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By the time they reached the lighthouse, Amelia felt a bit silly. It was a dramatic locale, and there was no sense in meeting so far from the marina where they hoped to find Gene.
However, once Clara parked the car, and Amelia caught a glimpse of Michael standing in the sand near the water, the late summer sun throwing his shadow into lazy waves, she felt differently.
“Can you wait here?” she asked Clara, her hand on her little sister’s arm.
“Sure. Take your time.”
Amelia pushed out of the little car and ran her hands up her waist, smoothing her stomach into the waist of her jeans beneath her white tee. A light burst of wind tousled her hair into her face, but she just shook it out, leaving it to fly around as she strode toward Michael.
Pulling her father’s watch from her jeans, Amelia considered its worth. The other items from her mom’s will ran through her mind, too. They never found his gun. Or his wedding band. But they hadn’t finished looking. Anyway, Amelia thought, what difference would the discovery of otherwise mundane objects really make? None, probably. Their search would continue unless Gene Carmichael could answer some very big, very old questions.
But then, maybe getting in touch with Gene wouldn’t end their search either. Maybe, the whole hunt was one borne of boredom and nothing more.
Then again, why would a lucid Nora Hannigan write those three possessions into her will? Why would she add the lighthouse if she knew it wasn’t theirs for the taking?
Was it a wild goose chase? A game? Or Nora’s way to control their lives from the grave?
Or was their mother, for once, trying to help?
And then there was the matter of this man. This virtual stranger who, apparently had taken a liking to Nora and extended his kindness to her all-but-estranged daughters.
He was different from any man Amelia had ever taken an interest in. Serious and careful. Intentional and surefooted. Older, but only just. Handsome.
Yet Amelia was able to set that aside. She didn’t quite see those qualities. What she saw was a Birch Harbor local who wanted to help her. And, for once, she was accepting it.
What help could Michael offer though? The lighthouse was off the table, for all intents and purposes. And the estate was settled. Nothing to bill. No legalese to wade through.
“Michael,” she called out. The late afternoon felt different up at the lighthouse. It was quiet. The air was thinner, maybe. The sky took on a red effect that didn’t happen at the Village with all its bright lights and boats. Normally, Amelia didn’t like quiet. Silence, to Amelia, was lonesome and suffocating. Silence meant no attention. It meant she had to be alone with her thoughts. With who she was.
Who she wasn’t.
He turned slowly from the water, his hands tucked neatly into khaki shorts. He’d probably changed since being at the office. This was not lawyer Michael.
This was after hours, beach Michael. Friendly family research assistant.
“Amelia.” His reply came like a gentle echo. “How was your day?”
In another universe, they wouldn’t be meeting with Clara waiting in the car. They wouldn’t be soaring off on some sort of spy mission. They’d be... discussing funding for the Birch Players next show. Or drinking wine in Adirondack chairs after throwing together a small-town film festival. Amelia began to recognize a chemistry between them that buzzed a little differently than her usual flings.
Brief though their time together had been, Michael felt like a partner. An equal.
The banal question was a welcome relief. After all, was there really any rush? Clara had given her full permission to soak in the setting. The lighthouse did not belong to them. This may be their last time there. Particularly if Amelia did decide to leave again.
“It was...” she searched for the right word to capture exactly how her day had gone. Moments from her life in New York City flashed through her mind like a running Venn Diagram. In New York, her day consisted of sleeping in, waiting tables, and trudging around for auditions until it was time to hit the bars with the younger set. She was eternally tired. Eternally hopeless. Eternally, and ironically, unhappy. “Exciting.”
“Exciting?” he asked, his mouth curling on one side into a lazy grin.
“Yes, actually.” Amelia smiled broadly. It was the truth. For the first time in a long time, her weekend was full of life. Real life. Not the empty life of a forty-something who chased twenty-somethings around a soulless city in search of a ripped-off version of her dream job.
“So, no luck on Liesel Hart?” He gestured toward the lighthouse which glowed with the back-light of the sinking sun.
Amelia shook her head. “Unless you have your grandfather’s old paperwork.” She offered a smile, but he shrugged.
“We can get her address and send her a letter to ask about it. Or call the Coast Guard. I’m sure they have a record of how this place came to change hands.”
“Why are you helping me?” Amelia’s smile fell away, and she stepped up to the line of water in the sand, tapping at it with her knock-off Birkenstocks, making miniature splashes.
He cleared his throat then chuckled. “Honestly?”
She smiled, waiting.
“I think it’s interesting. This old place teetering on the edge of town. Your eccentric mom—” his face reddened. “Sorry.”
Amelia laughed. “That’s okay. She was kooky.”
His shoulders dropped a little. “Well, I loved that about her. She always had these tall tales. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, but the appointments she made—and her drop-ins—well, they were memorable. She was a character. And charitable, too.”
At that, Amelia couldn’t hold back an eye roll. “That came later in life. When she got bored, I think.”
“She talked about you and your sisters a lot. Sharon felt like she knew you four.”
Michael’s secretary was enough of a busybody that she probably did think she knew the Hannigan sisters. And if that was true, maybe she could be of some help with the mystery. But Sharon wasn’t a local. She was a transplant. And the mystery was a local one that needed local knowledge. Insider stuff.
“Don’t you have other things to do?” Amelia asked, turning to him.
“Not really. I’m not one to go out a lot. I like history and reading. I like to see shows, too, but we don’t have that here. Culture, I guess. That’s my thing. So, when we read your mother’s final note, I was captivated, you know? I don’t think there’s a better way to spend your time than by meeting new people and, well, helping them.”
He was skirting around something, and Amelia had a suspicion about what it could be. But it wasn’t the time or place to pursue her hunch. Instead, she just nodded her head, accepting his half-truths for the time being.
“So where to?” he asked, apparently pleased that she wasn’t pushing the matter.
Amelia shook the nagging feeling that they had an opportunity they were squandering, threw a longing gaze to the lighthouse then turned back to him. “The marina. I’m pretty sure he’s there tonight.”
“Right, you mentioned that. Are you sure you want to... confront him, though?”
She considered the question seriously, thankful that in light of Kate’s absence from the whole ordeal someone was stepping up and offering a responsible vantage point.
“I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t know,” she admitted at last, peering across the sand up to where Clara was parked. Her face appeared in the driver’s seat, placid and patient as ever.
Michael crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels. “What do you think you’ll learn from him?”
“Maybe nothing. But what I want to learn is why my mother named him as the cause of my father’s disappearance. And why the police didn’t.”