The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “Wow, you made good time.”

  “Right? My thanks to you for the direct flight.”

  “For this, anything. You find someone to talk to yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Have you seen the bottle?”

  She smiled. “I’m still in the parking lot and it seems rude to enter a hundred-year-old building while talking on the phone, so here I stand.”

  “The lighthouse is actually well over a hundred—”

  “Neil.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will text you the moment I find the bottle, ’kay?”

  “The split second you see it.”

  She chuckled. “I promise I’ll call you if I find it. Talk to you on the other side.”

  “Have fun. And happy Saint Patty’s Day. I hope you’re wearing green, li’l sis.”

  He was gone, and she smirked down at her moss-hued blouse. She stashed her cell and wove around a dusty sign that welcomed visitors then strode up the sidewalk toward the quaint white building. Brush and sage swished gently, and wildflowers were just starting to let off their scent to the warming day. Slanting her gaze up to the tower that housed the great glass light flooded her with a thrill. After years of research and months of planning, how good it felt to finally be here.

  Air off the salty bay tugged at her bangs, and Alyssa adjusted the hair clip on her auburn twist. When she reached the front door, the rusty handle was locked. She glanced at a nearby plaque that stated she had arrived fifteen minutes before opening. No wonder the parking lot was empty. With a gorgeous view of the water, she decided to walk out to the edge of the bluffs and snap some pictures. Freeing her camera from its case, Alyssa took a long look at the ocean that spread out to the edge of the sky then lifted it with a squint. “What a view.” She took a few shots—one in each direction.

  After slinging her camera over her shoulder, she mentally kicked herself for not stopping by a coffee shop for something to eat and instead, shuffled through her bag, glad for the apple she’d snatched from the continental buffet. Having left the hotel at first light, she’d been thinking to only scurry on her way. This was a quick breakfast, but a bite into the tart green apple confirmed it a tasty one.

  A peek at her cell showed that it was a few minutes after opening. What if no one came? Would a maintenance man at least open the main door so she could peer inside the entryway? At the sound of footsteps on gravel, Alyssa angled away from the sea to see a silver-haired woman striding up to the whitewashed building. With keys in hand, she looked to be on a mission. A very working-at-the-lighthouse mission. Alyssa chewed her bite quickly and dug in for another as she started that way.

  The woman climbed the steps to the door and slid a key into the antique-looking lock.

  “Good morning. Might you be one of the historians?” Alyssa asked.

  “Yes.” The woman nearly dropped her purse. “And I’m so sorry that I’m late.” Her keys rattled when she twisted the one in the lock. “My daughter just graduated with her doctorate, and to surprise her, I’m commissioning a portrait of her dachshund.” She swiped at her slacks. “So if I have black fur on me, that’s why.” Her nose scrunched in a friendly way.

  “You must be very proud.”

  “Terribly proud.” The woman straightened, looking lost in thought and leaving her keys to dangle forgotten in the door. Then she snapped to attention and tugged them out. “Come on in! We’re open, we’re open.” She motioned Alyssa forward. “Looks like just you and me so far. Oh, and happy Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  “Thanks. You, too.” Alyssa took two more bites of apple then pitched the core into the nearby can. Her sandals tapped up the steps, and she ducked into the cool, still air of the museum. A lighthouse that had once been in operation, it now sat quiet and still as if anticipating the people who would travel near and far to poke about in its tiny rooms—look up at the lamp that no longer burned now that a newer establishment had been built closer to the edge of the point.

  The woman set about unlocking the glass-door barriers to the two lower sections, opening them up for visitors to actually step inside each time capsule. Alyssa glanced first into the tiny parlor where a fireplace stood sentry between two rocking chairs. Small tables were bedecked with antiques, and the view straight out overlooked the glittering blue in the distance. “Heavenly,” she breathed.

  The historian bustled about, unlatching a cupboard, turning on an overhead lamp. She fastened a name tag to a plaid scarf that wrapped around her shoulders.

  “Love those colors, Suzanne,” Alyssa said, noticing the woven reds and greens.

  The woman smiled. “Ain’t it darling? My husband got it for me last year when we visited Scotland. Little gift shop near Loch Fyne.” She slid her hand fondly along the bright tartan then tapped a silver pin that was fashioned into a twig of heather.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The friendly face lit with a dimpled smile as she strode to open another door.

  Turning toward the warmth of sunlight that spilled through a window on her right, Alyssa stepped toward it, past the staircase and into the kitchen. She glanced around at the tidy shelves of homey wares. A stack of bowls and a crock of wooden spoons. A vase holding fresh flowers. Towels folded on the end of a quaint antique table.

  On the wall was a cross-stitched sampler that read, EVEN THERE SHALL THY HAND LEAD ME, AND THY RIGHT HAND SHALL HOLD ME. Such a comforting thought that Alyssa read it once more. Beside that hung several black-and-white photos. Pictures of men and women from the nineteenth century. She stepped closer to a photograph of a man wearing a Civil War uniform. His hand lay clutched over his heart—expression both brave and tender. “Wow,” she breathed. “Are all of these artifacts original to the house?” Alyssa glanced to the historian.

  The older woman shook her head, setting her short curls to bounce. “Some are original to the family, but others are for decoration. All are carefully researched to be accurate for the 1800s. Even some directly from the area. This”—she strode over to one of the glass hutches that housed all sorts of dainty relics—“is from the Hotel del Coronado…just across the bay.”

  “That’s where I’m staying. Gorgeous place.” Squinting, Alyssa leaned closer to the protective glass and saw a ledger dated 1891.

  Suzanne was beside her then. “If you look here,” she said, pointing to the fifth row down, “you can see the reservation they made for their bridal week at the resort.”

  “They?”

  “This was my grandmother and grandfather. She grew up here as a girl, and they met on that very beach.”

  Alyssa read the names carefully. “That’s so romantic.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “May I take a picture?”

  “Certainly, but please no flash.”

  Alyssa uncapped the lens of her camera. “Of course.” She adjusted the setting and snapped a photo of the open book then turned the camera to get a selfie of her in front of the case. Her thumbs-up was probably utterly cheesy, but she couldn’t help it. This was so fun!

  Which reminded her…

  Having stalled enough, she cleared her throat. You can do this, Alyssa. What was the worst that could happen? The worst that could happen was that it wasn’t here or that it didn’t fit, and they would have to search some more. Or give up. Lay it all to rest. Peace could be found even amid that which was forever lost, couldn’t it? She prepared her heart for any outcome and slowly braved the words. “I was wondering…” She wet her lips and motioned toward the cabinet. “If you happen to have an old bottle here somewhere. It would have been made of bronze. Very, very old.”

  Suzanne pursed her mouth. One earring hung crooked in a way that made Alyssa adore her all the more. “Oh yes, that’s upstairs in the top bedroom.” She reached up and fiddled with the piece of jewelry. “You’ll have to peer at it through the glass, I’m sorry, as the room is closed to visitors.”

  Alyssa’s jaw fell. “It’s still here?”


  “If we’re talking about the same bottle.” Suzanne held her palms open, one above the other. “About this tall? There’s a pretty etching at the top, though it’s awful hard to read.”

  Shooting out a sigh of delight, Alyssa reached into her purse for the gently wrapped bundle. Was this really happening? She pulled out the soft, acid-free cloth and, with her new friend looking on, gingerly freed the folds to reveal a brass topper.

  “You see,” she began. “This is an antique of my family’s, starting way back with my grandfather, who bought it for a dime at an estate sale in Oregon. We’ve had it ever since, but no one has ever known what it went to. I did some research online and at the university near where I live, and to make a really, really long story short, we think it may belong to the bottle you have here. The one that was photographed in a 2006 edition of Victorian Times when they featured this museum.”

  “Oh, yes! We have that article here on file.”

  “Yes!” Her hopes rising, Alyssa cupped both hands under the cloth, holding the topper with great care. “Is there any way of getting inside that room just for one itsy-bitsy moment in time to see if this topper might fit to the bottle? If it might belong?”

  Indecision warred in the woman’s face, beginning first with a pinched brow that looked bent on following the rules. But then that brow softened and a spark of curiosity filled gray-blue eyes. “Well, now…” She pressed her mouth to the side then glanced at her wristwatch. “It is awfully quiet.” She peered out the open door toward the parking lot, then back to Alyssa—finally dropping her gaze to the topper with a hint of wonder. “And perhaps if we were quick…” She was already starting for the stairs. “You’ll promise not to touch anything?”

  “Not a thing. You have my solemn vow.”

  “Then let’s be stealthy.” Suzanne winked.

  Nervous energy rocketing through her, Alyssa followed her escort up the winding staircase that coiled upward. They climbed to the landing, where an antique-laden bedroom was walled off with glass. Another time capsule of sorts. Taking that moment to dig into her camera case, Alyssa pulled out the Victorian Times clipping and glanced to the picture of the bottle she’d looked at a thousand times before. The one she’d spent hours comparing to illustrations of the ninth century—learning more about monks and monasteries than she’d ever meant to. But it was research that had wedged into a special place in her heart. And now…

  Key to lock, the woman had to shimmy the narrow, glass door open as if this hadn’t occurred in quite some time. Alyssa drew a slow inhale—feeling the reverence of this moment.

  “It’s just across the way.” She motioned Alyssa over a faded rug, toward the far window that had a perfect view of the sea.

  Breath bated, Alyssa stepped slowly in. Her skin tingled. Face flushed. This was it. The air was musky, quiet, still. As if the scent and silence alone were stories waiting to be told. Beneath the window sat a small table that was draped with a lace cloth. Atop that rested a stack of books, an old pipe, and beside that…

  Alyssa wet her lips, barely able to believe her eyes. Stepping nearer, she crouched down so she was eye level with the old vessel. “Hello, you,” she whispered. Washing over her was the realization of just how old this treasure was. How many hands had touched it? How many lives had it passed through?

  Her throat pinched with a tightness—a wash of joy that she didn’t even know how to express. Eyes stinging, she unwrapped the topper. Alyssa looked up to the woman standing beside her. “May I check?”

  “Ever so gently.”

  Nodding, Alyssa rose a little higher and, with trembling fingers, held the stopper over the bottle. It looked like the same size, but she wouldn’t know for certain until she pressed one into the other. A joining. Might it be a homecoming?

  With a gulp, she said a small prayer, and careful not to touch the bottle itself, she settled the topper down. It wedged in only a fraction. There it snagged. With a ginger touch, Alyssa turned the ornate cap slightly, trying to greet the two portions of dented metal as they might have once known each other. There. She felt it give—two halves becoming one—lining up just perfectly.

  The historian gritted her teeth in anticipation, clutching both hands in front of her chest. “Let’s hope,” she said.

  Alyssa grinned. “Yes.” She nudged the topper down, and it settled in flush. “Hope indeed.”

  A Carol Award and three-time Christy Award-finalist, Joanne Bischof writes deeply layered fiction that tugs at the reader’s heartstrings. Her 2016 novel, The Lady and the Lionheart, received an extraordinary 5 Star Top Pick! from Romantic Times Book Reviews among other critical claim. Joanne has written two novellas for Barbour. The first, Something New, was a part of the Heirloom Brides Collection and whet her appetite for more pieces of short, yet meaningful romance. Her latest Barbour novella, The Swelling Sea, was inspired by one of Joanne’s favorite local spots—the historic Hotel del Coronado, where she traipses around as often as she can, dreaming of Rosie, Jonas, and more adventures to come.