Cape Light

by Thomas Kinkade

  It sounded as if Sara had a bad summer cold. Orange juice was good for that, Emily thought. Stuck out there in those cottages, she probably wasn’t taking care of herself. It might seem intrusive, she knew, to drop in on Sara unannounced. But she would try anyway. She could just stand at the door and give Sara the food, see if she looked okay.

  Lucy soon had the care package ready, and Emily left for the cottages. She wouldn’t stay long, she promised herself as she headed for her car. She just wanted to check on her.

  At first when she arrived at Cranberry Cottages, Emily wasn’t sure which was Sara’s. But then it was apparent that only three were occupied, and she could guess quite accurately who lived in each by simply checking out the clotheslines.

  One line held a family of bathing suits, from Dad’s billowing trunks down to a ruffled baby one-piece. The next held two pairs of men’s jeans and a blue T-shirt that said Police Athletic League. Luke McAllister had moved in to number three.

  Number five had to be Sara’s, she surmised, walking toward it. She saw two Clam Box T-shirts on the clothesline, which confirmed it.

  A small light was on in the kitchen and living-room area, but Emily knocked twice and no one answered. Sara must be asleep, she thought. I’ll just leave this stuff here with a note and hope raccoons don’t see it first. She didn’t want to wake Sara if she was sleeping.

  An instant later the inner door opened, and Emily saw Sara’s pale face behind the screen.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you,” Emily began, “but Lucy told me you’ve been sick, and I just wanted to check on you.” She held up the bag from the Clam Box. “I brought you some soup—chicken noodle. It’s supposed to be good for a cold.”

  “I’m not sure if I have a cold exactly,” Sara said slowly. “But soup sounds good. Thanks.” She opened the door to her and took the bag. “Why don’t you come in for a minute? I don’t think I’m contagious or anything.”

  “I didn’t even think of that,” Emily said as she entered the cottage. “I really don’t get sick much, no matter who coughs or sneezes in my direction.”

  “Well, thanks for coming and bringing this stuff anyway. That was nice of you.” Sara smiled and tightened the sash on her bathrobe.

  “It was no trouble. Lucy and I were worried about you.” And you don’t seem the type who would ask for help, even if you needed it, she nearly added.

  “Sit down.” Sara gestured to a chair at the cluttered kitchen table. “I’m just going to heat up the soup. Can I get you anything?”

  Emily suddenly remembered her own dinner was wrapped up in the same bag. “I think I have a sandwich in there somewhere . . . and some coffee.”

  Sara peered inside the bag and found the food. She put the sandwich on a dish and gave it to Emily along with the container of coffee.

  “Thanks . . . but you mustn’t serve me. That’s not the idea. Come, sit down. I’ll reheat the soup for you,” Emily said, getting out of her chair.

  What had she been thinking? The girl was sick. She didn’t want to impose on her.

  “Oh . . . okay. If you insist,” Sara said as Emily shooed her away from the stove. “I just need to get something in my bedroom. I’ll be right back.”

  Emily nodded. She found a pot on the drain board, poured the soup into it, and set it on the stove over a low flame. Then she walked over to the small table, covered with books and papers, and tried to clear a spot. The table of a writer who lived alone, Emily thought with a secret smile.

  She didn’t want to disturb any of Sara’s personal things, but she did need a clear space to set the bowl on, Emily reasoned.

  She saw an open notebook with Sara’s handwriting covering both pages, and quickly closed it and put it aside. It looked very private, and Emily was a stickler about respecting a person’s privacy.

  Sara came back into the room and stopped in her tracks. Emily had just finished making a neat pile of the books and stacking up the papers. “I just wanted to clear a space for your soup bowl,” she explained. “I hope you didn’t have your books in any special order?”

  “Ummm . . . no, not really,” Sara replied, shaking her head. She looked even paler than before, Emily noticed. She wondered if Sara was running a fever.

  “Have a seat. The soup should be ready,” Emily said, walking back to the stove. She found a small dish and put out the roll and the two drinks. “You need lots of fluids when you’re sick like this.”

  Thanks, Mom, Sara almost replied sarcastically but bit back the reply in time.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said blandly. She took the large cup of ginger ale and sipped on the straw.

  “Maybe you’ve just been working too hard at the diner,” Emily suggested. She paused to pour out the soup. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn when I asked after you tonight. I thought you had left town and mentioned to Lucy that you were planning on it. But she didn’t seem to know anything about that.”

  “Oh, well, the thing is, they’re so busy there right now. And on top of it, Lucy is trying to convince Charlie to let her go back to school. If I left her shorthanded, that would hurt her case, and I really hope she can persuade him.”

  Emily carefully lifted the bowl of hot soup and carried it to the table. “Lucy wants to go to college? Good for her,” she said. “She’s a very bright woman. I think it would be great for her.”

  “So do I.” Sara leaned back as Emily set down the soup.

  “Oh, the spoon. How dumb of me. I’d make a terrible waitress, I think,” Emily said, returning to the kitchen.

  “Top drawer to the right of the sink,” Sara directed her. “Well, you seem to be doing okay as mayor.”

  Emily returned with the spoon and sat down to her sandwich. “Thanks, I hope the voters think so in the fall.”

  “How is the campaign going?” Sara asked, taking a sip of soup.

  Emily lifted one shoulder. “It always seems great at first. Like a romance—lots of high energy and fine promises. Later it’s like a marathon. The going gets tougher and you really have to dig in to go the limit.”

  Sara smiled at the analogy. “Think you’ll make it?”

  “Me? I’m like the tortoise, slow and steady. I don’t burn myself out on the first lap or two. Charlie looks like he’s running rings around me now. But I can’t see how he’ll keep up this pace months from now.”

  “Let’s hope he runs out of gas real soon,” Sara said, making Emily laugh. She wondered if Sara would still be around at election time. But how could that be? The girl would surely be long gone by then. Back to Maryland or wherever.

  “Do you miss your family, Sara?” she asked curiously. “They must miss you.”

  “I speak to my mom about once a week,” Sara answered, tearing off a piece of the roll. “And sometimes I write a letter, or my parents write me.”

  “Any sisters or brothers?”

  Sara shook her head. “An only child.” Lots of adopted children are, she added silently.

  “Have you ever been married?” she suddenly asked Emily.

  Emily looked surprised by the question, but then her expression relaxed again. “Yes, a long time ago. I was just about your age—even younger, actually. That’s when I lived down in Maryland,” she added, taking a bite of her sandwich. “My husband’s name was Tim. Tim Sutton. We met up here, in Cape Light, when I was a senior in high school. He was a few years older, a lobster fisherman,” she added. “After I graduated we decided to elope and ran away to Maryland.”

  Sara’s eyes widened. Tim Sutton. That was the name on her birth certificate. So he had been her father, after all. And it seemed he hadn’t abandoned Emily when she was pregnant, as Sara often imagined.

  Sara suddenly felt so disturbed, she couldn’t swallow another mouthful. She pushed the bowl away.

  Emily looked at her with concern. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked quietly.

  “Uh . . .sure. I’m okay. Just not as hungry as I thought.” She sat up and tried to assume a more
relaxed expression. “What was he like—your husband, I mean.”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know. How would I describe him?” Emily’s expression softened, and Sara could almost see a love-struck teenager in her eyes. “He was just a wonderful person. Smart, kind, funny. Quiet sometimes. He loved music and working on the water. He loved me,” she added wistfully.

  Sara swallowed hard, but she forced herself to ask more questions, knowing she might never have this chance again.

  “So what happened next? Running off to get married sounds very romantic.”

  “Yes, it was.” Emily nodded. “We were together for less than two years. Then Tim was killed in a car accident. . . . I was in the accident, too, but I was lucky. Only a few injuries. Nothing serious. I decided not to stay alone down in Maryland and came back up here.”

  “Oh . . . how sad,” Sara said, genuinely moved. Her father had died in a car accident. But was he her father? She judged Emily to be in her early forties, although she looked younger. The time frame seemed right. But Emily never mentioned having a baby.

  “Well, that was long ago. I didn’t mean to depress you,” Emily added. “Honestly, I came to cheer you up, not tell you sad stories.”

  “I was the one who asked,” Sara said carefully. “And it was really interesting hearing about Tim and when you lived in Maryland. Thanks for telling me.”

  Emily nodded. “That’s okay.”

  Emily suddenly found it curious that she hadn’t told anyone this story in years and now was relating it twice in nearly as many days. Did that mean something? It almost felt as if there were something in her past that was trying to surface—only she had no idea what it could be.

  “What about children?” Sara asked suddenly. “Did you ever have any?”

  But Emily didn’t know how to answer the question. Finally she said, “I never had the pleasure of raising a child—or the blessing of that experience.”

  No wonder Emily was so successful in politics, Sara thought. When backed against a wall, she could adeptly—and truthfully—sidestep the answer.

  But Sara knew that Emily’s reply told only half the story. She saw the sadness in Emily’s eyes—a mirror image of her own blue eyes—and knew Emily hadn’t purposely misled her. The truth was painful to her. Painful still, after all these years.

  Sara felt the sudden impulse to reveal herself. Why not? she wondered. Would she ever find a better time? It suddenly seemed fated that Emily came here like this tonight, to see her, just so they could each tell each other the truth.

  Sara’s mind raced, trying to frame the right words—to start at least.

  “Emily, there’s something I need to tell you, something important,” Sara began.

  “What is it? Is something wrong?”

  “No . . . not really.” Sara shook her head, not knowing how to say it. Feeling restless, she got up from her chair. “Well, yes. There is something wrong, a problem I have. You can help me. In fact . . . you’re the only one,” she added, meeting Emily’s blue gaze.

  “I’d like to help, Sara, if I can.” Emily stared up at her, looking genuinely puzzled.

  Sara swallowed hard. Her throat suddenly felt tight. I’m your daughter, she wanted to say. I’m the baby you gave up for adoption twenty years ago, back in Maryland.

  Still, she couldn’t speak. The words just wouldn’t come out. She felt her stomach twist into a knot, as if she were about to throw up.

  “Are you all right?” Emily asked. “You’re suddenly looking awfully pale. Maybe you should sit down again,” she suggested, rising to her feet so that they stood face-to-face.

  Sara glanced at Emily. Her expression was so open and caring. It was so hard to tell her the truth. But she had to do it.

  This was it. Now or never.

  “I need to tell you something. I hope you don’t get upset . . . or angry,” Sara said quietly.

  “I’ll try my best not to,” Emily promised. “I’m pretty thick skinned,” she added with a mild smile. “What is this about? Do you need me to help out with some problem in town . . . a parking ticket? A problem with Charlie Bates perhaps?”

  Sara could tell that Emily was half-joking, trying to encourage her to speak. But the questions were only distracting. She shook her head impatiently.

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said.

  Emily waited, giving Sara a thoughtful look. When Sara remained quiet, she said, “Is this about your future—what we spoke about the other day? Is it something about your writing?” she probed.

  Sara sat down heavily in the chair. She couldn’t tell her. She just couldn’t do it. Maybe because she didn’t feel well tonight. She just couldn’t handle this.

  She felt Emily watching her, waiting. She needed to say something, come up with some plausible explanation for her “problem.” But what?

  “Yes . . . it is about my writing,” Sara said finally in a halting tone. “I’ve written this story, and you’re a character in it. Well, not exactly, but someone very much like you,” she added, unable to look at Emily.

  “I think it’s pretty good,” she went on. “When it’s finished, I’m going to submit it to some magazines, see if I can get it published. I just thought I ought to tell you. Just in case someone takes it.”

  It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t quite a lie, either, Sara reasoned. She had been working on a story about a young woman, like herself, trying to confront her birth mother. The story wasn’t anywhere near finished, though, and Sara doubted she would send it out even when it was.

  “Well . . . that’s a first for me,” Emily said, looking surprised. “I feel . . . complimented, I suppose. Thank you for putting me in a story.”

  “But you don’t even know what it’s about,” Sara said.

  “Will I be upset if I read it?” Emily asked, though she sounded more amused than upset by the prospect.

  “You might be,” Sara admitted. “I guess that’s why I wanted to tell you.” For goodness’ sake, why had she ever come up with this excuse? It was getting more complicated by the minute.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Emily advised. “As mayor, I’m used to having all sorts of things written about me. Besides, I believe in creative freedom. If I gave you an idea for a character, use it. Write whatever it is you need to write.” Emily gazed at her and shrugged. “Maybe you can let me read it sometime when it’s finished.”

  Sara glanced at her, then looked away. “Okay, that’s a good idea,” she said in a flat tone. Then, wondering if she had unintentionally hurt Emily’s feelings, she added, “It’s nothing insulting or anything that shows you—I mean, the character like you—in a bad light.”

  “Okay, don’t worry about it. After all, we’re friends, right?”

  “Yes,” Sara said, surprised to realize that it was true.

  Emily smiled at her, then glanced down at her watch. “Oh, dear, I had no idea what time it was. I’ve really got to run. They must be wondering where I am.”

  Emily started for the door, then turned back for a moment. “If you’re still feeling sick, don’t rush back to work. Lucy and Charlie can survive without you for a few days. And if you need anything, call my office, okay?”

  “Okay,” Sara promised, though she doubted she’d ever take Emily up on that offer. But it made her feel warm inside to realize that Emily genuinely liked her and cared about her.

  Once Emily had gone, Sara stretched out on her bed. Her head was pounding. If only I could have told her, Sara thought. I’d be so relieved to be free of this secret. If only Emily glanced down and read just a few lines of my journal. . . .

  But Sara had been watching silently from the doorway, and she knew for a fact that Emily just shut the open journal and put it aside. Very honorable, she thought. Or just not terribly curious.

  Either way, they still had the secret between them. And yet Sara’s feeling about it had changed. After hearing the story of Emily’s marriage, Sara was positive that her mother had not made the decision lightly
to give her up. She no longer assumed the worst.

  Instead, she now saw her mother as a very romantic and even tragic figure—at least, she was when she was young. Defying her parents—Lillian mostly, Sara suspected—to marry the man she loved. When and if she ever heard the real reason Emily had given her up for adoption, Sara was fairly certain now she could forgive her.

  But would she ever summon the courage to tell her the truth? Could she take it upon herself to mess up Emily’s well-ordered life? She wasn’t sure now if that was the responsible thing to do. Perhaps she ought to just go back to Maryland.

  But having gotten so much closer to Emily tonight—so very close to telling her—made it even harder to leave. She would stay just a while longer. Lucy would appreciate it, too.

  Sara crawled under the covers and turned off her light. It seemed she was making ties here, despite her plan not to. Emily, Lillian, Lucy—even customers who came into the diner regularly, like Tucker Tulley, who was always very nice to her.

  Then there was Luke McAllister, her secret favorite and new neighbor, as well.

  It was funny how that happens sometimes, no matter how hard you try to keep your distance. . . .

  SAM SAT ATTENTIVELY IN BIBLE COMMUNITY Church’s recreation hall, Molly and Jill on one side, Digger and Grace and Harry Reilly on the other. Lauren was up on stage, sitting gracefully at the black piano which sat in the middle of the stage—a large, shiny baby grand, donated to the church years ago by some wealthy widow, Sam recalled. Carolyn Lewis had since made very good use of it. Today it had been rolled out and polished to a mirror sheen for the recital of her summer piano students.

  This was Lauren’s first public performance. When she’d handed Sam the invitation, he’d known he wouldn’t miss it for the world. They were all so proud of Lauren. Molly was positively beaming, and Grace was, too, pleased to see that Julie’s old piano was being put to such good use. As Lauren played, Sam noticed Grace dab her eyes now and again. He even noticed Harry patting her hand at one point.

  Molly was making them all a special dinner at her apartment afterward to celebrate. Everyone who helped moved the piano from Grace’s barn was invited—except Jessica, he realized.