The Storm and the Darkness (4 page)

Finn’s childhood had been mostly carefree. Very few things bothered him the way they did Jon, and while Finn was quick to temper, he was also quick to cool and never held a grudge or worried about any one thing for too long. His father had abandoned any hopes of mentoring of him when he was young; it was clear he was made more for physical labors than mental ones. However, his mother cherished him in a way she had never been able to cherish Jon. Finn suspected that his mother was even a little afraid of Jon. Or, at the very least, she did not see much of herself in him.

A petite Irish redhead with round cheeks and big blue eyes, Claire St. Andrews was the picture of love to Finn; she spoiled and coddled him, kissed his bruises, and told him colorful stories about growing up in County Clare, Ireland. She read to him, played with him, and indulged him. She did this away from the disapproving eye of her husband, who did not believe that there was enough time in the day for fun and play. After his father had dismissed Finn as unfit for the family business, Claire had taken the time to help him discover what he
was
good at. As a schoolteacher, helping Finn find and explore his potential was second nature. And while Finn did not have the gift of science, he did have a sense of the world around him, which she taught him to embrace.

She shared with him her love of books, and he devoured material faster than she could add to the library. His father watched with a skeptical eye when his youngest son pursued a Liberal Arts degree at Bates College in Lewiston.
I don’t know what’s worse Claire…a son who wants to fish for a living, or a son who wants to pursue an embarrassing degree. I should have taken more care with him, and not let you feed his whims...
 

But the sea called to Finn even stronger than literature, and his mother was his biggest supporter when he returned to the island with a new calling. Finn had picked up on the fishing trade well and quickly. Many third and fourth generation fishermen came to him for advice on the best areas and techniques. Business was always good, even for a small, private, old-fashioned seaman with a clunky boat and dated equipment.
 

After hauling the traps to the storage house, Finn and Jeremiah slowly removed each of the lobsters, separating the hens from the cocks. Finn had dozens of large water tanks lining the boathouse, and they slipped the lobsters into empty ones. He frowned as he looked at all the tanks that remained empty.
Hopefully I am wrong. Maybe there is more time.

Jeremiah eagerly took his two lobsters as payment for his help, and went home to give the food to his mother. Finn only received Jeremiah’s help on school breaks and weekends, but his assistance was invaluable. Finn refused to hire a deck-hand full time, although he could never say exactly why except that he preferred to do it on his own. “There’s a reason you named that damned boat
Forbia
. You really are ‘headstrong!’” Jon would say whenever the subject came up.

Finn took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he took in the crisp, salty air. There was no love of Finn’s, past or present, that could ever rival the love he had for the sea.

He removed his hip-waders and extra layers of clothing, hanging them up on the rack in the boathouse. Through the window, he could see Ana Deschanel reading, although not successfully, as the wind blew her book and hair around fiercely. He chuckled to himself.

He stepped out of the boathouse with that evening's dinner and waved at her, and she waved back with a smile. He hadn’t spoken to her yet, because he sensed she wanted to keep to herself. Jon speculated that she must have gotten into some kind of trouble, shamed herself or her family, to be sent to Maine on the cusp of the long winter, but Finn couldn't see anything bad or shameful about Ana. If he did speak to her he knew he would never ask her why she had come here, but he was almost certain Jon was wrong.

She had become a part of Finn’s daily ritual. Wake, dress, and go out on the water. Return, dock, handle the catch, and wave to her as he made his way back up to the house. On the odd day that she was not sitting on her porch or on the bench at the edge of her property, he always felt a little bit off. He couldn't say that he liked her, exactly, because he didn't even know her, but that small exchange was as much a part of him now as waking, dressing, and going out on the water. He imagined that he would readjust when she returned home, but for now she was a welcome part of his routine.

She was sure pretty, from what he could see. Dark red hair and pale, freckled skin always flushed from the wind and weather. She wore a wool sweater and jeans. They were very natural on her, as if she was born for this setting and not the heat and lighter clothing of the South, where she was from. He had only been up close to her once, in town, and he could not recall the color of her eyes, but he did remember they were intense, like Jon's.

Finn thought of the coming storm, and he hoped that Alex had prepared her for everything that was coming. For locals, the inevitable island shutdowns were standard fare, but for someone like her he imagined it might be downright terrifying. He resolved that, whether she wanted her privacy or not, he could not in all good conscience let her go into the winter without knowing she was prepared and decided to go see her before the storm rolled in.

Ana started up the gravel path leading to the Casco Bay Lighthouse. Every afternoon, she would take a walk. Every afternoon, when she reached the narrow hill leading up toward the lighthouse, she would keep walking, ending up instead near Edgewater's, and then back through downtown and home. Today, something compelled her to climb the hill and investigate.

Since the day Ana arrived, her interest was piqued by the old, crumbling structure. Despite its necessity, it seemed so out of place, jutting up awkwardly from the raised earth like it didn't belong. More, it did not look anything like she expected. Unlike the tall, graceful, white structures in the postcards, the Casco Bay Lighthouse was a shorter, squatter building painted with loud, but peeling, stripes of red and white. It reminded her of a clownish barber pole, forgotten and left to rot.

It was the highest point on the island, sitting atop Edgewater Point, the only hill on Summer Island. In addition to the hill, a man-made rock base raised the diminutive monolith even higher.
It has to be high enough for mariners to see the light
, Alex had said to her. Ana wondered how it looked from the sea.

Even from the bottom of the long, gravel hill, Ana could see the peeling paint and the broken railings at the top; the latter sent unexpected chills down her spine as she wondered how long the serrated, rusted bars had hung into the wind like that. They were dangling by what seemed like little more than a thread. They did not have the look of something that had been broken gently.
 

The cool breeze lapped at her face as she climbed higher. The path took her far above the shoreline, and she could see the many ships in the Atlantic.
I bet one of those is Finn St. Andrews.

When Ana reached the top, the wind slowly died, and the base of the lighthouse came into full view. Up close, it looked even more derelict than it had from afar, the white stripes having faded to a dull gray. The red, in contrast, was bright as fresh blood. Around the base was a sloppily placed cyclone fence with barbed wire at the top, and signs posted around it stating: KEEP OUT, and PRIVATE PROPERTY. The weeds and vines, curling and twisting up and around the bottom few feet of the lighthouse base, left her with the distinct impression that the building was not just private, but abandoned.
 

Graffiti, angled along the graying stripes, shouted: DESTROY HERON HALLOWS and JESUS LOVES CARLA. Neither of those things meant anything to Ana, but she made a mental note to ask Alex later. He would know.

Ana caught a glimpse, in her peripheral vision, of what looked like grave markers. Upon closer inspection, they were the simple, white crosses that were common along highways, marking the death of a beloved family member. Yet...there were four of them, like a small, private cemetery. She knelt down in the gravel and read their names:
Carla Edgewater. Lionel Shepherd. Sandra Finnerty. Emily Caldwell.

“What the hell?” She whispered. That explained who Carla was, sort of.
Did they all die here?

Ana stepped back, and her foot slipped in the gravel, nearly sending her over the sea cliff. Heart racing, she righted herself, wondering how she hadn't noticed her proximity to the edge. She could see jagged cuts into the rock, indicating that there had once been more land between the lighthouse and the serrated merger of water and land below. Looking down at the outcropping of rocks amongst the waves, she realized how high she had climbed. It had looked so close from the bottom.

Backing away, Ana looked out at the ocean again, noticing that the ships were all making their way back toward their respective ports. The goose bumps rose on her arms, as wind picked back up. Moments later, the rain started, quickly increasing in intensity. Within minutes, she was drenched.

Ana pulled her heavy coat tight around her. She turned to make her way back home when she backed into something firm, startling her. Strong arms quickly righted her. She gasped, jumping.

"Tis just me," Alex's comforting voice sang behind her. "Poor dear, let's get ya out of this rain!" Before she could say anything, he motioned for her to follow, and he jogged toward the rear of the lighthouse.

As he entered through a hole in the fence, Ana wondered,
Are we actually going inside?
He can't be serious.
Then Alex did enter, and Ana, soaked to the bone and shivering, could do nothing but follow.

Alex flipped a large switch on the wall and the room lit up in a dull, ambient light. The lighthouse was much smaller inside than out, and the only sign of ongoing activity was the small wooden desk in the corner strewn with paperwork. Next to the desk was a space heater, sitting on the exposed cement floor. Aside from those few objects, the circular room was completely bare.

As Alex turned on the heater, Ana rushed over and knelt before it, soaking up the heat.

"There ya go," Alex said, soothingly. He patted her on the head. "You'll be right as rain in no time." He chuckled at his joke.

"What are you doing up here?" Ana asked, through clattering teeth. "I suppose that sounded ungrateful. Thank you for rescuing me." She was shocked at how quickly she could get cold here, compared with how long it took to warm up.
This is definitely not New Orleans.

"Why, I work here," Alex replied, with a note of pride in his voice. "Did I not tell ya?"

Ana shook her head.
 

"Ya. Took over the care on this place about, oh, two years ago now. 'Fore that, it was closed fer about ten years." Ana noted that he made no move toward the heater. His jacket was only damp compared to hers, which looked as if she had taken a dip in the Atlantic. She deduced there must be a road leading up the hill, for she hadn't spotted anyone on the path when she arrived.

"Does it work?" Ana asked.

"Most certainly," Alex said. "It never stopped workin’.”

"Then why was it closed?"

"I don't s'pose ya noticed the crosses out front?" He asked. He was looking out the sole, round window, gazing in the direction of the sea.

"Sort of hard to miss four of them," Ana responded, feeling the overwhelming urge to cross herself. "Did they die here? At the lighthouse?"

Alex walked over and pulled the chair out, settling it in front of the heater. He motioned for Ana to sit down. He wore a sad look of resignation, but she could see he was going to answer her question with a story. She had come to enjoy, and even welcome, Alex's stories, though this one was unlikely to have a happy ending.
 

"Tis a sad tale,” Alex started, dropping his voice. He continued gazing out the window, arms crossed. "This place used to belong to the Edgewaters'. Ya know, the family that owns Edgewaters, that fancy dinin' on the northern coast? You might’ve seen their names elsewhere, too, being as they once owned half the island." When she nodded, he went on. "T'was a sad thing, what happened to them. Good people, ya know. Anderson Edgewater was a right honest businessman, and his wife Camille a real lady. The kind of folks who would stop to help ya load your groceries even if they were in a hurry.”

He went on, “They had this handsome daughter by the name of Carla. She was seventeen, and had the most beautiful mahogany hair ya ever saw. Smart, too. Kind, like her parents. The kind of girl any parent would be proud of."

Alex paced from the window to the door, deep in thought. Ana watched him, shivering but attentive

"'Course, even good girls meet bad guys,” Alex shook his head, sadly. "Lionel Shepherd." Ana recognized another name from the crosses. “No'ne really knows what happened 'tween the two of 'em, I s'pose. Lionel ran with the fast and loose crowd, and e'eryone worried he would take Carla down the same road. We all knew about the downright awful fights she had with her folks nearly e'ery night. Breaks my heart even to think about it.”

Alex shifted his attention to Ana, and suddenly, his eyes widened. As if realizing something important forgotten, he excused himself and ran out the door. He returned moments later with a thermos. He removed the cup and poured in some hot, dark liquid that smelled delicious to Ana in her chilled state. Her eyes widened with gratitude as he handed it to her.

"Sorry to have forgotten my manners like that!" He declared, with an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. Ana savored the warm cocoa, cupping the lid with both hands.

"Alex, you're my hero," Ana said, smiling gratefully. When he gave her a dismissive wave, she continued, "No, really. You've been a godsend to me since the day I arrived."

"Aw, its nothin'," Alex replied, blushing deeper now. "'Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.' Matthew 5:16. You a churchgoer, Ana?"