“Even here in Lighthouse Cove?” he teased.
“Yes, sir, in spite of the older generation’s efforts to stave off...what’s it called?” He frowned.
“Gentrification?”
“That’s the word. We’d have called it modernization. Same thing. Habits and customs change with the times. Not too long ago there was one tea shop in town and coffee at Mabel’s. Now it seems like there’s a coffee shop in every block.”
“My parents complain about the same thing.”
Henry stopped walking to look at Drew. “Where do they live?”
“On a farm in Iowa, outside a town bigger—but not by much—than Lighthouse Cove.”
“Good heavens! What’s an Iowa farm lad doing in Maine, working for the Coast Guard?”
Drew smiled. “My folks were just as incredulous, Henry. Although they did have an inkling I was drawn to a world beyond the farm when my Christmas wish list one year had a single item on it—a book about the Portland Head Light.”
“How about that! So that’s what sparked your interest in lighthouses?”
“My folks had no idea what that one book would lead to.”
“How did they feel about you moving East?”
“Well, that’s a story over a couple of cups of coffee,” Drew said with a small laugh. “In short, their disappointment eventually led to acceptance.”
“The path many parents take.”
His sigh prompted Drew to ask, “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Well, I have no children. Never married, in fact. Let’s just say I had a similar confrontation with my own folks, but it didn’t lead to my leaving Lighthouse Cove. For that, I’m grateful,” he announced as he continued walking.
Drew let Henry take the lead, studying his shoulder-backed gait with its slight limp and his head jutting forward as if he were tacking into the wind. There were old-timers like him back home in Iowa, too. Proud men with their own stories. Perhaps one day he’d be like that and the sad story in his life right now would be just one of many. He hoped so.
The street suddenly gave way to an open square edged by an assortment of buildings, many from past eras constructed typically with red brick. Dead center at the top end of the flagstone plaza stood an imposing three-story stone structure complete with clock tower. A wide expanse of concrete steps led up to a pair of tall wood doors.
“Wow!” Drew stopped at Henry’s side.
“Something, isn’t it?”
“The town hall I assume?”
“Our one and only. Building began in the last part of old Hiram’s life and finished by the end of Desmond’s. Then his son, Charles—Gracie’s father—had the steps redone about fifteen years ago. Concrete.” He sniffed. “His granddaddy would disapprove.”
As did Henry, Drew thought, hiding his smile. But he got the man’s point. The steps simply didn’t fit in.
“Must have taken a lot of work, not to mention money, hauling all those stones from wherever when red brick was readily available.”
“Yup. That Winters determination most likely started with old Hiram himself.” He pointed to a construction site at the opposite end of the square. “That’s the library...well...it’s going to be but it’s behind schedule for some reason. Used to be a magnificent movie theater there. Now everyone has to drive to one of those malls in Portland to see a movie.” He sighed.
Drew recalled the sign he’d seen advertising its future arrival as he took in the scaffolding, tarps and hoardings.
They waited for the red light at the intersection before crossing over to the pedestrian-only square. Beds of flowering bushes and plants broke up the expanse of gray flagstone and two impressive rows of oak trees lined the main walkway leading to the front of the town hall. It was almost noon and people sat on a scattering of park benches eating lunches. Employees from the nearby businesses, Drew guessed. There were women pushing strollers with youngsters toddling behind, older kids breezing by on skateboards and a few gray-haired men hunched over chessboards that appeared to be painted onto concrete tables.
Henry waved to one of the men. “That area was built this past spring and it’s full almost every day. In fine weather, of course.”
“Another Winters family project?”
“Nope. In fact, I think Charles would have opposed it but at the time his heart trouble was keeping him away from council meetings.”
“He’s on the council?”
Henry snorted. “There’s always been a Winters on council here in the Cove.”
Drew looked from the chess players to Henry. It was the first time he’d heard the man refer to the Winterses in even a mild negative tone. “Oh?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not bad-mouthing the family. They’ve been here as long as the Cove itself. Had a lot to do with its very beginnings, like I told you yesterday.”
“But?”
Henry shrugged. “Just that they’ve always got their way it seems. Some people are like that, you know.” He turned to face Drew. “Needing to be in control.”
For an uncomfortable second Drew thought the man was referring to him until Henry added, “Charlie Winters has always been one.”
“I guess you know him well, since this is a small town.”
“Went to school with him,” he muttered as he resumed walking.
That apparently summed up the matter, Drew thought, following along until Henry came to an abrupt halt several yards ahead. Drew realized he’d have noticed the statue sooner had he not turned his head to look at a bird in a nearby tree branch. His identification of the statue was much quicker than that of the bird. A Winters, no doubt. He read the etched plaque at the base of the bronze.
Hiram Frederick Winters, 1890-1950
Fisherman.
“The founding father?”
“The very same.” Henry stared thoughtfully at the statue as if seeing it for the first time.
“I’d have expected a more eloquent epitaph,” Drew commented.
“It’s what he wanted. That’s the story anyway. He took great pride in his humble beginnings as a fisherman.”
“But he was more than that, from what you’ve told me.”
“Much more. A visionary.”
“He died young.”
“Lived hard,” Henry said.
Those two words said a lot, but Drew figured “hard” could be taken many ways. The statue wasn’t a work of art by any means, but the unnamed sculptor had managed to capture an interesting expression in Hiram’s face beneath the hand up to his brow. Obviously, he was meant to be staring out across the water, the lobster pot at his feet symbolizing his occupation. But Drew decided the man could just as well have been surveying his small empire—Lighthouse Cove.
“Shall we go inside?” Henry asked.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY CROSSED THE street wrapping around the town square and mounted the steps up to the massive wood doors of Town Hall. Drew ran his hand across them. Oak, he guessed.
“Handmade,” Henry said, “but I can’t recall where. Len would know. Charles wanted to replace them with a steel and glass set. For security, he said. But the motion was defeated, thank heavens.”
“Are you on the council, too?”
“Not anymore, but I go to most of the meetings now that I’m retired. It’s good to stir the pot once in a while. Ask uncomfortable questions. Keeps the local politicians on their toes.”
Drew smiled at the sparkle in Henry’s eyes. The man reminded him a bit of his grandfather. He clasped one of the etched brass doorknobs and tugged.
“Push,” Henry prompted.
The door creaked open into a large central foyer lit by an enormous chandelier. Polished wooden staircases on each side of the entry hall curved gracefully upward, meeting on the second floor. Drew tilted his head back to see that two mo
re traditional staircases led to the top. The country and state flags stood like sentries across from one another at the base of each staircase.
There were only a few people walking purposefully up the stairs or across the foyer to the inner hallways and various offices. The lunch hour was Drew’s explanation for the quiet. He circled around a large granite table holding a crystal vase of flowers and only then noticed a reception and information counter on the far right. A man and a woman sat behind it and adjacent to the counter, a burly security guard.
“We’re here to see Leonard Maguire,” Henry announced. “In the Historical Society’s office,” he added at the woman’s slight frown.
“Your name?”
Drew saw Henry roll his eyes.
“Henry Jenkins,” he barked.
She keyed into a computer and, looking up with a smile, said, “Right. You know where it is?”
Henry uttered a curt “Yup” and, without a thank-you, veered off to his left to head for a small set of stairs in a far corner of the foyer.
Drew tipped an index finger and said, “Thanks,” following the older man down into what he presumed was the basement, feeling a stab of disappointment that they were not going to be ascending that grand staircase.
Henry was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “Guess I should have been more polite there,” he muttered, “but I’ve been coming here for council meetings—plus lately, several Society meetings—for nigh on fifteen years and haven’t had to do more than wave a hand as I walk by that counter. Now they’ve got these young people and that stone-faced security guard who make me feel like they’re going to be asking me for some formal identification anytime soon.”
“Change is always a challenge,” Drew said.
Henry glared at him. “It’s not change I’m objecting to. It’s the fact that no one knows anyone anymore. This is the Cove! Not too long ago you couldn’t walk a block without stopping for a chat or a hello at least but now...”
Drew understood. He’d heard his grandparents complain about the same thing whenever they’d returned from a trip into town.
With a low harrumph Henry continued along the narrow hall to a wooden door almost at its end. He gave it a sharp tap and opened it. “Leonard,” Drew heard him say as he followed him inside.
The short balding man rising out of a chair looked a few years younger than Henry, whom he clapped on the shoulders before extending a hand to Drew.
“I hear you’re interested in our town,” he said after introductions.
“Uh, yes,” Drew began and was about to add specifically the lighthouse when Henry interrupted.
“I’ve told him a bit of the history and thought you could show him some of our collection.”
“Of course! I’ve pulled out a few photos already.” He turned to the long table in the center of the room. There were at least twenty chairs around the table, sets of filing cabinets along one wall and a counter with a coffee urn and supplies against the other.
The room was surprisingly spartan for a club’s meeting place and Drew wondered if it was meant to be a temporary location.
As if reading his mind, Leonard said, “We’re in transition. We had a room at the local school but it got too busy with other community groups so Ev Winters arranged a move here. But as you can see...” He gestured unhappily at the basement room with three small windows set up so high on the exterior wall they barely emitted any light.
“Where will you be moving to?” Drew asked.
“The library!” Both men answered in unison.
“Whenever that happens,” Leonard grumbled.
“Problems?”
“A few. Some planning issues and—” he gave a loud sigh “—funding, of course.”
Drew nodded, thinking again of Grace’s plan to raise money for the lighthouse. Not the best timing and one more check mark against selling.
He joined the other two men at the table and Leonard’s display, patiently listening to him summarize the Cove’s history—mainly repeating what Henry told him—until a brief pause in his account gave Drew the chance to ask, “And the lighthouse? Any early pictures of that?”
“Sure.” He flipped through some pages. “I apologize for these albums. Our archived collection has been curated appropriately but it’s in storage until we move into the library.”
“If,” Henry intoned.
Leonard nodded agreement. “Okay, here are a few taken by some local citizens years ago. We have some of its construction but they’re—”
“In storage,” Drew finished for him as he thumbed through the few pages featuring the lighthouse. The photos had been taken years before, judging by the pristine exterior of the tower and the red daymark was bright and fresh. The storm panes of the gallery atop the tower sparkled. The images reinforced Drew’s conclusion that the lighthouse had been long abandoned, even by its keeper—Henry—and a rush of sadness combined with irritation overwhelmed him. If Grace and Henry wanted a memorial so badly, why hadn’t they been looking after the place?
Leonard was rummaging through a box of loose photographs and pulled out a wrinkled one of a serious-looking man in old-fashioned clothes, which he handed to Drew. “Augustin-Jean Fresnel,” he said, “an eighteenth-century physicist and the inventor of the Fresnel lens that made lighthouses so much more effective as lifesaving structures.”
Drew gazed at the photographic reproduction of a portrait of the man he’d read about in college, nodded politely and passed it back to Leonard. “You have a nice Fresnel in the town’s lighthouse. Sized appropriately for the height of the tower and with a fixed beacon.”
“Ah, you’re a lighthouse buff I take it. And you’ve been inside?”
Henry cleared his throat. “Uh, well, Drew here isn’t a tourist. He’s from the Coast Guard. Doing an inspection of lighthouses.”
The expression in the other man’s face ranged from surprise to something that almost was disbelief. Drew had assumed Henry had already explained to Maguire why he was in town. He was about to ask if there was a problem with him going inside when Henry interrupted again. “Apparently these inspections happen more or less as routine.”
“I can’t even remember the last time when someone came to check ours,” Leonard declared.
Drew opened his mouth to speak when Henry stepped in again. “Guess we were off the Coast Guard radar,” he said, chuckling. Then he looked at his watch. “Uh-oh, we’re due to go see Betty Anderson at the Information Center.”
He got up from his chair with more agility than Drew had seen in him thus far and shook Leonard’s hand. “Thanks for this.”
Drew added his thanks and followed Henry along the shadowy corridor, up the stairs, across the foyer with a quick wave to the trio at the reception counter and outside. He stopped at the top of the steps, blinking against the brightness. When his vision settled, he turned to Henry as he drew up beside him.
“Sorry for rushing you out,” the old man muttered. “Just that no one knows about Gracie’s plan and she wants to keep it that way until it’s approved.”
When were these two people going to understand there wasn’t going to be any project? But “I see” was all Drew could muster.
* * *
HENRY GOT BACK to the store minutes before Ben was supposed to pick up Grace for the drive to Portland.
“How did it go?” Grace asked, as she met him at the door.
He pulled out a business card from his trousers pocket and handed it to her. “He said to please call him. He’d like to take you to dinner tonight if possible.”
“Did you ask him about staying at your place?”
“I did and he said, ‘Thank you, I’ll think about it.’” Henry turned at the sound of a car. “Here’s your ride, Gracie.”
“But the tour? Did you show him everything?”
“Betty was home si
ck today, so we skipped that part and had lunch instead. I’ll tell you more later.”
A light tap of a horn. Ben was behind the wheel of their father’s car and pointing to his wrist.
“Okay, thanks, Henry. I don’t know when we’ll be back so just close up. You’ve got your key?”
“I do. Off you go, then.”
She dashed out to the car, getting into the back beside her mother.
“Busy day?” her father asked from the front seat.
It always seemed to be the first question he posed when they were together. Either that or “Slow day again?” Grace wondered if he regretted buying the store for her to manage. She thought some people in town—including Henry—believed Charles had purchased the store to get her to stay but in truth, it had been her idea.
She knew after a month back home with her parents that she’d never be able to stay for as long as they wanted unless she had something to do and her own place to live. Henry’s mention of retirement came at the right time for both of them. She moved into his apartment above the store and he bought his bungalow with the sale money. But four months after taking over the store, she was beginning to wonder if she’d made a mistake. Business was slow and people were always asking for Henry, as if he were on a holiday somewhere and would soon be back.
“Is Henry filling in for you, dear?” her mother asked, giving Grace’s hand a quick squeeze.
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s very generous with his time.”
“I think he’s still adapting to retirement.”
“That explains it,” Ben commented from the front.
“Explains what?” Grace asked.
“I’ve seen him in the neighborhood around the store a few times recently. Just this morning actually, coming out with some guy.”
Small towns! Grace shook her head, thinking that didn’t take long. Her second thought flashed to Drew Spencer, clearly the “guy” Ben was referring to and someone she didn’t want to talk about.
“And what were you doing hanging around Porter Street may I ask—in the middle of the morning on a weekday?”
His Saving Grace Page 6