by Kim Allred
AJ continued to giggle after the waiter left and picked up her glass. “I guess I needed that.” The merriment had been the right thing to drain away the strain, and with the first sip of wine, the worries over the past several days evaporated.
“It’s good to see you laugh. I’ve only known you a little while, and you’re so focused, I wasn’t sure you ever gave yourself time for pleasure.”
AJ took a moment to consider his words. “I have my lighter moments, but I think this week can be laid at the feet of a reporter’s deadline.” She decided not to admit that his entrance into her life, and the mystery ship at the dock, added to her perplexing week.
“Let’s see if we can avoid the topic for a while. I enjoyed our brief discussion of history the other day. I’d like to hear how you came to love it so much.”
AJ pinched her napkin, losing focus. “There’s not much of a story, at least not on my part. My father was passionate about history. His library was always filled with books, mostly about the European continent, but he had a few on Asia, the Silk Road, feudal Japan, and other stuff.” She paused a moment to reminisce, and a warm smile lit her face.
“I would always find him sitting in his big leather chair, reading some musty old book before dinner. When I was little, before I could read, I remember climbing onto his lap to watch him. Sometimes he’d have a book with pictures, and he’d tell me stories of faraway places, tales of pirates, unlucky queens, or mysteries of the Far East. Each evening would be a new story, a new piece of history to make my own.” She quieted, blinking away the emotions the memories rekindled.
“Were the stories true?”
She tried to remember some of the stories, but it was too long ago, and so many had been told. “I think so. My father wasn’t one to tell tall tales, but he may have embellished them for the listener.”
Ethan smiled. “That’s the thing about history. You can only learn from what was written, a single person’s recollection of the events. If there is enough written, and the stories are similar, you would expect that to be the truth of it.”
“And if one had read enough stories on a subject, then one person’s embellishment could be closer to the truth than you might think.”
“An interesting perspective, but in my experience, most embellished stories are just that.”
AJ bristled at his comment and what it implied about her father. “I guess your experiences far outweigh mine in those areas, with your job and all.”
“I didn’t mean to ruffle feathers. I’m speaking in generalities. I’m sure your father spoke as close to the truth as he knew it. Perhaps he wasn’t embellishing at all but sharing his perception of what he read.”
AJ relaxed. “Sorry. You’re right. I guess we get protective of our family, especially when they’re not around anymore.”
“Your brother mentioned that he died two years ago.”
“Almost two. A heart attack, out of the blue. It was rough on my mother for the first year, but Adam’s children helped her bounce back. She keeps busy anyway.”
“So, after sitting on his lap and hearing about history, you started reading it yourself.”
“It was the antiquing. My father loved to get as close to history as possible, being able to pick up or touch some relic. So in his forays, he would look for old children’s books I could read. Then he quickly moved me to other books, and I learned to love the musty old smell.”
It had been a long time since she spoke to anyone about her father, but Ethan seemed to dislodge her reticence.
“And you traveled a lot?”
Still wrapped in her memories, AJ turned her wine glass, the flame from the table’s candle catching her gaze. “Yeah. Small towns known for their antique shops, big cities for their museums. Always a family vacation and, as we got older, small weekend trips.” Then AJ snapped out of her reverie. “What about you?”
Ethan seemed thrown off-balance by her question. “Not much to tell.”
“Oh no you don’t. I showed mine, now it’s your turn.” AJ couldn’t be sure, but he seemed to falter, piquing her interest at what he wouldn’t share. “It’s going to be a quiet dinner, because I’m not going to talk anymore unless you share something about yourself.” She paused, a smile hovering. “Unless this was meant to be more of an interrogation than dinner.”
Ethan sipped his wine. “My story isn’t much different from your own. I too learned to love books at an early age and became fascinated by the stories. You know how boys are about wars and civil unrest.”
AJ smirked. “Boys and their wars. Pretty easy to see why history would be of interest when told from that perspective.”
Their conversation remained with history, taking turns discussing their favorite time periods. Ethan seemed well-versed with war and battle strategies, as most men were with an interest in history. Considering how interested he was in nineteenth-century conflicts, she found it odd he seemed to have little interest in the Civil War, or the World Wars. But to each their own. There was usually no specific reason as to what drew people to history.
AJ enjoyed herself over dinner, but she didn’t know what to make of Ethan. He had melted into his chair, focused on everything she said, yet he cast furtive glances around the room, his eyes performing a quick study of each new diner. She didn’t know how he could do that and assumed the skill had developed over time. He never allowed a glimpse behind the wall he’d erected.
Instead of dessert, Ethan ordered them both cappuccinos, and AJ eased back in her chair to broach a more personal subject. “Stella tells me you rented the McDowell place.” Her eyes met his over the rim of her cup.
“It’s a marvelous old building and sits on prime real estate. You can see for miles when the weather is clear.”
“The key word is old. It hasn’t been kept up very well, from what I’ve heard.”
“It’s in desperate need of repair, but I’m willing to assist. It will offset the rental fee. But the bones of the place are solid.”
“Do you do construction as well?”
“I tinker here and there, but I’ll hire most of it. I prefer the finishing work.”
AJ was impressed. “You enjoy the detail work. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Ethan laughed. “See, you’ve learned enough about me to know I live by the details.”
“I’m not sure I’ve dug enough. So why rent instead of purchase? I thought you were staying for a while.” AJ inwardly winced. It seemed too personal.
“I may eventually.” Ethan moved back in his seat, taking a quick sweep of the room. “It seemed right to rent for now. And you’ve touched on the subject I wanted to discuss with you. Seems you took me off topic with stories of the past.”
“Which wasn’t all my doing.”
“I’ll concede to my small part.” Ethan moved his cup away and leaned in. “The McDowell place. Do you know how old it is?”
AJ shook her head, moving her own cup closer. “No. I hadn’t given it much thought.”
“It was built in the early 1900s, before the First World War. It was built by a ship’s captain. There’s a fascinating story about why it was built and what happened to its first owner.”
AJ perked up. “I had no idea. It’s always been just the old McDowell place to me.”
“With your love of history and all the old timeworn pieces dragged out of people’s attics, has the age of the buildings never drawn your interest? Didn’t your father ever discuss their history?”
Ethan’s words touched her, like opening a door that had always been there, but she had never walked through. “My father didn’t ignore the buildings, but for some reason, I never paid attention. I’ve looked at older homes, but mostly at what people have accomplished in their attempts to restore them, whether they’ve hit the mark on the original design. I’ve never been too interested in the houses themselves.”
Her mind traveled to all the old places in town, some of them dating back more than a hundred years. Ethan disappeare
d. Time stopped. All she could see were the houses, the lighthouse, the old museum building, the Cramwell estate house—and so many more.
Finally, Ethan spoke. “I think you’ve found your next story.”
Another moment or two passed before AJ realized what Ethan had said. She ran it over in her mind, sketching the idea. “Not just a story, a whole series. I can’t believe I’ve never thought about it before.”
“All this time and you’ve never written about a building?”
AJ shook her head. “Not as the focus of the piece. I’ve mentioned buildings as part of other stories, bits and pieces of their history written as background, but never as the subject matter. This is huge.” She moved her cappuccino out of her way, fully engaged, laughing as if a huge stone had been lifted from her shoulders. “You have no idea how wonderful this is.”
“I can see it’s lightened your mood.” Ethan smiled.
“I won’t have to worry about my next story for weeks, possibly months. There will be other stories in between, of course, but the old buildings will be the main focus. The first two or three weeks should be all about the buildings anyway, a good start to the series.”
“Excellent. Then why don’t we get started tomorrow?”
Ethan’s question pulled AJ out of her planning. “Get what started?”
“The McDowell place. What better place to begin? You have permission from the current occupant to visit the house, and I have discovered some information in the house you might find of interest.”
AJ sat back and regarded him, but he gave nothing away. He appeared earnest and eager. “You’ve thought of everything. Why?”
Ethan leaned closer. “I was curious myself as to the origins of the home. The craftsmanship, the amazing detail in the wood, it all looked hand done. Finished with love, if you will. It intrigued me, and I knew there must be a story behind it all.”
“And I mentioned I was in search of my next article.”
Ethan shrugged, his earlier excitement abated. “It seemed interesting to share, and I was longing for an evening out with a beautiful woman.”
This caught AJ short, and she turned wary. “Here it comes.”
Ethan’s hands came up in a defensive manner. A smile played at his lips. “For conversational purposes only. I wanted a nice meal and pleasant conversation that wasn’t centered around my business.”
AJ relaxed. “All right. I believe you. Besides, you did come through for me on the story, so I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Well said. And not to give you any more ideas, let’s get you back to the office. I’ve lost the battle for conversation now anyway. I can see the wheels turning about in your head.” Ethan rose, laid cash on the table, and gestured for her to leave first.
True to his word, Ethan dropped her off at the office and, being a perfect gentleman, or the instinctual security man, he waited for her to get to her car. He stayed until she waved and pulled out of the parking lot.
Once home, AJ poured herself a small glass of wine and grabbed her laptop, notepad, and pen, everything she usually needed to work on a project. She sat in her big comfy chair, her favorite place to work. Her small library of books was close at hand if she needed guidance.
Ready to search the internet, AJ was typing in “McDowell” when another idea struck. Instead she typed “Westcliffe Inn.” Like Stella’s and her own earlier search, not much came up. Her search for Mr. Jackson had gone nowhere, but the inn was the only place she could begin. She had hoped she would be able to find more than Stella. But she was just scratching the surface on this research. There were other ways to get what she needed.
After a half hour of going nowhere with the research, her wine pretty much gone, AJ turned back to her more immediate need—her article. She spent the rest of the evening outlining her story on the McDowell house.
AJ climbed into bed, her mood the lightest it had been in weeks. Her story had finally come together. It always did in the end, but sometimes the stress was unbearable before a topic would finally break through. She snuggled into the comforter, her mind quieting, thankful that Ethan wasn’t anything like her brother. Adam would never have brought her the treasure she was sure to discover in the old buildings.
Something else nagged. She sat up. The inn wasn’t always called the Westcliffe. It hovered, just out of reach. She’d remember eventually. But she wasn’t sure if it would help solve her mystery.
11
The morning air was crisp. The sun, obscured by a thin layer of clouds, held no promise of warming, unable to disperse the tenacious fingers of gray that refused to release their hold on the coast. The lightest touch of a breeze caressed the ship, the gentle waves creating a soft, rolling motion, indiscernible to the man leaning against the railing, his long lean fingers plying the ropes in his hands.
Finn had been up before the sun, going over every inch of the sloop, ensuring it was ready to go on a moment’s notice. He didn’t like to be caught by surprise. Never again, he had promised himself. He checked each rope to confirm that nothing was fraying, nothing needed repair. Anything he found, he fixed then and there before moving on.
He had not grown up to be such a meticulous man. The early days of Finn’s youth were carefree, wasting most of it like any other young man whose family had some influence. His father was a lenient man, wanting only the best for his family, and they’d had enough money to hire help for many of the chores, leaving Finn to run wild with the neighbor boys on more occasions than his father would have wished. Finn’s only interest in those days were ships, horses, and girls, in that order. Today though, he could give no traction to his youthful days. He kept his mind on the task at hand, the maintenance of his ship.
Finn completed his work on the standing rigging and moved toward the bow along the starboard side, when the faint rumble of a truck sounded from above. Without looking up, he ran his hands over a brace, watching and feeling for fraying, releasing it only when footsteps sounded on the dock.
“Mr. Murphy? Are you there, boy?” The voice was old and gruff.
Finn smiled. It had been some time since anyone had called him “boy.” He wiped his hands on a rag, walked to the port side, and looked down at the man.
The old man stared at the ship, unsure of Finn’s location, and his eyes squinted against the glare of the bright morning light. The African-American man was tall, with a slight stoop, his skin as smooth as polished glass, which surprised Finn. From the gray in his thinly cropped hair, Finn guessed the man to be at least sixty, but he didn’t see a wrinkle on him. The man scanned the ship, and Finn could tell he wasn’t looking for him anymore. He was lost in the ship, observing her details, marveling at her lines. The admiration in the man’s reflective gaze added to Finn’s respect for him.
Finn leaned against the rail and called out to the man. “Mr. Jackson. I suspect you’re right on time this morning.” Finn kept his manner light, his smile warm.
Mr. Jackson laughed low and deep. “That I am, Mr. Murphy, and I guess it’s high time I get you to town so you can buy yourself a new watch. If you’re waiting for me to tell you the time, you’ll be late to your own funeral.”
Finn laughed with him and met Jackson on the dock. He allowed more of a lilt to enter his voice. “And that would be a shame, because I would expect it to be the grand affair.” Finn patted the old man on the back, and they moved up the hill. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me. I know you think it would have been better if I had tied up at the marina.”
Jackson shook his head. “You don’t have to explain wanting to have some privacy. I don’t go into town every day, but I can get my boy Anthony to come by and check on you, see if you need to go anywhere.”
“That would be grand. Would you have time today to give me a tour of the town so I can get my bearings? I was in a hurry last time.”
“I can give you one quick drive around. I have an appointment, might keep me busy for an hour or so. The truck is yours if you wa
nt to do more.”
When they arrived at Jackson’s truck, Finn hesitated. “It doesn’t seem right to use your truck.”
Most of the old truck’s paint had faded with time and weather, making it difficult to tell what the original color had been. This morning it was a muted gray-black with undertones of brown, which could have been left over from red paint or, more likely, rust, from being so close to the ocean.
Jackson chuckled. “What, you don’t think this old thing will get you where you’re going? Nonsense. She’s got years left on her. Purrs like a kitten.” Jackson climbed in the driver’s side, and Finn settled himself next to him. “Besides, you’re paying me enough to buy this truck ten times over.”
Finn grinned, unable to argue the point. The truck started up on the first try and crept out of the lot. The speed never increased on their way to town. Finn thought a horse would have gotten him there faster. After a while, though, he settled back, stretched out his legs as much as he could in the cramped cab, watched the scenery pass by, and listened to the old man tell him about the town.
“The Meiners were the original town barons. Funny name in that they didn’t own mines.” Jackson snorted. “They were in timber. That there is their old mill.” Jackson pointed out an old wooden structure, much larger than a barn, smaller than an airplane hangar. It looked like it could collapse in the slightest of breezes. “Not much now, but the town stores stuff in there.”
Finn eyed the building and raised his eyebrows. “They’re not afraid of it falling?”
“Oh sure, it doesn’t look like much, but the beams are solid inside.” The old man veered to the right when the road split. “Roof is passable.”
As they drove through the edge of town and deeper into its center, Finn paid close attention to street names, trying to get his bearings.
As if reading his mind, Jackson glanced over at Finn. “The town looks bigger than it is. The newer sections are more wide open. When we get to the main part of the city, you’ll see how easy it is to get around.”