Читать книгу Return of the Wild Son - Cynthia Thomason, Cynthia Thomason - Страница 11

A T FIVE O’CLOCK , Jenna headed to Sunshine House with two turkey dinners. She parked and went into the well-kept colonial building where Hester had been living for four years. She saw her grandmother across the lounge.

She must have been to the beauty shop, for her soft silver hair had been clipped and curled. And she’d applied rouge to her cheeks. From the familiar theme song coming from the TV, an episode of Green Acres was just ending.

Jenna set her package on a coffee table and went to help Hester with her walker. “Hey, Grandma, how are you tonight?”

Hester turned off the TV. “I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s good to see you.”

“I got macaroni tonight instead of mashed potatoes. I figured we could use the change.”

Hester moved carefully across the wood floor. “Always nice to have change,” she said. “Keeps a body young.”

Hester seemed deceptively calm, which usually meant something was up. Jenna set their meal out on the table. “How was your day?”

“Like every other for the most part,” Hester said, “which at my age is a good thing.” She opened a napkin, placed it on her lap and delicately cleared her throat. “Except for hearing that Nathaniel Shelton is in town.”

So that was it. “How’d you find out?” Jenna asked.

“Oh, sweetheart, this is Finnegan Cove. If someone sneezes on one side of town, we say God bless on the other.” She stared longingly at the small salt packets on the table. “Wish I could have some of that.”

Jenna slid them out of reach. “So, what else did you hear?”

Hester stopped a passing aide. “Susan, would you mind getting me real silverware? I don’t like to use the plastic stuff.”

“Sure, Hester. Hi, Jenna,” the woman said as she went into the dining room.

Jenna opened her bag and pulled out the plastic utensils. “Gran?” Jenna said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, right. Well, the grapevine tells me that Nathaniel is looking to buy our lighthouse.” She peered across the table, her eyes as clear as they’d been when Jenna was a child and Hester a young sixty-five. “Is it true?”

“Nate came into the bakery this morning,” she replied. “He admitted that he was looking into it.”

Hester swallowed a bite of turkey and washed it down with tea. “What for? He lives in California, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He said he has his reasons.”

“I knew nothing good would come of this plan to sell the lighthouse. I called Bill myself and told him. The light station should belong to all of us, not the council, and certainly not Nate Shelton.”

Jenna chewed slowly, trying to appear thoughtful. “Well, you have to admit, Gran, that the building is in terrible shape. It would cost a small fortune to fix it up. And now it just sits there, abandoned.”

Hester pointed her silver fork at Jenna. “You don’t give up on something just because it’s old or discarded. I remember when people set their watches by its bell, and boats set their courses by its beacon.”

“I know, Grandma,” Jenna said. She’d once had a similar appreciation for the building. But not anymore. Not since her dad’s blood had stained the floors. “But I don’t think it’s worth saving. It’s too far gone. And I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t think too many people really care any longer.”

“Don’t say that to the Michigan Beacon Society,” Hester said. “They care about all the lighthouses.”

Jenna didn’t believe that was true. She couldn’t remember anyone from that organization ever visiting the Finnegan Cove Light. But she made a mental note to call the society tomorrow to see if the organization was even aware of their small station.

Hester dabbed her lips with her napkin. “The building does need a lot of work. I don’t know who should take over responsibility for the place, but I can’t imagine that it should be Nathaniel Shelton.”

Jenna could always count on her grandmother to see the logic of things. “Exactly, Gran. That’s just what I think—”

“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Hester said. “Send that boy over here to see me.”

Jenna dropped her fork. “What? You want to see Nate?”

“Absolutely. I want to know what he’s doing here, what his intentions are.”

Jenna wasn’t sure how she felt about contacting Nate, but she’d always found it impossible to deny her grandmother anything. “If I see him, I’ll tell him,” she said.

“Not if, sweetheart, when. I understand if you have reservations about Nate, but get over them. I want to see him.”

Jenna sat back and stared at Hester. Her answer was automatic. This was Gran. “Well, okay. When I see him, I’ll tell him.”

B Y THE NEXT AFTERNOON Jenna’s eyes were tired from intensive research on the Internet. She’d hoped to find a legal precedent that would enable her to challenge the sale of the lighthouse to an individual. Maybe somewhere in the annals of Michigan lighthouse history there was a statute that said decommissioned stations could only be sold to conservancy groups. If that was so, then Jenna’s committee might qualify. True, their ultimate goal was not to conserve, but they could get around that detail later by establishing their goals for Lighthouse Park. Unfortunately, her searches had proved futile. In fact, she’d discovered that several of Michigan’s one hundred twenty lighthouses were privately owned. Her only hope was that a purchaser must meet some rigid standards.

Just before five o’clock, she placed a call to Lansing. A pleasant-sounding woman answered, “Michigan Beacon Society. We love our lighthouses.”

You’d have a hard time loving this one if you were me, Jenna thought. She gave her name and location and explained the reason for her call. “So you see, the Finnegan Cove Lighthouse is now being investigated by a private investor who is seeking to buy it.”

“Oh, my, isn’t that wonderful?”

Jenna’s hope deflated. “Wonderful? Don’t you want to know about him, what his intentions are for the light station?”

“Well, yes, ideally,” the woman said. “But in fact, it doesn’t really matter. Most of these little-known light stations fare much better when they’re taken over by private citizens, whether individuals or groups. If this man does any renovation at all, the building will only benefit.”

But I don’t want it to benefit. I want it torn down. And I especially don’t want it in the hands of a Shelton!

There was a pause, during which Jenna heard the shuffling of paper. “Where did you say this is?” the woman asked.

“Finnegan Cove on Lake Michigan.”

“Let me see if I can find files on that building.” After a moment, she said, “Yes, here it is. The Finnegan Cove Light Station located at the juncture of Lake Michigan and Big Bear Channel. Is that right?”

“Yes. The light used to guide barges heading through the channel to Big Bear Lake, where there was a sawmill until the middle of the century.”

“It says here that when shipping dried up, an electric navigational device was put in, making the lighthouse unnecessary.”

“Well, of course. Once lumber was no longer sent across Lake Michigan, the light was decommissioned. It stood for a while as the focal point of a park, but now even that’s gone. No one paid any attention to the lighthouse for years.”

“Oh, my, that is sad,” the woman said. “At least sixty of our stations are in danger of being destroyed, or are disintegrating on their own.”

Especially this one. Jenna figured she was doing the town a favour by tearing down the station rather than watching it slowly and painfully wash into the lake, even if her motives were linked to a personal tragedy. Besides, she wasn’t responsible for the property’s current condition. If anything, Nate and his friends were by abusing the area for years. And Harley. His actions kept all but the most ghoulish sightseers away.

“We consider private purchase the last chance for some of them,” the woman said, “since we don’t get nearly what we need from the National Park Service.”

“So there’s nothing I can do to prevent this private sale?”

The woman seemed astounded at the question. “Why would you want to? Be thankful someone is buying it.”

Jenna knew the conversation had come to an end when the woman added, “We simply have too many lighthouses to save them all. But we’re doing our best.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jenna said.

“E-mail us pictures. We love seeing before and after shots. I’m amazed what some people do with our stations.”

Jenna disconnected. She rested her chin in her hand and stared out the window of her living room. “You’d be amazed at what happened in this light station, too,” she said.

Jenna hurried to get ready for her night class. Tomorrow was Friday, her day off from the bakery. She’d have to implement plan B.

“W HAT ARE YOU DOING here?” Shirley asked when Jenna came into the bakery the next morning at eight o’clock.

“I just need to pick something up,” she said, smiling at the dozen customers having coffee at the counter as she passed into the kitchen. After surprising her mother with a kiss on the cheek, she helped herself to fresh-from-the-oven raspberry pastries.

“Where are you going with those?” Marion asked.

“Isn’t it obvious, Mom? Who, recently returned to this town, likes raspberry Danish?”

Marion watched as she dropped the goodies into a bag. “You’re taking those to Nate?”

Jenna smiled. “Absolutely. I can be nice.”

Marion pulled a loaf of bread from the oven and poked it, testing its doneness. “I think he’ll be as hard to influence as Bill Hastings.”

Jenna folded the top of the bag. “Yeah, I remember how well that worked.” She headed for the exit. “Wish me luck.”

Marion didn’t glance up from her baking. “Somehow I think I should be wishing Nate luck. Don’t be too hard on him.”

Jenna left the bakery and headed two blocks down Main Street before turning onto Sparrow Court. Word had traveled quickly around town that Nate Shelton was back and had taken up temporary residence at Cove Country House, owned by long-time residents Jubal and Bonnie Payne.

Jenna walked three blocks under budding maple and oak trees to the charming three-story home. Like most of the houses on the narrow lanes off Main, it had been built in the early 1900s, at the height of Finnegan Cove’s lumber boom. Jenna was thankful she’d been able to buy a carriage house next to one of the Victorians two blocks over on Hummingbird Street.

She opened the gate in the picket fence and proceeded up the brick walkway to the blue-and-white gingerbread house. Jubal greeted her from a rocker on the porch, where he was having coffee and reading the Sutter’s Point newspaper. “’Morning, Jenna. Did you come to see Bonnie?” He retreated behind his newspaper. “If you came to see me, I don’t know anything about the lighthouse.”