Hearts Made Whole (7 page)

She wanted to scream at the unfairness of the situation.

Somehow he was supposed to be better than her, more suited to the work, simply because he was a man?

She spun away from him, strode out into the fading evening, and slammed the shed door shut with a force that caused several shingles to fall.

“He's worthless!” she cried, her chest aching with frustration. “Absolutely worthless. And he probably doesn't know a thing about how to work a light either.”

She crossed the grassy yard to the tower. Her ire swelled with
each step, until she was stomping like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. But she didn't care.

Ryan Chambers didn't deserve the keeper position at Windmill Point Lighthouse. And she most certainly hadn't deserved to be fired from the job, only to be replaced by someone as inept as him.

“It's not fair!” she cried again before yanking open the passageway door.

She stepped inside, but then halted at the base of the staircase that led up the tower. Maybe she should just go back into the house and let Ryan take responsibility for his job. If he didn't want to make a point of lighting the lantern, then that was his problem. Not hers. Maybe then Mr. Finick would hear about Ryan's irresponsibility and decide to let her stay after all.

With one foot on the bottom step, Caroline stared up at the underside of the winding metal stairway.

A battle raged in her heart for only a few seconds before the anger dissipated like a storm after it had unleashed its fury.

She felt strangely tired and old. With a sigh she forced one foot up after the other, the cast-iron steps pinging with each slap of her boots.

If Mr. Finick fired Ryan, he wouldn't let her stay. He'd only find another man to take the job. The truth was, her time at the lighthouse was through. And she needed to accept that, no matter how hard it was.

The other truth was that she couldn't leave the lantern unlit—not as long as she had breath and the ability to climb the stairs. She would go up and keep the light burning, no matter what. Sea captains and sailing vessels depended upon the Windmill Point Light for their safety. And she'd never willingly put them
in danger. Not even to spite the man who'd taken her job away from her.

She loved the light too much to ever neglect it.

She halted halfway up and pressed her hand against the cool brick wall. For a moment she imagined that she could feel its pulse, the tower's lifeblood pumping through the walls, beckoning her to remain strong and steady.

Her legs trembled, but she nodded and then continued up the stairs. She needed to stay strong.

R
yan's mouth stunk, like a rat had climbed inside and built a nest there. His throat was parched, and his head pounded. He stumbled across the grass toward the tower. “Idiot,” he berated himself. “You idiot.”

The faint light of dawn was showing pink on the eastern side of the lake. And he'd shirked his duties by hours.

When he'd awoken from his medicated stupor, his heart had squeezed with panic. First he'd realized someone had rummaged through his satchel and taken out his pills. The clinking of pills against the glass indicated they were still there. He'd been relieved, but only for a moment, until he'd remembered where he was and why. The panic had returned like a cavalry stampeding toward the front line.

He'd forgotten to light the lantern last night.

“How could you be such an idiot?” He cursed himself again and paused at the causeway door to glance up to the lantern room. The flashing beam prevented him from seeing anything inside the room. He knew right away who had been responsible for lighting it, even though it was now his job.

He hesitated at the doorway. Should he knock? It wasn't his home yet. And after last night's neglect of his duty, he wasn't sure it should ever be.

A fresh burst of remorse pushed him forward through the door. He forced himself into the tower and up the stairs, each step jarring him and sending shards of pain through his head. When he reached the ladder that led the last distance up, he paused and pressed his hand against his temple to fight off dizziness. How would he be able to climb the stairs each day on multiple occasions without causing himself intense pain?

His heart sank at the thought, but he forced himself forward. One-handed, he started up the ladder and hesitantly poked his head through the hatch. The lantern room was empty.

He released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and finished ascending. He didn't know much about lighthouses, but he knew enough to understand that the light at the center of the room was a small sixth-order lens, the smallest light designed for lighthouses. He'd expected a larger lens for a station located in such a strategic position, one that handled the heavy commerce of boats traveling around the horseshoe of Michigan from Chicago to Detroit and on to Buffalo.

He could tell that Caroline was an immaculate keeper. The floor was swept, the windows were spotless, and the brass base polished until it shone. Even the oil can sitting on the floor near the light had been buffed to a coppery glow.

The half door that led to the gallery swung open, and he took a quick step back, bumping into the round metal wall. Caroline stooped to enter through the low door. Once inside, she straightened and flipped her loose hair over her shoulders before she caught sight of him.

She gave a start, and her eyes rounded. “Mr. Chambers.” The surprise was then replaced with a look of censure.

“Aye. It's me.” He squirmed and wished he'd thought to run a comb through his hair or soap down his face. He could only imagine how he must appear. “I'm sure I look like a dead man who's risen from the grave.”

She didn't respond except to purse her lips together.

“I probably smell like one too.” He wasn't sure why he was attempting humor. In fact, he was certain he'd lost his sense of humor when he'd lost over half his company that bloody day at Gettysburg.

She held a long nautical spyglass in her hands and had obviously been out on the gallery scanning the lake, keeping watch on the ships that relied upon the light for their safety. Her cheeks were pink from the coolness of dawn, her hair mussed from the wind. She was entirely too pretty.

He couldn't resist sliding a hand through his hair, although he knew it was a feeble attempt to make himself presentable. He was as disheveled on the outside as he was within. He hadn't cared before, hadn't given his appearance a second thought for months.

But under this woman's scrutiny, he couldn't keep from fidgeting. Had she been the one to come into the boathouse and rifle through his satchel? If so, she would have seen the awful truth about the kind of man he'd become.

“I overslept,” he offered. “I guess the ride out here from Detroit wore me out.”

Her eyes only narrowed at his weak excuse.

Aye, he had no excuse. He should have woken up in time to light the lantern. “It won't happen again.”

“I hope not.” Then she shrugged almost as if she didn't believe him.

“Thank you for lighting it for me.”

“I didn't do it for
you
. I did it for them.” She nodded curtly toward the lake.

The condemnation in her tone added to the guilt already weighing upon him. He couldn't keep from thinking about the oath he'd taken when he'd accepted the appointment to Windmill Point Lighthouse. He'd promised to carry out the assigned duties with energy and enthusiasm, and to serve loyally and honorably. So far he'd failed on all accounts. Caroline had every right to scold him, even though she was obviously refraining from doing so.

“Since you're here now, I'll leave you to your work.” She bent to retrieve the oil can and then stepped toward the hatch.

He glanced at the lantern, to its gears, weights, and wick. How was he supposed to turn it off? And when?

She brushed past him and lowered herself through the narrow hatch in the floor.

“Wait,” he said, unable to stop the panic from creeping into his voice.

She paused on the top rung and refused to look at him.

He couldn't very well admit he had no idea what he was supposed to do, could he? She was already angry enough that he'd taken away her job. She'd hate him if she realized Mr. Finick had replaced her with an idiot. Sure, his sister, Emma, had shown him how to turn off the Presque Isle Light. But he'd never done it himself.

“What?” she asked, finally lifting her eyes. The sadness in their depths socked his stomach.

He wanted to tell her he was sorry. But he already had, and saying the words again wouldn't make the situation any better.

There wasn't anything that could make the situation better . . .
except maybe if he left. But he couldn't leave. Not yet. Based on the salary Mr. Finick had quoted, Ryan figured he needed to work about a year to save up enough. And even then, he'd probably not have all that he owed.

“I need this job,” he said, the deathly white face of the nameless boy rising up to taunt him.

Caroline's eyes radiated with accusation. “You're not the only one who needs a job, Mr. Chambers.” And with that she disappeared through the hatch.

He stared after her, fighting the urge to retreat, to give in, to let her have the post. He didn't really want it. All he wanted to do was go back to the shed, quench his thirst, and return to a world where he didn't have to think or feel anything.

Shame heaped onto the guilt and made his knees weak. What kind of man had he become? He muttered a low curse at himself. He was exactly the kind of man he'd sworn he would never become. He'd always told himself he'd never end up a no-good drunk like his dad. He'd always told himself he wouldn't hang on to the pains of the past and let them control him like his father had.

Yet here he was, a wretched excuse for a man.

Anguish smoldered inside him. “Oh, God, why didn't you take me? Why didn't you let a better man than me live?”

He'd asked himself a thousand times why God had spared him when so many of his comrades had died. He hadn't deserved to make it through the war when there were men with wives and children waiting for them back home, better men who were far more deserving of life.

“I can't do it,” he said aloud with a bitter tone. “I've already injured one family. I can't bring heartache to another.” He would leave. He'd go down and tell Caroline she could have her job back.

He took a wavering step toward the ladder, but the faint light spreading over the horizon stopped him with its beauty. Slowly he moved to the east window, rested his forehead against the cold glass, and stared into the distance. The swirls of pink and orange broke through the darkness and cast a warm glow upon the still waters of the lake.

He stood motionless and stared at the beauty of light in the darkness. The peace of the sunrise cracked through the storm clouds in his soul.
Turn to me
, a gentle voice seemed to whisper.
I'm all you
need
.

He swallowed the pain that rose up in his chest, taunting him, telling him that he didn't deserve God's love and grace. Instead he let the gentle beam of light inside, and he whispered back the words pressing for release from the depths of his being. “I need you.”

Maybe it wasn't much of a prayer, but it was a start.

Caroline stooped over her cluster of basil plants and clipped several of the stems. The peppery aroma tingled her nose and added to the delectable scents of the horsemint and thyme she'd already cut.

Pruning her garden always brought her such delight. But today, under the growing cloudiness of the afternoon sky, she found no joy in the task. In fact, on numerous occasions she'd considered simply abandoning the garden, leaving it to fend for itself. Just as she'd abandoned Ryan earlier that morning in the tower and made him fend for himself.

She gave a sideways glance toward the boathouse, where he'd disappeared again after somehow managing to turn off the light. She'd had to restrain herself all day from going back
up to the lantern room and making sure he'd done it right and that he'd cleaned up after himself.

Instead she'd forced herself to get some much-needed sleep before getting up to care for Sarah, to change and wash her, reposition her, and try to make her as comfortable as possible.

Through the open window of Sarah's bedroom she could hear Tessa's dramatized voice as she read to Sarah from one of the books she'd borrowed from Grosse Pointe's schoolteacher. Even though Tessa had stopped attending the school several years ago, she still often pestered old Mr. Lund for books or sonnets or plays.

Caroline often had to pry the books from Tessa's fingers and admonish her to do her work, but she never had the heart to stop her when she was reading to Sarah. Tessa relayed the stories with so much liveliness and expression that Sarah could listen for hours.

Caroline supposed the stories refreshed Sarah's soul the same way the flower gardens outside her window refreshed the girl's sights. For all the times Caroline conflicted with Tessa, she knew they were both only attempting to make Sarah's life happy in their own ways.

“One more chapter” came Sarah's sweet voice through the window. “Please, Tessa.”

“All right,” Tessa replied. “Only one more, though, or Caroline will skin me like a raccoon and string me up for sitting around all afternoon and leaving her with the work.”

Caroline stifled a sigh and sat back on her heels, the soft moss at the edge of the garden cushioning her knees.

For once, she'd neglected the work needing to be done too. She'd told herself she would walk into town with the boys that morning when they went to school, that she'd spend some time
asking around for work and seeking a new place to live. But when the boys had tramped off across the marsh, she'd hung behind, making an excuse that she was too tired.

She'd planned to start packing their belongings, but the empty crates for storage were in the boathouse and she hadn't wanted to face Ryan again. At least that was what she'd told herself.

Caroline paused and looked around, scanning the back of the house, her fading flower garden, the fenced-in vegetable plot, and the gnarled apple tree drooping under the weight of its fruit. A swell of sorrow threatened to crush her chest.

She wasn't ready to leave Windmill Point. She loved the beauty of the isolated marsh and living along the lake. She didn't want to make her home someplace where she couldn't wake up to the lapping of waves, the muddy-grassy scent of the water, and the endless blue of the lake.