by Cassia Leo
Even from the bottom of the long, gravel hill, Ana could see the curled paint and broken railings at the top; the latter sent unexpected chills down her spine as she conjectured what caused the serrated, rusted bars to hang in the wind like that. They were dangling by what seemed like little more than a thread and did not have the look of something that had been broken gently.
The cool breeze lapped at her face as she climbed higher. Meandering only slightly, the path took her far above the shoreline, and she could see the Atlantic with her many ships. I bet one of those is Finn St. Andrews’.
When Ana reached the top, the wind slowly died, and the base of the lighthouse came into full view. Up close, it looked even more derelict than it had from afar, the white stripes having faded to a dull gray. The red, in contrast, was bright as fresh blood. Around the base was a sloppily placed cyclone fence with barbed wire at the top, and signs posted stating: KEEP OUT and PRIVATE PROPERTY. The weeds and vines, twisting up and around the bottom few feet of the lighthouse base, left her with the distinct impression the building was not only private, but abandoned.
Graffiti, angled along the graying stripes, shouted: DESTROY HERON HALLOWS and JESUS LOVES CARLA. Neither of those messages meant anything to Ana, but she made a mental note to ask Alex later. He would know.
Ana caught a glimpse, in her peripheral vision, of what looked like grave markers. Upon closer inspection, they were the simple white crosses common along highways, marking the death of a beloved family member. Yet... there were four of them, like a small, private cemetery. She knelt down in the gravel and read their names: Carla Edgewater. Lionel Shepherd. Sandra Finnerty. Emily Caldwell.
“What the hell?” she whispered. That explained who Carla was, sort of. Did they all die here?
Ana stepped back, and her foot slipped in the gravel, nearly sending her over the sea cliff. Heart racing, she righted herself, wondering how she hadn't noticed her proximity to the edge. She could see jagged cuts into the rock, indicating there had once been more land between the lighthouse and the serrated merger of water and land below. Looking down at the outcropping of rocks amongst the waves, she realized for the first time how high she had climbed.
Backing away, Ana looked out at the ocean again, noticing the ships were all making their way back toward their respective ports. Goose bumps rose on her arms, as the wind picked back up. Moments later, the rain started, quickly increasing in intensity. Within minutes, she was drenched.
Reluctant, having been completely mesmerized by the sudden storm’s rage, Ana pulled her heavy coat tight around her. She turned to make her way home when she was startled to back into something firm. Strong arms quickly righted her. She gasped, jumping.
“Tis just me,” Alex's comforting voice sang behind her. “Poor dear, let's get ya out of this rain!” Before she could say anything, he motioned for her to follow, and jogged toward the rear of the lighthouse.
As he entered through a hole in the fence, Ana wondered, Are we actually going inside? He can't be serious. Then Alex did enter, and Ana, soaked to the bone and shivering, could do nothing but follow.
Alex flipped a large switch on the wall and the room lit up in a dull light courtesy of a bare, oversized bulb, hanging from a dingy white wire, which looked crude enough as to have possibly been made by Edison himself. The lighthouse was much smaller inside than out, and the only sign of ongoing activity was the plain wooden desk in the corner strewn with paperwork. Next to the desk was a wooden chair and a space heater, sitting on the exposed cement floor. Aside from those few objects, the circular room was completely bare.
As Alex turned on the heater, Ana rushed over and knelt before it, soaking up the heat.
“There ya go,” Alex said, soothingly, patting her on the head. “You'll be right as rain in no time.” He chuckled at his joke.
“What are you doing up here?” Ana asked, through clattering teeth. “I suppose that sounded ungrateful. Thank you for rescuing me.” She was shocked at how quickly she could get cold here, compared with how long it took to warm up. This is definitely not New Orleans.
“Why, I work here,” Alex replied, with a note of pride in his voice. “Did I not tell ya?”
Ana shook her head.
“Ya. Took over the care on this place about, oh, two years ago now. 'Fore that, it was closed fer about ten years.” Ana noted he made no move toward the heater. His jacket was only damp compared to hers, which looked as if she had taken a dip in the Atlantic. She deduced there must be a road leading up the hill, for she hadn't spotted anyone on the path when she arrived.
“Does it work?” Ana asked.
“Most certainly,” Alex said. “It never stopped workin’.”
“Then why was it closed?”
“I don't s'pose ya noticed the crosses out front?” he asked. He was looking out the sole, round window, gazing in the direction of the angry sea.
“Sort of hard to miss four of them,” Ana responded, feeling the overwhelming urge to cross herself. “Did they die here? At the lighthouse?”
Alex walked over and pulled the chair out, settling it in front of the heater. He motioned for Ana to sit down. From his sad look of resignation, she could see he was going to answer her question with a story. She had come to enjoy, and even welcome, Alex's stories, though this one was unlikely to have a happy ending.
“Tis a sad tale,” Alex started, dropping his voice. He continued looking out the window, arms crossed. “This place used to belong to the Edgewaters. Ya know, the family that owns Edgewaters, that fancy dinin' on the northern coast? You might’ve seen their names elsewhere, too, being as they once owned half the island.” When she nodded, he went on. “T'was a sad thing, what happened to them. Good people, ya know. Anderson Edgewater was a right honest businessman, and his wife, Camille, a real lady. The kind of folks who would stop to help ya load your groceries even if they were in a hurry.”
He went on, “They had this lovely daughter by the name of Carla. She was eighteen, and had the most beautiful mahogany hair ya ever saw. Smart, too. Kind, like her parents. A girl any parent would be proud of.”
Alex paced from the window to the door, deep in thought. Ana watched him, shivering but attentive.
“'Course, even good girls meet bad guys.” Alex shook his head, sadly. “Lionel Shepherd.” Ana recognized another name from the crosses. “No'ne really knows what happened 'tween the two of 'em, I s'pose. Lionel ran with the fast and loose crowd, and e'eryone worried he would take Carla down the same road. We all knew about the downright awful fights she had with her folks nearly e'ery night. Breaks my heart even to think about it.”
Alex shifted his attention to Ana, and suddenly, his eyes widened. As if realizing something important had been forgotten, he excused himself and ran out the door. He returned moments later with an old-fashioned metal thermos. Removing the dual-purpose exterior lid, he poured a hot dark liquid that smelled delicious to Ana in her chilled state. Her eyes widened with gratitude as he handed the modest cup to her.
“Sorry to have forgotten my manners like that!” he declared, with an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. Ana savored the warm cocoa, cupping the lid with both hands.
“Alex, you're my hero,” Ana praised, smiling gratefully. When he gave her a dismissive wave, she continued, “No, really. You've been a godsend to me since the day I arrived.”
“Aw, it’s nothin’,” Alex replied, blushing deeper now. “'Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.' Matthew 5:16. You a churchgoer, Ana?”
Although Ana was raised Catholic, her father had never taken them to church. Amidst Alex's warmth and kindness, for the first time in her life she felt ashamed to say, “No, I am not.”
Instead of shaking his head, or some other gesture of disapproval, Alex smiled at her. “No, I don't s'pose as many of you youngins are nowadays. And that was the case with Miss Carla, too. Though it was more than just a lack of faith
wha’ ruined that girl.”
“So what happened to her?” Ana pressed, leaning forward with her hot cocoa cupped protectively.
“Well, ya know that wild rides always come to an end, one way or 'nother,” Alex said with another sad shake of the head. Outside, the rain was coming down in relentless sheets. She could hardly hear Alex over the din, but she did not miss the sparkle of tears playing at the corners of his eyes.
“One night, the two had an awful spat,” he continued. His voice cracked slightly. “No one knows fer sure what it was about, but there were rumors Lionel was running around on her.”
“Carla pushed him from the top of the lighthouse, and then jumped after him. They both died near immediately, the police said, though the coroner told me in confidence she hit the rocks on her way down, snapping her poor legs and arms like twigs.”
“'Twas her father that found them, and he closed the lighthouse right quick; just boarded it up and left it to rot, though the town council snapped it back up for a short while. He died the followin' year, and Camille the year after. God rest their poor souls.”
“Goodness,” Ana said, processing his story. Though she had never met the teenagers, she couldn't help wondering what had transpired between them. She found it tragic to imagine the desperation or emotions that drove them to such a sad, final end. “How did they know she was the one who pushed him? Not the other way around?”
“I 'spose no one knows fer sure,” Alex conceded, “but days leading up to their deaths, Carla went around tellin' folks she was gonna end Lionel for what he done to her. Folks assumed she meant that Cartwright girl he was s’posedly runnin’ with. 'Course, no one expected they should take the words of an angry young girl so literal.”
“So that's why the railing is broken?”
“Nah,” Alex replied. “That was later.” Without asking, he poured more cocoa in her empty cup. She smiled gratefully, again, thanking him.
“Sandra Finnerty was an island girl who moved to Portland hopin' to do big things with her life.” Alex was pacing again, and his eyes had a dreamy quality. “When her parents’ money ran out, she resorted to... well, less than savory activities.” With that last, he twisted his mouth. Ana could see he did not think it was appropriate to talk about prostitution with her. She smiled inwardly at his properness.
“She was the next one to come up to Edgewater Point to end her life. After that was the sweet Ms. Emily Caldwell, a young woman who had lost her husband in a boating accident. The poor dear walked around the island like a ghost long before she made herself one.
“That's when the town council finally put them signs up, and closed this cursed place down. 'Course, people were calling for the lighthouse closure the very morning after Carla and Lionel died, but back then Summer Island was still on the shipping routes and we couldn't just close the lighthouse, ya understand. But after the last two women died here, the council put their foot down and told the city of Portland that they had better take a look at adjusting the shipping routes, because the Casco Bay Lighthouse was retired. Heron Hallows, e'eryone called it from then on.”
“How did you get involved?” Ana asked. The rain had started to die down outside, but she was so focused on Alex's story she hardly noticed, or cared.
“Well, I s'pose I got tired of looking at the place. Ignoring history don't make it go away,” Alex replied, wisely. “So I went to the council with a plan to get the lights turned back on, and offered to take the site on as part of my caretaker duties.”
She smiled sheepishly. “Don't take this the wrong way, but—”
Alex interrupted her with a chuckle. “You noticed it ain't the most pretty, didn't ya?” He shook his head, smiling. “No offense taken. I'd like to get her all gussied up, but the council flat refused to fund any restoration, and they made me keep those awful signs up.”
Ana was reminded of the Preservation Project, a venture her father started at Deschanel Media Group that targeted old, historical fixtures and funded their restoration. After wondering briefly if he would be interested in taking this on, she resolved to find out. She especially wanted to do this for Alex, for it was clear how much the lighthouse meant to him.
“Folks like to claim they see Miss Carla, and Ms. Emily, roaming around up here. The ghosts of Heron Hallows,” Alex went on. When Ana raised a skeptical eyebrow, he clarified, “No one really believes in ghost stories, of course.”
“Of course,” Ana concurred, slowly.
Ana glanced up the winding, spiral staircase leading to the top, where the light was. She read somewhere that most lighthouses were now electric, and computer-driven automation meant someone didn’t have to man them constantly. Still, she pictured Alex sitting up there, all day and night, staring out to sea, alone. The thought filled her with sadness. He deserved happiness, and companionship, with all he did for others.
“I should get home,” Ana said, standing up and dusting herself off.
Alex's face fell for a brief moment, and then he brightened up again. “All that talk of ghost stories soured ya, I 'spose,” he said with a chuckle.
“I can handle it,” she reassured with a smile, “but I do need to get into some warm clothes.”
“Better do that ‘fore the chill sets in,” he agreed. “I'll see ya safely home.”
Ana followed him to his truck. It sat at the end of a paved road that was obviously the main route up to the lighthouse. As she climbed in, she looked out the window toward the direction of the four white crosses that stood defiantly against the dark, ominous sky.
I could believe there are ghosts here, Ana thought, as Alex turned the truck around and started toward her house.
***
6- ALEX
Alex spotted her immediately, and edged his way through the crowd of people in the True Value line. The lone hardware store on the island was always busy this time of year, just before the major storms hit, with people vying for last minute supplies. She hadn’t been difficult to find, as she was only one of about four redheads on the whole island, but he had gone through Flanders Grocery, Wells Fargo, the library, the Clam Shack, and even Jack’s before finding her here.
“Oh, hey, Ana!” he called out casually to her, waving as he moved toward where she stood looking at rock salt. “Fancy seeing you here!”
She looked up at him, and her blue eyes widened in surprise. Alex thought he detected happiness as well. He stood straighter.
“Well, Alex, your timing could not have been better.” Ana was eyeing the different brands and sizes of rock salt, in confusion. “I suppose I can’t go wrong with any of these?”
Alex puffed his chest out and tilted his head, speaking with confidence: “Ayuh, they’ll all work, but for yer money you really can’t go wrong with this,” he recommended as he pointed toward a blue bag that was almost sold out. “I reckon you’d be buying twice s’much with the others, and you’d be back here before ya could say ‘snow.’”
She smiled gratefully. “It’s settled then. And you’ve saved me once again, Alex.”
His heart swelled at those words. “Aw, s’nothing really, but if I can save ya some time and money, ya betcha I will.”
She thanked him again and he studied her as she maneuvered through the crowds to the register. She was so unsure of herself. A small fish in a cruel sea, he thought. It was a good thing she had him or she might be even more helpless and lost.
He had been keeping a vigilant watch over her since she arrived. The Deschanel house had been his charge for twenty years, and now she was a part of that responsibility. This meant she had a guardian angel, even if she was unaware of it.
“Ya have a kind heart, Alex,” his mother used to say to him. “You’ll make someone a fine husband someday.” At almost fifty, Alex had yet to fulfill her prophecy. But then, she was a silly woman who had married a man who didn’t love her and treated her worse than the dirt under his feet. Alex gave up on the idea of a wife and children years ago. Ana was not the first woman he had
helped along the way. Helping others in their time of need gave him a sense of purpose like nothing else ever had. He was certain it was more fulfilling than any family he could have had. Marriage only made his parents miserable.
He had so much to teach Ana. She was like a lost lamb when she came to Maine, helpless as a child. She watched with appreciative eyes as he showed her all the things she would need to know in preparation for a long winter on the island: how to run the generator, how to care properly for her pipes. And what if he had left a valve loose so that she had to call him back to fix it? Alex Whitman knew from experience that women were afraid to ask for help, but would often take it if offered. And, of course, when he would return to the house to fix a problem, she would have ten more questions for him.
Alex left the store without buying anything and watched Ana as she walked down to the alley where her car was parked. At the same time, he saw Jon St. Andrews locking up his vet office, two doors down from the hardware store. When Jon turned around, he ran right into Ana, and she dropped her bag of rock salt. Instead of apologizing, or offering to pick up the bag and help her, Jon promptly spun around in the other direction and left her standing in shock, mouth hanging open.
Alex’s eyes narrowed. If there was one thing he could not tolerate, it was a lack of chivalry and decency. He rushed over to Ana and knelt down to pick up the bag, apologizing for Jon’s rudeness as so many others on the island often did.
“What’s his story, anyway?” Ana asked as Alex loaded the bag into her trunk. The rock salt was heavy, and he was kicking himself for not offering to help her carry it when she was still in the store.
Alex hesitated. What could he say about Jonathan St. Andrews that would not be unkind? Alex supposed Jon was a decent enough vet, although he could not say firsthand as Alex didn’t have any pets. But Jon had always been odd, and even unpleasant. Most people on the island learned to just leave him alone. Surprisingly, some even felt protectiveness over the young man. Alex was disappointed that a son of the venerable Andrew St. Andrews could be such a killjoy. The young Finn was not much better, dishonoring his father’s memory by becoming a fisherman, when he could have been something great. But then, their mother, although a very good schoolteacher, had been Irish...