily and her sister.

>   Sara stuffed the photographs back in their envelope. It was the Fourth of July weekend, and she had two full days off—Thursday and Friday—and nothing to do. She wasn’t in the mood to write in her journal. The day was wearing on and the cottage was growing stuffy.

  Maybe I’ll hit the beach, she thought. But it will be so crowded this weekend. I guess I could go to the Warwick Estate. I’ve been meaning to go up there.

  She showered quickly and dressed in a long cotton skirt and a brown tank top, her wet hair pulled back in a braid. She wore small silver hoop earrings and a necklace made of a leather strip with a small polished chunk of turquoise bound with a silver thread in the middle. Her leather knapsack was cumbersome to carry, especially in the hot weather. But she rarely went anywhere without it and sometimes thought of the jumble inside, including her journal, as the perfect reflection of her subconscious.

  The estate was so close, Sara decided to walk. She was glad that the long drive leading to the house and entrance gate was shady.

  The tour of Lilac Hall was self-guided. Sara picked up a pamphlet at the entrance, describing the estate’s history.

  The Warwick family had helped found the village back in the mid-1600s and had earned their first fortune as the leading shipbuilders along the nearby stretch of coast. Several generations had lived in a large house in town, near the harbor. Soon after World War I, Oliver’s father, Harrison, bought the property outside of town and planned the building of Lilac Hall, in the style of great houses he had seen on a grand tour of Europe. The stone, along with the stone masons, had been imported from Europe. Intricate carvings surrounded the windows and entrances.

  The house had over forty rooms in all, but only the first floor was open for viewing. Sara strolled through the rooms slowly, most impressed by the portico, with its vine-covered stone columns that framed a view of the marshland and not-too-distant sea. Most of the original furnishings were gone, but Sara could easily imagine the Gilded Age splendor.

  What she couldn’t imagine was what it must have been like to be a child here. It seemed so grand and extravagant, yet it was Emily’s and Jessica’s everyday reality—and then it was all suddenly taken away.

  Sara toured the house for more than an hour, lingering in the many rooms. Finally returning to the main entrance, she stopped to look at some portraits of Warwick ancestors that hung in a long gallery near the vast foyer.

  She turned as she heard voices coming from the staircase—and felt her heart begin to hammer as she saw Emily leading Lillian down the stairs. She felt almost as if she had been caught spying—except that Emily and her mother weren’t aware she was there.

  “And not one of them listens to a word of common sense,” Lillian was complaining. “Some board of directors. Empty-headed fools, the lot of them. I don’t know why I make the effort to come here at all. Just to waste my breath on a hot summer day, apparently.”

  “Committees need to discuss things thoroughly, Mother. You know that. They never come to a quick decision about anything,” Emily said calmly.

  “The house will fall to pieces before they’ll actually agree that it needs repairs,” Lillian snapped as she reached the bottom of the steps.

  Sara considered ducking into the shadows, but at that moment Emily saw her and called out her name.

  “Sara . . . hello. How are you?”

  “Fine,” Sara said, feeling terribly awkward.

  “Taking a tour of the house?” Emily asked.

  “Yes, I just finished, actually. I have the day off, and it’s a little too hot for the beach.”

  “My mother and I were just here for a meeting. Mother is on the museum board,” she explained. “Mother, this is Sara Franklin. She’s visiting town for the summer. She’s a writer,” Emily added with a twinkle in her eye as she glanced at Sara.

  “And a waitress at the Clam Box,” Sara added with a smile.

  Lillian had been concentrating on getting down the last step with her cane, but now paused and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said briefly. “The Clam Box,” she murmured to herself. “I haven’t been in there for years.”

  “You haven’t missed much,” Sara said.

  Lillian looked up. “What an endorsement . . . but that’s probably true.” She turned to Emily. “Will you stay for lunch after you take me home? Molly has fixed something, I think.”

  Sara felt then that Lillian must be lonely, just from the way she asked her daughter the question and the expectant expression on her face.

  “Yes, I think I can stay. For a few minutes anyway.” Emily glanced at her watch, then looked at Sara. “Would you like to have lunch with us at my mother’s house?”

  Sara noticed that Lillian looked shocked, but she fixed her lips in a tight line and stared straight ahead.

  Sara debated silently. Lillian’s attitude made it clear she wasn’t welcome, and yet what a chance to see the Warwicks up close and personal. She felt a little sneaky accepting the offer but couldn’t resist.

  “Yes, thank you. I’d like that,” Sara said evenly. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No, not at all. We’d love to have you,” Emily insisted. Lillian was silent but looked more resigned to the idea, as Emily helped her through the foyer.

  The ride to the house was brief. Sara sat up front with Emily while Lillian sat in the back and made disparaging comments about the other houses in town. “You would think they’d have that house repainted,” she said about a colonial that looked fine to Sara. “And I don’t understand people who can’t be bothered to weed their gardens,” she commented on another.

  At her house Lillian insisted she didn’t need help and started up the path with her cane. “Don’t forget those plants in the trunk, Emily,” she called. “They’ll smother in there before long.”

  “Oh, yes. The plants. I nearly forgot,” Emily admitted quietly to Sara. She opened the back, and Sara helped her carry several pots and flats of bedding plants around to the backyard.

  A table on the small patio was already set for two. Sara waited outside while Emily went in. She soon returned with a tray, holding another place setting, as well as cold cuts, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese for sandwiches and a basket of rolls.

  Lillian joined them outside and sat down at the table. “Hmmm, that doesn’t look too exciting, does it?” she asked, glaring at the spread. “For the money I’m paying her, you’d think she could come up with something a bit more original for lunch.”

  “You’ve also told her that you prefer plain foods, Mother,” Emily reminded Lillian. “She can’t be original and plain at the same time.”

  “Of course she can,” Lillian insisted. “But that would require a little thought, I suppose. Too much to ask from help these days.”

  Ignoring her mother, Emily turned to Sara. “Have a seat, Sara, and fix yourself a sandwich. What do you like?”

  Emily sounded like her mom back in Maryland, Sara thought suddenly.

  “Young women diet far too much these days,” Lillian observed. “It makes them sick. I’ve seen it on TV. Some sort of epidemic.” She looked at Sara. “You’re not on a diet, are you?”

  “Uh, no. Not at all.” As if to prove her point, Sara reached for the basket and put a large roll on her plate.

  “So, you’re a writer. What have you written?” Lillian asked, a challenging edge to her tone. Sara noticed Emily give her mother a quelling look, but Lillian ignored it.

  “I write fiction mainly,” Sara replied. “I had a short story published in a literary magazine this spring. And I worked on the college newspaper.”

  Lillian had been fixing a small sandwich for herself, a slice of ham and some lettuce, Sara noticed. She carefully cut it in half. “Do you read?”

  “Yes. Too much I think, sometimes.”

  “You can never read too many books,” Lillian replied. “Just the wrong kind, I think.”

  “I think it’s important to read, no matter what kind of books you like,” Emily said. “So
metimes I’m in the mood for a biography or something serious. And other times I just want a mystery or something entertaining.”

  “Beach reading, I think they call it now,” Lillian said disapprovingly. “You can take a nap in the middle of it, or even get sunstroke, and you won’t miss much.”

  Sara shared an amused glance with Emily. Lillian was the very definition of a curmudgeon, but Sara found her pronouncements oddly refreshing. At least you didn’t have to worry about Lillian being two-faced; she told you exactly what she thought. Whereas Emily . . . what was the truth about Emily?

  “To each his own, Mother,” Emily said.

  “To each numbskull, you mean,” Lillian replied. She dabbed her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “I like a book that expands your mind. That’s the point of literature and the point of art.”

  “I think art is about self-expression. Authentic thoughts and feelings. An artist’s personal vision,” Sara said. “I don’t think real artists consciously set out to edify or educate. If they do, it’s by accident. If they do it on purpose, it’s not really art to me.”

  Lillian turned and looked at her, as if truly noticing her for the first time. “Interesting point,” she conceded. She looked over at Emily. “The girl does have a mind. She’s so pretty, I didn’t suspect it.”

  “Of course she does,” Emily agreed, sounding as if she had full confidence in Sara to hold her own in any conversation.

  “Of course, self-expression, the glorification of the individual, is a very modern notion,” Lillian went on. “The French probably invented it.”

  “Though in New England we always take full credit,” Emily pointed out.

  “Yes, we do. Shamelessly at this time of year,” Lillian remarked. “But getting back to my original point,” she continued, “some very great works of art have been informed by—and conformed to—strict doctrines of belief. The religious art of the Renaissance, for instance.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sara agreed. “But I still think that even the great artists of that period were expressing a personal vision.”