Authors: Meira Pentermann
Firefly Beach
Firefly Beach
Meira Pentermann
Copyright © 2009 Meira Pentermann
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Amy Feiman
Second Edition 2012
Originally Published 2009 with Lyrical Press
1. Mystery 2. Paranormal
3. Firefly Beach
To Carrie
For believing in me even when I didn’t believe in myself
Prologue
In a clearing, somewhere between the edge of the forest and a jagged cliff, a lone firefly danced in graceful circles. It was beautiful, stealing attention away from the moonlight shimmering on Penobscot Bay. For a brief moment, the captivating creature was more hypnotic than the wispy clouds that brushed the face of the moon.
There was something highly unusual about that firefly. Beth couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She had only seen fireflies once before, when she went camping with the Girl Scouts. She vaguely recalled their random flashing in the woods and how magical they seemed to her as a ten-year-old. She remembered dozens of fireflies, blinking sporadically, flittering about as if they were at a cocktail party, all vying for center stage, and all talking at once.
She looked out at the peculiar glowing insect and realized that there was
definitely
something different about that firefly.
It did not blink…and it was all alone.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
A New Canvas
Beth LaMonte hated moving boxes. They represented change, chaos and uncertainty. Anyone in their right mind would avoid them, but it was too late to reconsider. Drowning in a sea of cardboard and packing materials, she shook her head in frustration.
What happened to the days when I could load everything I owned into a station wagon?
She sighed, made a space for herself on the couch, and slumped down in defeat. The couch faced a bay window, which overlooked the backyard of a cozy, two-bedroom cottage. About twenty feet from the window, the unfenced yard met up with a small forest dominated by white pines and birches. Several American beech trees and a lush undergrowth including ferns, moss and saplings enriched the woodland. A fifteen-foot clearing allowed a view of the Penobscot Bay opening into the Atlantic. Sixty yards from the back of the house a twenty-foot jagged cliff dropped straight down to meet the bay. The insurmountable shoreline gave the cottage a sense of protective seclusion.
Beth leaned back and took a deep breath. The fragrance of seawater and evergreens drifted faintly through the open kitchen window. She closed her eyes and let the scent wash over her tired spirit, as she sought a renewal that was beyond her reach.
The anticipation of warm summer months was of little comfort. Beth’s fortieth birthday loomed less than two weeks away. Her mother, Sophia, had died unexpectedly of a heart attack the previous December, only days before Christmas. Her husband, Bill, asked for a divorce in January, having the courtesy to allow her a couple of weeks to grieve before unleashing the bomb he had been planning to drop since Thanksgiving. After sixteen years of marriage, Bill had fallen in love with a thirty-year-old associate at his Albuquerque-based software company.
The affair should have come as no surprise to Beth, as the marriage had been passionless for years. Both partners were workaholics, and they seemed to pass one another in the hallway, occupying the same space, yet living separate lives. They no longer shared special moments of the day during their evening meal. Eating together was merely convenient when neither of them happened to be working late. They had not gone on a date or a weekend retreat since their tenth wedding anniversary, and they rarely shared the same bed. This arrangement was deemed sensible since they often kept different hours. As the years accumulated, along with a thick layer of indifference, was it any wonder that Bill sought comfort in the arms of a young woman who looked upon him with great admiration and affection?
Beth was more troubled by the numbness she felt when Bill left than she was by the divorce itself. She questioned her capacity for human emotion. She never desired children, having neither the patience nor the compassion for nurturing. She allowed her marriage to crumble like a dead piece of wood eaten away at its core. She found her only comfort in crunching numbers and obsessively going over the books to find errors made by members of her staff. Accounts payable, accounts receivable, and bank reconciliation reports were more satisfying to her than a warm embrace. She had been the controller for a small firm that manufactured plastics, and she justified her long hours by continuously nitpicking at small mistakes. In reality, she longed to linger at her computer, and she dreaded going home.
Now she missed home – the stable, the familiar. The move to Maine was supposed to be her fresh start, but after a day of unpacking she felt drained and dispirited.
Beth wandered into the backyard and sat on a large, smooth boulder near the edge of the forest. She rested for nearly an hour, staring at the islands in the distance as the sun set behind her. An orange-pink hue engulfed the horizon, reflecting off the water in shimmering pale and dark patches. Something stirred inside of her, a warmth with which she had been out of touch for years. She smiled optimistically, recognizing the courage in her decision to make such dramatic changes in her life. She felt an ounce of hope that she might actually find a human being under the layers of meticulous accountant and passionless wife.
It was a capricious moment, entirely out of character, that fateful day she made her decision. The divorce had become final in May. Bill had moved out months before. As Beth boxed up her things, intending to move to a small, luxury apartment in the city, she came across several paintings that she created when she was a junior in high school in Minneapolis. She sat on the floor remembering her romantic dreams of going to an art college in Boston, moving to a small town in the northeast, and enjoying rocky coastlines with sparsely populated beaches. She planned to make her way by painting shorelines and lighthouses to sell on consignment. Sometime during her senior year, the dreamer took a backseat to the realist, and she secured a scholarship at the University of New Mexico, where she studied economics and earned her CPA. She met Bill and started working for Nilson Plastics as an administrative assistant. Then she married Bill, went on to get her MBA, and moved up the ladder at Nilson’s until she secured the position of controller. At the time, she believed she had realized her true ambitions. The paintings were forgotten and stowed away in the attic, not even earning a place on one of the many walls of her spacious home.
But on that cloudy day in May, as she sat cross-legged remembering a dream she’d buried in her youth, the disorientation of the divorce overcame her sensible nature. She pulled a tattered atlas off the bookshelf, took a pencil in her hand, and closed her eyes. She took one quick peek to locate Boston on the map and then plunged the pencil down…Virginia Point, Maine, a small town on the mid-coast with a population of just over fifteen hundred.
She spent the following couple of days surfing the Internet and making phone calls. The number for the Chamber of Commerce rang through to Mary Schmidt, the owner of Virginia Point’s most popular bed and breakfast. Mary gave Beth the number for Bobby Downy, the proprietor of a tourist shop that sold several craft items on consignment. Beth sent digital photos of two of her paintings to Bobby. One was a crisp oil painting of a lighthouse on a cliff, the other, an impressionist-style rendition of a vase of flowers. Bobby said he would be happy to display Beth’s artwork, but he emphasized that paintings of lighthouses and the coast of Maine were more likely to sell in his store.
Beth found a cottage for rent on the coast. From the description and the photos, the place seemed perfect. Although the yard left something to be desired – weed infested gardens and untamed bushes – the house was freshly painted and the landlord promised it was in good working order. Beautiful, hardwood floors covered the first level of the two-story home. It had two bedrooms, one bath, and a view of the Penobscot Bay – an artist’s dream.
The landlord, Rod Thompson, mailed her a key after she sent him a hefty security deposit. He didn’t want to be bothered with trying to meet her when she got into town. Mr. Thompson did agree to open the house for the moving company drivers who delivered their precious cargo two days before Beth’s arrival. The movers had unloaded the boxes, designated by color-coded stickers, into the specified rooms. Beth spent the day setting up the kitchen and making the bed before tackling the rest of the boxes. She was unable to accomplish even half of her goal to be eighty percent unpacked by nightfall.
After twilight settled in, an evening chill crawled across Beth’s skin, driving her back inside. She glanced around at the disorder and decided to let it go, take a shower, and get a decent night’s sleep. The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she climbed to the bathroom on the second level. She caught her reflection in the mirror and paused to take a long look at herself. She was a moderately attractive woman – slender, of medium height, and fair skinned. Silver streaks graced her dark, shoulder length hair. Although very few lines gathered around her soft brown eyes, her forehead was beset with creases, the identifying marks of a woman who fretted more often than she smiled.
By the time Beth stepped into the shower she was exhausted. Long, deep breaths calmed her mind and allowed her to make peace with the fact that the house was not going to be in full working order for at least a week. The hot water melted away her anxiety and she emerged refreshed and ready for bed.
She towel dried her hair as she wandered down the hall. The corner room would be the studio. Two windows overlooked the bay, giving it a panoramic view. The lighthouse, which had been out of operation for nearly a decade, was not visible from the cottage. Nevertheless, the windows provided a clear view of the water and the diverse forest as it wandered up the curving coastline toward a point where the land became rocky and devoid of vegetation.
Beth’s bedroom was at the top of the stairs. An oak dresser stood on one side of the room next to a make-do computer desk. Both were empty; their contents remained in boxes stacked in the far corner.
Just before retiring, Beth looked out the window toward the coast. The moon cast eerie shadows in the woodland. The large rock gleamed, and the islands were silhouettes in a shimmering sea.
Beth saw the firefly for the first time that night. It turned gently, making carefree circles, like a child pretending to fly. “I didn’t know they had fireflies on the coast,” Beth mused sleepily as she crossed the room and slipped into bed, mildly puzzled by the insect’s behavior. “The firefly is a good sign,” she whispered to herself before sleep eased her tired mind into its much-needed state of rest.
The firefly danced in the moonlight, as if welcoming its new neighbor.
Chapter 2
Burst of Light
Beth awoke under a cloud of dark emotions stemming from a series of unsettling dreams, the details of which blurred and then evaporated altogether in the time it took her to pull her head from the pillow and search for the clock. 8:39 a.m. She sat up and shivered, attempting to shake the gloomy sensation. When her head cleared, she pulled on her clothing, tied back her hair, and set her mind on the tasks of unpacking and organizing. The former CPA relished order, so she began to look forward to the promise of a satisfying day.