My apartment, my beloved lighthouse aerie, was located on the fourth floor. I unlocked the door, and Charles ran in ahead of me straight to the kitchen area, where he exclaimed in shock when he found his food bowl empty. The apartment was tiny, only one small room plus a bathroom, but I absolutely adored it. The single window was a tall, narrow space that gave a million-dollar view over the marshes, past the beach, and out to sea. Set into four-foot-deep stone walls, the window had a bench seat covered in blue-and-yellow cushions, making it the perfect place to curl up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. Whitewashed brick walls curved with the shape of the lighthouse tower. A white daybed, piled high with pillows and matching cushions. Two wingback chairs around a low coffee table. The kitchen contained only a microwave and a toaster oven, so it wasn’t good for much cooking. But I wasn’t much of a cook, so that didn’t really matter.
First things first. I filled Charles’s bowl. Charles was the library cat; he was supposed to spend his time downstairs and eat and sleep in the staff break room. But as soon as I moved in, he had decided he liked my room better.
I loved having his company.
It was scarcely nine thirty and I was exhausted. Mentally more than physically. As I got ready for bed, I thought over the last couple of days. Mom could be prickly, haughty, self-absorbed, but she wasn’t a mean person. She didn’t exactly ooze friendliness to the hired help, but I had never before seen her behave in the outright rude way she had toward first George Marwick and then Karen Kivas.
Was there something personal about that? They both claimed to have been friends with her in her youth.
Fortunately, things with Karen had been resolved. Karen could play the martyr, but it would do Mom good, I thought, to reestablish some old friendships. I was quite proud of her for climbing down off her high horse and making the effort to be friends again.
As for George, manager, we’ve all had the experience of trying to get rid of an unwelcome suitor.
I sent a quick e-mail to Jake’s Seafood Bar, requesting a table for five for tomorrow night, and then settled into my pillows while Charles curled up at my feet. I took one of the Fixer-Upper mysteries by Kate Carlisle (how could I resist a book with a lighthouse on the cover?) off the night table, and began to read.
* * *
Thick curtains cover the single window to keep out the light from the thousand-watt bulb flashing less than a hundred feet over my head, and the first thing I do on waking is pull them open to check the weather.
Today, the yellow ball of the sun was rising over the ocean in a sky of flawless blue. Another perfect Outer Banks summer day. Although here, on a razor-thin strip of land thrust into the Atlantic Ocean, the weather could, and often did, change dramatically in minutes.
Charles pointed out that his food bowl had somehow become emptied in the night. I fed him, and then got myself groomed and ready for the day. Then, as is my custom, I pulled up a chair to my small table and opened my laptop. I read the local and Boston papers online, enjoying my first cup of coffee and munching on yogurt and granola. At eight thirty, I put the dishes in the sink, told Charles it was time we went to work, and headed downstairs. When I’d worked at the Harvard Library, every morning involved a fight through the commuter traffic. For the improved commute alone, I cherished my life at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library.
I was the first to arrive. I slipped outside before beginning work, as I usually did, to enjoy some sun on my face and get fresh sea air into my lungs.
Two cars were in the parking lot: my Yaris and a scratched, rusting, dusty Dodge Neon several yards farther away. At first I paid the Neon no attention. The lighthouse borders the marshes between Roanoke Sound and the National Seashore. Wooden walkways wind through the marsh, ending at a rough boat dock on the water. Plenty of people come at sunrise, to hike or catch birds beginning their day. It’s a popular spot, and those who don’t arrive by boat drive.
I greeted the morning with a few yoga moves—as Bertie, who had also become my yoga instructor, had taught me. And then I gripped first one foot behind me, and then the other, practicing my balance and getting the kinks out. It was so delightfully quiet here in the morning. Birds called as they passed overhead and the wind rustled the grasses in the marsh. I heard no voices, unlike on other mornings when people appeared, laughing and chatting about the birds they’d seen.
I glanced at the Neon.
I’d seen Karen’s car only once. I wasn’t sure, but it might have been one like this. And in much the same condition.
Was this Karen’s car? It was possible.
I hadn’t stayed downstairs to watch Mom and Karen drive away last night. She might have persuaded Mom to take her for a spin in the SLK. Maybe they ended up at the hotel, having a drink and chatting about old times.
I swung my arms in the air, breathing deeply. The air was fresh and clean, tinged with salt. Mom wasn’t much for the beach. She preferred a hotel pool, with lounge chairs, umbrellas, paying guests, and hovering waiters. I’d talk her into coming to the beach with me on Sunday.
If she was still here. She hadn’t said anything at all about going home.
I was about to head back inside when my attention was caught by a group of large black birds sweeping low out of the sky. They disappeared around the side of the lighthouse to be greeted by raucous cawing from their fellows who’d arrived earlier.
Nature was lovely and all that, but it did have its drawbacks. I hoped there wasn’t a dead bird or small animal on the property. We got lots of kids visiting. I’d better have a look.
I rounded the corner, holding my breath, prepared to chase off a murder of crows and see something highly unpleasant.
I yelled and waved my arms, and the birds flew away, protesting loudly. A large purse had been tossed to one side, where it lay in the sunshine. Against the walls of the lighthouse, in deep shadow, I could see something made of denim. I blinked, my eyes focused, and I realized I was staring at legs, human legs, wrapped in jeans.