Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  She snagged them in her fist. “Wait—!”

  He turned at the doorway. “I’d suggest you focus on the house first, as that’s the only part of all this that I’m going to spend any money or effort on. If you have any time left over, it would be a good idea to spend it looking for another lighthouse to fix.” He turned away again.

  “Chief McCrae—”

  “Logan,” he said, looking back from the hallway.

  “Chief McCrae,” she repeated, coming to stand in the kitchen doorway. “It’s not like we signed a contract. I can be packed up and out of here—”

  “We made a verbal agreement. My word is as good as any signed document. Not to mention I had over half the town there as my notary. You’ve got a week. I don’t need anything overly detailed, broken down to minute cost projections. I just need to know the basics ranked from biggest problem to smallest, and a general ballpark figure of what it will set me back. I can take it from there.”

  “So you’re saying that no matter what kind of work I put in on this report, you’re not hiring me to do any part of the restoration. That’s been decided?”

  “That was decided yesterday when I fired you. I agree with Fergus that I can’t get on top of the repairs needed on the house without hiring outside help, but I’ve got a long list of folks who have lived here their whole lives who could use the work. If and when we need more specialized help on the tower, as I said, I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Then why am I bothering to do this report if you’re not even going to be open-minded about my recommendations?”

  “Don’t ask me. It wasn’t my idea.” And with that he took his heavy uniform jacket off one of the hooks fixed to the wall beside the mudroom door and slipped it on. He tucked his uniform hat under his arm and snatched his truck keys off the small table beside the coatrack. “Leave the place unlocked. You’re on your own for supper.” After a quick blast of cold air when he opened the side door, he was gone.

  “Have a nice day,” she called out with fake cheer, then scowled as she turned back to the kitchen. He’d suddenly been in such a big hurry to get away from her that his mug of coffee and plate of toast were still on the countertop. She picked up a piece and crunched it, made a face, and put the bitten piece back on the plate. “I’d have left it behind, too.”

  She finished her coffee, then picked up his mug, freshened it with what was left in the pot, and sipped it as she scooped up her pile of damp laundry and went back to the mudroom. Thankfully the washer and dryer looked as if they’d been built in the current century, so getting her clothes clean wouldn’t require a tool belt, just detergent.

  She got the load running, made a mental note to pick up a small bottle of laundry detergent—far be it from her to use any of his precious resources—and went back to the guest room to retrieve her coat, gloves, knit hat, and work binder. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the antique dresser as she turned to leave. “Okay, so maybe you earned the Bunyan crack,” she told her reflection. “But he can bite me on the rest of it.”

  Ignoring her traitorous body for apparently thinking a few little bites from the local police chief would be a good thing, she pocketed the keys to the cottage and lighthouse and set off outside to do her first once-around. “We’ll just see who you think is best suited to do this job.”

  She had a harder time ignoring the sick knot that twisted in her gut as she looked up at the lighthouse lantern, which she could see above the pitch of the main house roof. “It’s just a walk-through,” she murmured. Dipping a toe in. Flexing a few atrophied muscles. That was all. No one said she had to take the job. At the moment, her main motivation was simply getting him to offer her the job. She could always turn him down. “In fact, I might enjoy that.”

  Smiling, she turned her back to the headwind, pulled on gloves, hat, zippered up her jacket to the chin, then propped the bottom edge of her old-school aluminum clipboard, the same one her father and grandfather had used, against her stomach . . . and took that first step.

  She focused on the house, keeping initially to the front and side perimeters. The tower, even the cottage, would have to wait. She didn’t bother trying to convince herself it was because Logan had ordered her to document the house first. She’d dipped her toe in, but still . . . baby steps.

  The structure was sprawling, with additions attached as he’d described, based more on the property allowances than for aesthetic appeal or, in some cases, true functionality. The original part of the house was a two-story, standard salt box, rectangular deal, with painted shake siding and a wood shake roof. The front faced the long driveway and the encroaching forest that ended pretty much at the front door. A narrow patch of pine-needle-covered ground between it and the large paved turnaround area at the end of the drive took up most of the space between the house and the detached garage.

  The keeper’s cottage was essentially a single-story box with dormer windows set in a drop-sided, wood shake roof situated beyond the center of the back of the house. The lighthouse was directly in front of the cottage, which put it prominently out on the point.

  From either side of the main house, running along the uneven, rocky shoreline, were the additions to the building. Not wings, exactly, but it was a close enough description. She examined where she could get close enough to poke, prod, or dig, making a constant stream of notes. Most of the shakes on the protected side of the house weren’t salvageable as far as she’d seen. They would need to be replaced. She expected the shakes on the roof were worse and could only hope they hadn’t been neglected so long that significant damage had happened inside, in the attic and beyond. The window frames were slightly better, though the seals on most of the glass panes were cracked or shot, as was some of the glass, so they’d have to be replaced, but she’d assumed as much as windows were often the first things to need work.

  All in all, considering the age of the place, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. It was salvageable and with the proper materials, Logan should have no problem if he wanted to use local contractors. It would just be a matter of getting a few tests run, then getting work estimates. From what little she’d already seen, the interior was going to be the far more involved project and possibly require more specialized skills. If Logan had been tearing out walls and unsealing and restoring fireplaces, neither of which was a simple, easy task, then it was anyone’s guess what else had been done to the place over the years. She already knew that the linoleum flooring in the kitchen covered some beautifully hand-laid wood flooring as was evidenced by the same flooring in her guest room, which needed work. She had no idea what awaited under that linoleum, or what sins or past damage it might have been put down to cover up. That Logan had kept up with all he had, given the size and age of the place, was impressive. That he’d done it while working full-time and then some was downright miraculous.

  Still, if he had any hope of making headway before things went from bad to worse, he needed help. It was beyond the ability of any one man. Or woman. As overwhelming as it seemed, if he could get the exterior up to par, safe, and sealed, then he could take a more measured, one-problem-at-a-time approach to the interior. “Starting with those damn pipes.”

  She placed a call to Owen and set up a time to meet with him later. She wanted to talk to him about contractors and some of the vintage hardware they’d need. She made additional notes to contact a few of her people to see what her best bet was for protecting the new shakes, as she’d need that for the cottage as well. There had been recent innovations in the industry, and having been out of the loop for a year, she knew she was likely behind the curve a little. She knew who to call to catch her up, though she dreaded the initial round of calls she’d have to make. It meant rehashing the events of the previous year and everything that had happened since, over and over, which was painful and awkward and all-around hard to even think about, but once she started, it would get easier.

  She prayed it would, anyway, because she needed to get the word out th
at she was back. Eventually, she’d need to build a team again, and so had to set the wheels in motion sooner rather than later. She didn’t want just anyone. She wanted the people who had worked for MacFarland & Sons before. Many of them had done so exclusively for years. She was excited . . . and a little shaky . . . at the idea of officially putting things into motion. Okay, a lot shaky. But she had to start laying the groundwork if she really wanted to make this happen.

  Jittery at the thought of it, and wishing she hadn’t had that second cup of coffee, after all, she continued her survey. Baby steps, remember? She discovered she couldn’t get around the addition jutting to the south of the main structure as it was built almost to the edge of the jumble of boulders that continued all the way out to the shoreline. She’d need different equipment and gear to get an exterior look there, probably coming down from the roof. It would also make any renovation on that side a major pain in the ass.

  When she traversed back around the entire place to the north side, she saw that a wide expanse of cleared property ran between the addition on that side and the waterfront. Most of the grounds surrounding the house and the cottage were fairly rocky, strewn with more outcroppings than grass or smooth ground, but the strip between the addition and the water’s edge was mostly grass with only a few outcroppings of rock. A lot of work had to have gone into clearing that, but the payoff was well worth it. She turned and looked at the glassed-in veranda on the back section of the main house and the storm-glass windows that pretty much comprised the entire waterfront side of the addition. The views from any perch inside would be spectacular.

  The briny scent in the air was stronger on that side, probably because the house blocked a good share of the headwind. But it was still pretty breezy and the mid-November air had a healthy nip to it. She wouldn’t be surprised if snow came soon. Actually, she was a little surprised the ground wasn’t already snow covered.

  She walked across the open expanse, toward the water’s edge. The drop-off was about twenty yards or so from the back of the building, and, like the rest of the point, it was mostly a huge jumble of boulders. As she neared the edge she saw most of it had been framed with a stacked stone wall. Or at least part of one, anyway. On closer inspection, she realized it was being newly unearthed from what looked like decade upon decade of heavy vegetative growth. Maybe longer than that. She guessed it was Logan’s handiwork she was looking at as she examined the painstaking care that had been taken to preserve the structure of the wall. It would add a great deal to the charm of the place when it was completely restored, not to mention a valuable breakfront.

  She turned and surveyed the property from her vantage point, seeing it as it would be with new shakes, glistening new windows, and a fresh coat of paint. She couldn’t see much of the cottage from where she stood as it was blocked by trees, but she could see the top of the tower jutting above them. She finished a complete turn, looking once again at the restored section of the centuries-old, hand-stacked wall. The man did good work, she thought, curious to see what all he’d done inside the house, as well.

  She smiled as she spied an intentional break in the wall. She stepped through it, delighted to find that it led to a path of sorts, winding down through the rocks. There appeared to be an inlet below, created by the breaker the point provided. Despite the winds, it looked relatively calm, sheltered as it was. She couldn’t see the area where shoreline and path met, as the rocks obscured her view. She’d have to go all the way down the path to find out what lay below—a pier, or docks, a boat, or boathouse. If so, Logan hadn’t mentioned them. But that exploration would have to wait until later. Still, there was something about knowing there was direct access from shore to water to open sea that brought her an unexpected level of calm.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Although she knew, intellectually, that the fall to the rocks from the lantern gallery had taken her father’s life brutally and swiftly, and nothing could have prevented that outcome, the added horror of not being able to get down to where he lay below, of having to wait for helicopter support in order to get his body lifted out, had been agonizing. There was no direct access to the water or shoreline from their position up on the cliff’s edge promontory, and the rocks and wave action were too dangerous for a water approach. Somehow, the knowledge that someone could get to the shore, to the water, if the unthinkable happened, took a bit of the edge off the ball of sick fear she carried constantly tucked in the back of her mind.

  As she stood there, gazing down the pathway, a stray thought struck her that if she fell, there was no one left with any personal connection to her to suffer. Rather than depress her, the realization filled her with an odd, but surprisingly invigorating sense of . . . well, of freedom.

  She understood, intimately, the risks that went with loving someone, of being so tied to a person that you couldn’t imagine your life without them. Her father had been her lifelong hero, her rock-solid support, the person she knew, without doubt, was always in her corner, always had her back. But he’d been her father. He’d had her heart from her first breath. She hadn’t chosen to love him. She simply always had.

  Now, however . . . now she had total control over who she gave her heart to. And whose heart she took responsibility for.

  As long as the answer to both of those remained no one, then she was as invincible as she could possibly be. If anything happened to her . . . the only one who would truly suffer was her. If she never allowed anyone in, then she couldn’t be touched by anything unthinkable happening to someone she cared for, ever again.

  She turned with a very specific destination in mind, cutting across the back of the property behind the house, going toward the cottage, until she could look at the lighthouse directly. From her location on the north side of the point, she could view it in all its glory. She imagined the view from the water was stunning. The lighthouse was both traditional and unique, with its windows and beveled corners, while still being majestic and proud. Now that she was closer, she could also see just how direly it was in need of some tender loving care to restore it to its full former glory.

  And finally—finally—she felt that familiar tingle in her fingertips. The thump in her chest, the buzz that danced along her spine, and tickled her curiosity. It made her feel almost dizzy. And only partly in relief. She’d be lying if she said all those things weren’t still accompanied by that queasy knot in her gut. But, oh boy, it was a lot easier to take that part in stride when those more familiar feelings were there, too, to help balance it out.

  She continued walking until she was well out into the open, away from the trees and the shadow of the cottage and the main house. There, feeling the tower standing guard at the periphery of her vision, she tipped her head back and looked heavenward. It took me a while to figure it out, Dad. I’m sure it’s been hard for you, watching me flounder. I know that’s not what you’d have wanted, that you expect better from me. “But I think I understand now,” she said out loud. “I think I know where to begin. And that’s all it takes, right?”

  She tucked her chin as the wind picked up and froze the tip of her nose. But while there were tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, there was a smile on her face. And it felt good. So damn good.

  She palmed the set of keys she’d stuck in her pocket and set off for the exterior side door that led to the keeper’s cottage before she lost her nerve. The cottage and the main house were done in traditional New England white, although the house had a pitched roof with inset dormers and the cottage had a flat roof top, with pitched sides and dormers. It was a bit of an odd little thing, stuck as it was between sprawling house and majestic tower. As she neared, she saw that it was in far greater disrepair, more weathered than the house, being out in the open as it was, and not entirely even-framed any longer. Clearly, time hadn’t been any kinder than the elements, as the foundation wasn’t level and the roof, at least the part that she could see, had an odd slant to one side.

  Her heart san
k a little as she acknowledged that it was quite probably not even close to habitable, and possibly only remained upright at all due to a well-built frame. Even that was possibly suspect. “Poor baby,” she murmured, running her hand along one window frame, seeing the rot and disintegration of the exterior casement. Two hundred years was an admirable life span, especially under some of the harshest conditions. With the size and constant input of time and money required by the main house, it was no wonder that the cottage had been left to fend for itself. But it didn’t make it any less sad. “Well, if we can save you, we will.”

  She remembered Logan saying the side door was boarded from the inside and went around to the front, then took a second to recall which key he had said went with what door. She slid the largest key into the lock, but it wouldn’t even go in all the way, much less turn the knob. She pulled it out and bent down to peer into the key slot. No obvious blockage. She took out a small wire tool with a pick on one end and a tiny brush on the other and worked first one, then the other into the slot. A little rust and a lot of corrosion. Salt air and steady wind was brutal on pretty much any surface; wood, stone, metal, any alloy.

  She tried the key again, and though she was able to get it in all the way, the tumblers weren’t going to budge. She’d have to take off the knob entirely, possibly take the door off the hinges. She sighed, knowing seeing the inside was not a priority at the moment; Logan had made it clear the cottage and the tower were low on his priority list. That only increased her determination to get in there and check the place out. One way or the other, she was going to get inside the cottage.

  She turned and looked at the lighthouse again, from the closest to it she’d been. She swallowed, flexed her fingers, heart still thumping. And I’m going to get inside that tower, too. She wanted to test herself now, find out what her limitations were going to be, how big the mental obstacles. She had no doubt they’d be many and none of them small, but she was ready to at least find out what it was going to be like, instead of just imagining what kind of demons she was going to face.