by Darci Hannah
“Seriously,” Kennedy remarked for the fifth time, “this place is magical. I thought you’d gone batty, cashing it all in for an old lighthouse on the edge of nowhere, but I must say, you’ve got vision.”
“She does,” Dylan said, grinning. “This is hands-down the coolest bakery I’ve ever worked in. Hey,” she said, refilling our glasses, “I’d like to make a toast. Here’s to a successful grand opening.”
“Hear, hear!” Kennedy and I chimed in, and clanked our glasses. Thanks to the wine and the company of good friends, Fiona Dickel and her warning never crossed my mind.
CHAPTER 9
The next few days, Kennedy, with Wellington in tow, flitted around the charming town of Beacon Harbor, snapping pictures, introducing herself to the other shop owners, and promoting the bakery’s grand opening. Although I was just beginning to really feel a part of the town and loved perusing the shops, I stayed closer to home, calming my nerves in the bakery kitchen. I was mixing pounds of butter and loads of sugar in the industrial-size blender for cookie dough when I heard the telltale, “Oooo, something smells good!” I turned off the mixer as Betty Vanhoosen popped into the kitchen.
“Have a cookie,” I said, handing her one from my first batch. It was an oatmeal-based dough stuffed with dried tart cherries, white chocolate, and toasted pecans, with a touch of vanilla and a hint of cinnamon for good measure. The cherries were from an orchard in Traverse City. They were my favorite go-to. I’d given Rory a dozen earlier with a thermos of coffee to take out on his fishing boat. Hopefully they were bringing him luck.
“Heavenly,” Betty murmured, chewing. “This is going to be the best Memorial Day ever! I don’t know what your friend has been saying, but whatever it is, it’s working. I just got a call from the Harbor Hotel. They’re all booked up for the weekend. Same with the Lakeshore Inn. It appears that lighthouse enthusiasts from all over the state can’t wait to step inside your renovated lighthouse bakeshop. And just wait until they taste one of these. You will be serving these, won’t you, dear?” She held up her half-eaten cookie. I assured her that I’d stock dozens of them.
“Excellent! There is one small blight on the face of all this good news, I’m afraid.” Betty paused and helped herself to a cup of coffee. I always had a pot brewing when I baked.
While she took a sip, I offered, “You wouldn’t be referring to Fiona Dickel, by any chance?”
“The very same.” Betty gave a disparaging shake of her head, sending her platinum-blond bob jiggling. “That Dickel woman and her friends stormed into my office yesterday. I was about to close on a large lake house for a Bloomfield Hills couple. That crazy woman stomped into my office with her grungy followers and threatened to have my real estate license revoked. She really can’t, but her anger scared off my clients! They just picked up and left. Can you believe the nerve of her? Fiona thinks I’ve done something wrong by selling you this lighthouse. It was becoming an eyesore. Every year people would try to break in to it. It was a real liability. Anyhow, as the real estate agent on the project, I was representing the town. Beacon Harbor got the money for it. Fiona and her followers are just angry. Still, she had no right storming into my office like that. And poor Paige.”
Paige was Betty’s office assistant, a bright young woman in her late twenties who was not only kind but capable. I liked Paige.
“It’s not like she’s a Millennial,” Betty continued. “You know, with an axe to grind against the man. Fiona and her followers are grown-ups who should know better. Anyhow, I just came to warn you. They’re planning on creating a ruckus on your opening day.”
I shook my head at the thought. “Don’t they have other hobbies to pursue rather than harassing me?”
“This old lighthouse was her passion project.” Betty pursed her pink lips, then helped herself to another cookie. “The trouble is”—she paused to take a bite—“Fiona’s militant mission and grating personality prevented many from donating to her lighthouse preservation fund. Now she’s taking her failure out on us.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, cracking eggs into my butter-sugar mix. “But don’t worry. Fiona’s already lost the battle. If she does anything too crazy, I won’t hesitate to call the authorities.”
* * *
It was the night before the grand opening, and I was frantic as I rapped on Rory’s door.
“I’m sorry,” I said the moment he opened it. Although he was barefoot and wearing pajama pants, I knew he wasn’t asleep. His lights had been on.
Rory looked at both Wellington and me.
“I know it’s late,” I apologized, “but I need to ask you a huge favor.”
I had just finished making cookie dough for the three types of cookies I planned to serve on opening day, my dried cherry, white chocolate, and toasted pecan; a killer chocolate chip; and a lemon sugar cookie with a raspberry-piped lighthouse on a background of white icing. Things like cookie dough, piecrusts, fillings, cake batter, and icings could be refrigerated overnight. The donuts, cinnamon rolls, and yeast breads would have to be made fresh in the morning. And since donuts were our opening theme, we were planning on making a splash with our delicious varieties.
All the prepwork had been done, the four young people I’d hired to work the bakery counter and cash register had been trained and scheduled. However, my experienced barista, Mark, a college senior home for the summer, had just called from the emergency room. He’d broken his arm skateboarding.
Rory, standing in the doorway, grinned. “No baked goods to sample?”
“Oh, there are plenty of those,” I assured him, marveling at how he could sample so many and stay so fit. “You can have whatever you like at the bakery tomorrow. It’s opening day and I have no barista. Can you brew coffee and work an espresso machine?”
“You’ve tasted my coffee,” he reminded me with a self-effacing grin. I had and had loved it, although in retrospect it probably had nothing to do with the actual taste of the coffee itself but the company. “As for espresso,” he continued, “you might have to give me a refresher on the machine and a cheat sheet. I take it you’re asking me to work tomorrow?”
“Yes . . . if you can. I know this is a huge favor to ask. Honestly, I would never ask you if I wasn’t in a bind.”
“No problem,” he said. “I was planning on spending most of my day over there anyway. Betty told me that Fiona Dickel is threatening to ruin your grand opening. You’ve worked too hard for that. So, I guess I’ll be over there trying to make fancy coffee drinks while I keep an eye on things.”
“Oh, thank you!” I cried and kissed him full on the mouth. It was impulsive. We’d gone for dinner a dozen times, but I had never kissed him. I was now, and he wasn’t in any hurry to pull away. Truthfully, neither was I.
“I . . . I . . .” I stammered, coming up for air. I was certain I was red as a cherry, “I have to get to bed. Big day tomorrow. Can’t oversleep.”
“No,” he said, grinning at my discomfort. “Would never do to sleep in your first day on the job.”
Why was he staring at me like that? And why was I finding it so hard to leave? Then, however, his smile faded.
“Lindsey, is someone up in the light tower?”
“No,” I said. “It’s late. Kennedy’s asleep, and I’ve just come from the bakery with Wellington. Why?”
“Because there’s an odd sort of light glowing up there. Look.”
I was afraid to turn around, but I had no choice. “Oh my God,” I breathed, spying the odd yellow light up in the lantern room. “What on earth is that?” The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I had to look away.
The grim look on Rory’s face softened as he looked at me. “Probably nothing. Trick of the light or an odd reflection.” He offered a kind smile as if it was nothing, then, glancing at the light room once again, he grimaced. “Just to be sure, I’m going to check it out.”
As Rory disappeared back into his house to slip on some shoes and grab a light jacket, I couldn
’t shake the troubled look on his face. Because we both knew what the odd light meant. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I was beginning to believe in them now. According to legend, Captain Willy Riggs was sending us a warning. Like black clouds heralding a coming storm, I looked at the light and felt my skin prickle uncomfortably. Could it really mean something bad was about to happen? For the sake of my bakeshop, I acknowledged the light and the fact that Captain Willy Riggs had lingered a bit longer than I had hoped. Beyond that, however, I wasn’t willing to give it another thought.
CHAPTER 10
“All clear,” Rory said, clomping down the last few steps of the light tower.
Wellington, parked at the bottom and growling softly, had been agitated the moment we stepped into the lighthouse. I had volunteered to stay below with him, giving Rory the ostensible reason that Welly was scared. Yes, my giant, loveable Newfie was a great big chicken, but so was I. I had grown to love the old lighthouse. I didn’t know how I’d feel if I came face-to-face with the ghost of the old keeper, Captain Willy Riggs.
Rory appeared with my laptop. The sight of it sent a wave of relief washing through me. I had taken it up there after dinner to do a little work while watching the sunset and must have left it. If it was open, that might explain the odd light we had seen.
“I forgot I left this up there. Thanks,” I said, as he handed me the laptop. “Was this it, or did you see anything else?”
“Just a couple of empty wine bottles and a half-eaten box of Triscuits.” He raised an insinuating brow.
“I wonder how those got up there?” I feigned innocence and directed his attention to my laptop. “So, was this the culprit?”
His open gaze darkened a measure. “It wasn’t open, if that’s what you’re asking. You do have a flashlight up there, however. Maybe your friend Kennedy went up there in search of more wine and turned it on?”
“Not out of the realm of possibilities,” I agreed. The truth was, I’d been so busy prepping for my grand opening that I’d left her on her own these last few days.
“Look, Lindsey, there’s nothing to worry about. The lighthouse is safe and secure. Just lock the doors after I leave and get some sleep.”
“Okay.” I nodded, then was seized by a troubling thought. “But . . . what if it was the Captain?” I chanced a glance at the darkened spiral steps ascending into more darkness. “What if it was him up there, giving us a warning?”
The lighting was dim at best in the tower stairwell, but I could still detect a ripple of trouble on Rory’s strong, handsome face. “Look, all that about the ghost light, it was just a story, Lindsey, a morbid old legend. I told it to you to scare you.”
“What?” My sudden outburst caused Wellington to whine. “Well, that’s a terrible thing to do!”
“True,” he admitted. “And the only explanation I can give you is this: I thought you’d call me more if you were scared. But you’re a tough cookie, Bakewell. You’re a hard one to scare.” Was he joking? From all appearances it looked like this was the story he was sticking with.
“I was busy!” I snapped, growing a bit defensive. “I’m renovating a lighthouse! I’m opening a bakeshop café! And, for your information, I would have called you more if you had made it clear that you wanted me to call you. I didn’t want to bother you while you were writing, or fishing, or whatever it is you do over there all day. Why couldn’t you just say, ‘Hey, Lindsey, call me?’ Why are all you men so damn complicated all the time?”
Rory was grinning. “Oh, Lindsey, we men can’t hold a candle to you women. Anyhow, now you know.” Then, before I could make sense of his grin, he kissed me.
I was so angry with him and his ghost story that I should have slapped him away. But I didn’t, because I was battling an even greater urge to throw my arms around him and beg him to stay. Thanks to Wellington’s impatient whining, I was brought to my senses. Welly was tired, and I had a bakery to launch in less than eight hours.
“Alright,” I began, suppressing a smile. “I’ll call you more.”
“I look forward to it. Good night, Lindsey Bakewell,” Rory said, and slipped out the door.
It wasn’t until I dragged Wellington up the stairs, gave him his night-night cookie, and tucked him into his bed at the foot of mine, that I realized Rory Campbell was a big fat liar. I should have been asleep the moment my head hit the pillow, but I wasn’t, because I had picked up my laptop and began reading about Captain Willy Riggs and the ghost lights of Beacon Harbor.
CHAPTER 11
The best thing about having a bakery below your bedroom was the commute. After a restless few hours of sleep, I got out of bed, took a cool shower, then stumbled downstairs to work. Unfortunately, my head was still filled with the information I had stumbled upon last night, namely the legends surrounding the first lightkeeper and the fact that he had died in the lantern room of my lighthouse. I still didn’t fully believe in ghosts, but it was hard to dismiss such legends, especially since I now lived and worked in the lighthouse where they all began. It was new territory for me.
As I kept my hands busy making twenty dozen extra-large gourmet donuts, I couldn’t help myself from continuing my research. As I worked the tender yeast dough, letting it rise in batches, turning each onto a floured surface to be rolled out, cut into donuts, and placed in the proofer for the second rise, I listened to a podcast devoted to ghost stories. Admittedly, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to be listening to on my opening day, but there was something very compelling about the haunted stories. In fact, I’d been so focused on baking and the dulcet voice calmly explaining his hair-raising encounter that I never heard Dylan enter the bakery. With a filled bakery tray ready to go into the proofer, I spun around, saw Dylan, and screamed.
“Ahhh!” she screamed as well and grabbed the tray before I dropped it. Steadying her nerves, she said, “Didn’t mean to scare you, boss. Carl dropped me off.” Carl was Dylan’s boyfriend. He worked with Mike on his charter fishing boat. “What the heck are you listening to?” Focusing on the voice, she shot me an admonishing look. “No more spooky stuff. It’s our grand opening. We need some baking jams.”
I was glad to have Dylan in the kitchen with me. As she worked on the donuts, frying them, cooling them on trays, filling them with our homemade, piquant jellies, and dipping them into our flavored frostings, I began making the coffee cakes.
Dylan and I worked together in the kitchen like finely choreographed dancers. As I pulled trays of giant muffins and mini quiches from the oven, I went down my list, checking things off as they entered the bakery cases. Before long they were filling up. Dylan continued to work in the back while I set up the register and checked the supply of bakery bags and boxes. I started the coffee, brewing three pots at a time of different grinds. The moment the coffee was started, the girls, Elizabeth and Wendy, arrived.
Elizabeth and Wendy were recent high school grads with excellent customer service skills. They were also best friends. As the girls put on their aprons and began wiping down the inside tables, Rory appeared. He looked absolutely hunky in his form-fitting black T-shirt and jeans. I consciously stilled my careening heart and threw him an apron.
“You’re a big fat liar,” I hiss-whispered as we stood by the espresso machine.
“Don’t tell me you finally Googled the Captain?” He grinned. “It’s opening day. Forget about last night. Dear God, look at that crowd out there. Early morning beach-walkers, commuters, a good many business owners, and cops. Unfortunately, my special ops training hasn’t prepared me for the caffeine-deprived frenzy that’s about to descend on us.”
“You’ll be fine,” I assured him. “And thank you for lying.”
Kennedy swept into the café five minutes before the doors opened with Wellington prancing beside her on a white leash. My big dog had been washed, deodorized, and brushed to a glistening black sheen. He looked like the ultimate fashion accessory next to Kennedy. She had even tied a blue-and-white-striped, sailor-inspired scar
f around his thick neck.
“Ready, Linds?” she asked, brushing flour off my left cheek. She straightened my apron, refreshed my lipstick, and tucked a rogue lock of my hair back into my ponytail. Once I met with her approval, she handed me Wellington’s leash, told everyone to smile, and unlocked the door.
We were open for business.
CHAPTER 12
After greeting the first rush of customers, I handed Welly off to Kennedy and jumped behind the counter. Kennedy took Welly outside and proceeded to greet people as they came through the lighthouse doors.
There was a mad rush for pastries. The girls smiled and filled orders, placing giant glazed donuts on red plates or in bakery bags. Rory and I manned the coffee station, making lattes, macchiatos, and Americanas as fast as we could, coming up for air every now and then for coffee purists who preferred their morning joe brewed. I chatted away, answered questions, and welcomed every guest.
The morning was flying by. Dylan, working her magic in the back, kept resupplying the bakery cases, which were swiftly emptying. I was putting in a new tray of our Traverse City Cherry Delight donuts when I saw Betty Vanhoosen push through the doors, looking like the real estate diva she was. Amazingly, she’d brought nearly every shop owner with her. Only in a town like Beacon Harbor, I mused, could there be such a show of local support, and quite frankly, it had me choked up to see them all there.
Ginger, from Harbor Scoops, waved with excitement from behind Betty. Ali and Jack Johnson, a retired couple with an adorable golden retriever, owned the Book Nook, the town’s vibrant little bookstore. They grinned like kids in a candy shop as they eyed my bakery cases. Zoey and Zack Bannon, the young couple who owned the historic Beacon Theater, had also come. In their late twenties and fashionably hip, I knew they had come for the coffee. When I had met them and told them I was getting an espresso machine, they had cheered with excitement. Behind Zoey and Zack was Betty’s good friend, Carol Hoggins, from You Had Me In Stitches, quilt shop and stitchery, and the perpetually cheerful Felicity Stewart, an attractive woman in her early forties who owned the Tannenbaum Shoppe, a year-round Christmas boutique at the other end of town. Her good friend and fellow shop owner, Christy Parks, was also there. Christy owned Bayside Boutiques & Interiors. Her eye-catching windows were filled with furniture, art, and accent pieces that were irresistible to tourists and townies alike. Bill Morgan brought up the rear. Bill, a local retiree, was a fixture in the town and a font of maritime knowledge. Welly and I had met him and his dog, Dan, on the beach this spring. Bill, like Betty, had been excited by the prospect of the lighthouse becoming the crowning jewel of the town once again.