Читать книгу The Night Mark - Tiffany Reisz, Tiffany Reisz - Страница 12
ОглавлениеFaye sat in the living room of Father Pat’s little Duke Street cottage, a pretty fern-green one-story nothing-special sort of house. Nothing special on the outside, but the inside was an art gallery, a Pantone dream. He’d painted every room a different hue—sunflower gold for the kitchen, cornflower blue living room, lagoon-green bathroom. And every wall boasted watercolor paintings of the sea and the sun; every horizontal surface held books on paintings, on how to paint watercolors, on the history of painting. She expected something in the house to give a sign that it belonged to a priest, but there was nothing, not a cross in sight.
Pat got her settled on his sofa and gave her iced tea in a Pilsner glass.
“I’d never guess you were a priest,” she said. “By your house or anything really.”
“Ah, that’s the point. Now show me your husband. You have me intrigued to the point of day drinking.”
Faye opened her laptop and showed Pat both pictures side by side as he sipped at his beer and she her tea. She’d taken an old picture of Will and run it through Photoshop, aging the background, changing the colors. But she hadn’t touched his face, hadn’t changed the way he looked at all. Pat stared at them a long time before closing the lid of her laptop and passing it back to her.
“Okay,” he said. “So I told you about Carrick and Faith. Now you tell me about Will and Faye.”
“I’m a baseball widow. Ever heard of us?”
“I’ve heard of you. Women who say goodbye to their husbands in April and don’t see them again until October?”
“I’m a real baseball widow. My husband was a professional baseball player.”
“What team?”
“When we met Will was playing on a Triple-A team in Rhode Island. I was the local paper’s photographer. One game I took a good picture of him making a double play. You should have seen it. This huge guy barreling toward second base, starting a hard slide, and Will tagging him, one arm in the air for balance and his glove just brushing the guy’s back, inches from the bag.” Faye mimed the move, the image burned into her brain. She’d been a baseball fan all her life and had never seen anything so athletic, so elegant as Will Fielding spinning like a bullfighter to get the out. “The picture ran in the paper with the caption, ‘Olé!’ I didn’t think anything of it other than it was a good shot with lucky timing. But the very next game after the photo ran, Mr. Olé came up to me and thanked me. His teammates had given him the nickname ‘The Matador’ after that. He’d always wanted a good baseball nickname. Hank Aaron was ‘Hammer’ and Ruth was the ‘Sultan of Swat.’ Now he was Will ‘The Matador’ Fielding. He said I’d made his dream come true with that picture. I was supposed to say something to that like, ‘No problem’ or ‘Just doing my job.’ But here was this big, tall wall of pure American maleness. Handsome and brown-eyed and grinning at me, and I ended up saying something like, ‘I will take pictures of anything and everything you want me to.’ And only after the words came out did I realize it sounded like I’d just offered to take naked pics for him. I probably would have had he asked.”
“That handsome?”
“Took my breath away,” Faye said. “But he was a good guy and didn’t ask for naked pics. Instead, he asked me about my work. When the game started he said he’d love to keep talking to me later. That night was our first date. Before Will I dated coffee-shop guys. You know, the skinny intellectuals with the earbuds and the Macs who drink expensive coffee and write thinkpieces for their incredibly boring blogs and magazines? Those guys. Never dated a guy who drank gas-station coffee before, who didn’t own a Mac but did own a grill and a drill. We met in July, got engaged in September and got married the next spring. Sometimes you just know. And we just knew.”
“I’ve known many a couple who just knew. A priest has to believe in love. It’s part of our job.”
“The day after Will asked me to marry him, he hit two home runs. He said I must be his good-luck charm, and who needed a rabbit’s foot when he had me? He called me Bunny sometimes, and you better believe he was the one man on earth who could call me Bunny and live to tell the tale.”
“I can tell you loved him,” Pat said.
“God, I loved him.” She blinked back her tears. “Will was one of the last good guys. The really good guys. Good inside and out. His dad worked at Jiffy Lube and his mother was a hospice nurse so...definitely not the most exalted of origin stories. But it was meant to be. You don’t grow up with the name Will Fielding without being destined to be a baseball player. And even when he was in the minors making less than minimum wage and living in cramped buses and roach motels, four players to a room, he felt like the luckiest man on earth. I can hear him in my head right now. ‘Babe, think about it—who gets to do what I do? Play baseball for a job? What’s next? Pay me to eat candy and sleep with you?’ He’d say that all the time with this look on his face like, ‘Really? Me?’ He never once thought he deserved it. He was just happy to be there. And he made me so happy.”
“I bet you made him happy, too.”
“I tried. And you know what? I did. I did make him happy. And it was my pleasure to do it. I hate sports puns, but Will was out of my league. I was as happy to be his wife as he was happy to be a ballplayer.”
“You’re the prettiest lady I’ve set eyes on in a long time. You aren’t out of any man’s league.”
“You’re sweet to say that, but it’s not what I meant. I don’t mean looks. I mean...before Will I was self-centered. Not in any way that anyone else isn’t self-centered. When you’re single, you don’t have to think about anyone else, and I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was broke, in student loan debt, worked constantly. But then Will came along, and I watched him spending his very few days off at children’s hospitals visiting sick kids and helping out underprivileged Little League teams. That was Will. You have any idea how grueling life is in the minors? He never once complained. He said a ballplayer complaining about road trips and sore shoulders was like a rich man complaining he had to hire an accountant to count all his money. I’ve been a feminist my whole life, independent. I went to an Ivy League school. I paid my own bills. I knew even if we had kids I’d never quit my working to be a stay-at-home mom. And you know what?”
“Tell me,” Pat said, looking her straight in the eyes.
“I’d give up the right to vote just to do one more load of Will’s dirty laundry.”
She laughed at herself—better to laugh than to cry again.
“I promise I won’t tell Gloria Steinem on you,” Pat said with a wink.
Faye laughed even harder at that.
“Will had these baseball T-shirts,” she said, trying to compose herself. “So many baseball T-shirts. Every team you could think of. Two weeks after he died I found a Bronx Bombers shirt in a bag under the bed. Can you imagine? A kid who grew up on the Sox with a Yankees shirt? Goddamn it, Will.”
Those stupid baseball T-shirts, they were all he wore when he wasn’t naked or in his uniform. The single time she’d seen him in a suit was at their wedding. Those shirts... He had so many of them she’d wash them all in one load. Laundry was sorted into whites, darks, towels and baseball shirts. She’d given the shirts away after he died to relatives and close friends who needed something of his. She’d kept one for herself—the soft heather-gray one with the big red B on the front that Will had worn on their first date. That was the one she’d always slept in when he was on his road trips. She didn’t sleep in it anymore. Crying oneself to sleep only worked in the movies.
Pat handed her a handkerchief and pressed it to her burning cheeks.
“Sorry about the ‘goddamn it.’ I shouldn’t swear in front of a priest.”
“You must not know any priests. You can say whatever the hell you want. Trust me—I’ve heard worse. Said worse, too.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, slowly bringing herself back under control. “Will really looked good in his T-shirts. Had the arms for them. Gotta say, there are a lot of perks to being married to an athlete. Having the sexiest husband at the beach was one of them, and I’m shallow enough to admit that.” She laughed again, remembering...remembering... “Will had this great baseball player walk. It wasn’t like a strut, more like an amble. This loose-in-the-hips amble. When he was leaving the house to go on a road trip, I’d always tell him, ‘I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you walk away.’ I didn’t know the last time I watched him walk away would be, you know, the last time I watched him walk away. If I’d known, I would have stared at his ass longer.”
Faye laughed again and cried again. Her body ached for Will. She could talk about his T-shirts but what she really missed was his body. The way he smelled after a game—sweat and leather. The way he picked her up and threw her into bed like a rag doll just because he could. The way he made love to her. He was twenty-three when they met and had just broken up with his high school sweetheart, the only girl he’d been with before her. But during sex he made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, and he was the lucky schmuck who got to have her. For a long time she had to think of Will to orgasm during sex with Hagen. That wasn’t something she had told anyone. Widows might as well be nuns for the careful way people treated them. What would people think if they knew what she missed most about her late husband was the sex? The hard-core full-body, full-soul, all-in, nothing-held-back sort of sex you could have with someone who knew everything about you. Will filled her up and emptied her out and gave her what she needed. And what she needed was him, just him, but all of him.
“I should be ashamed of myself for how much I miss having sex with him. Kind of shallow, I guess.”
“Taking pleasure in your own husband doesn’t make you shallow. I know a lot of husbands who wish their wives saw them like that.”
“Will was one of those guys born for heavy lifting and getting stuff off the top shelf. He made me feel small, and he made me feel safe, and it takes a special kind of man to make a woman feel both at the same time. One day I teased him that I heard ‘Like a Rock’ by Bob Seger automatically start playing when he walked into a room, and at the very next game, they played that as his walk-up song.” Faye laughed. Will had always looked for a way to make her smile. Even now, even through the tears, here she was smiling because of him.
“He sounds like one in a million.”
“He was. And we were so happy it doesn’t even seem real now. As good as it was, it somehow managed to get even better. I found out I was pregnant the same week Will got called up to the majors. Which meant, of course, I got called up, too. I was officially a WAG.”
“WAG? What on earth?”
“WAGs. Wives and Girlfriends of pro athletes,” Faye said.
“I see,” Pat said. “We don’t get to have those in the priesthood. At least, we’re not supposed to.”
Faye grinned as she wiped her face. “Probably for the best,” she said. “A couple days after Will went to Boston, I got invited to a WAG party at the house of one of the pitcher’s wives. Nice women, but every last one of them warned me my life was about to change, and not for the better. So many women told me about the jobs they’d had to quit, the dreams they’d had to give up for their husbands’ careers. And if I wanted to keep doing my little photography thing, they said, I should probably save it for the off-season, treat it like a hobby. I thought they’d be happy when I told them I was expecting. I just got this look like...”
Faye mimed the look of disapproval.
“I had committed the cardinal WAG sin,” Faye continued. “I was going to give birth during the season.”
“Shameful,” Pat said. “How dare you? I shouldn’t laugh, but...”
“You can laugh. Will did. He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out of his head. He told me...” Faye paused, caught her breath. “He told me he would quit baseball before he missed the birth of our child. And he would never ever forgive me if I let his dreams get in the way of my own. He said the day I put down my camera, he would put down his bat and glove. He made me promise I would never give up my work for his. And if you were wondering why I said he was the best man who ever lived, that’s the reason.”
“He’s giving Carrick a run for his money.”
“There are no words for how happy Will was, how happy we both were. Then I went to shoot some pictures for a project I was working on, and Will went out to buy flowers to surprise me when I got back. On the way home, he sees two guys on the side of the road trying to change a flat. This was Will’s area. Son of a mechanic. He helped more stranded drivers than AAA. But they weren’t stranded drivers. They were a carjacking team. They went for the car, and Will tried to stop them. One of them hit him in the head with the tire iron. He died on the operating table from a rapid intracranial hemorrhage. They killed my beautiful husband for drug money and a 2005 Ford Focus.”
Faye exhaled and leaned back on Pat’s sofa, her hands on her face, trying to stifle the animal howl of grief welling up within her. A gentle hand touched her knee, and she grabbed Pat’s hand and held it like her life depended on it. She breathed through it—In and out, babe. The world’s not ending—and slowly found her voice again.
“He’d been in the majors all of one month. Batted .364. Best September of our lives. I’m always a wreck in September now. And I can’t even watch baseball anymore.”
Pat bowed his head and she wondered if he were praying for her. She’d take any help she could get.
“The police got the guys who killed him. Even got the car back. But they couldn’t bring me my husband back. I had that car, though. That stupid car.”
Pat clasped his hands between his knees and sighed. “If there’s anything fifty years in the priesthood taught me, it’s that I can’t say a damn thing to make you feel better right now.”
“At least you know that. ‘Everything happens for a reason’ sure doesn’t cut it.”
“Everything does happen for a reason. Sometimes it’s a bad reason.”
“Sounds like my second marriage,” she said, sitting up again, wiping at her face and then giving up. Too many tears, not enough tissues in the world. “After the funeral, Will’s best friend from college, Hagen, started hanging around our place all the time. It was nice. It helped, it really did. He said it was what Will would have done. And then a couple weeks later, he sat me down and told me he thought we should get married. It wasn’t much of a proposal. More like an escape plan. Like this would solve all my problems. I thought he’d lost his mind. Then Hagen said the magic words again—‘It’s what Will would have done.’”
“Was it?” Pat asked.
“If it had been Hagen who’d died, Hagen with a pregnant wife left behind, Will would have stepped in and been a father to that kid. So Hagen and I got married. Hagen had money, a big house. He told me I could have my own room, that he wouldn’t expect me to act like his wife until I was ready for it. Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful romance, doesn’t it? Hollywood thought so, too. A story ran in the Boston Globe about Will and me and Hagen, and the next day a producer called and said he’d already talked to a screenwriter about putting Will’s Cinderella story on the big screen—nobody kid from Nowhere, Mass, drafted in the forty-first round, ends up playing for the Red Sox. And it would end with me giving birth to Will’s baby. Triumph out of tragedy. Whatever. I talked to them because you go crazy when you’re grieving like that. And I just wanted Will to be remembered. Then I lost the baby at sixteen weeks and they stopped calling. Not even Hollywood could give me a happy ending.”
She didn’t tell Pat about the years of trying to get pregnant that came after losing Will’s baby. She could barely face her grief over losing Will. If she had to grieve for those lost years, she’d never make it out of this house in one piece. And Hagen? She couldn’t talk about Hagen, how once she’d lost the baby, he’d turned into a ball of quiet anger, like it had been her fault she’d lost the last part of Will left in the world.
Faye took a shuddering breath and forced herself to drink her tea. Crying so hard had given her dry mouth, and her throat felt like it had been dragged down a gravel road.
“I promise I’m not vomiting this whole story onto you for the fun of it,” Faye finally said, carefully lowering her glass to her knee. It left a wet ring on her white jeans, but she didn’t care. “I’m just so...freaked out, I guess. And I don’t even know why. So what? So Will and Carrick Morgan looked alike. What does it mean? Nothing. I know it means nothing. I’ve seen those internet clickbait stories where they show celebrities who look like people who’ve been dead for a hundred years. It happens. There are only so many faces in the world, I guess. But it feels like it means something. Do I sound crazy? You can tell me if I do. I can take it. Oh, and I think a stork is stalking me. Yeah, I sound crazy. I can hear it.”
“My job entailed me turning wine into God’s blood, so I don’t think I can judge you too harshly. I’m an open-minded spiritual man by trade.”
“I appreciate you listening to me. I can’t talk to anyone about Will. Hagen and I are divorced, and we can’t talk about anything anymore without it turning into a fight. Will’s parents are doing better than I am. They have grandkids from Will’s sister, and those kids are their whole life now. Every time I visit them, his mom has a breakdown and it takes weeks for her to get back on her feet again. I stopped talking to Will’s family two years ago. Too hard on all of us.”
“And your parents?”
“Dad died. Mom has dementia. I was an oops baby when they were both forty.”
“Friends?”
Faye shook her head. “I had friends. They were great until the funeral. After that, they had their own lives, and nobody knows what to say to a twenty-six-year-old widow. Will’s friends and teammates weren’t thrilled with me for getting married again so soon after he died. The medical bills and funeral expenses wiped out the life insurance. There I was, almost broke with student-loan debt up to my eyeballs and pregnant. I ran out of shoulders to cry on a long time ago.”
“You’re Lady Job,” Pat said with a sorrowful smile.
“Who?”
“Job, in the Bible. A very old Jewish story, very strange and mystical. You’ve heard the phrase ‘the patience of Job’?”
“Oh, that guy. Yes, I’ve heard of him. I don’t know if I’ve ever read the story.”
“Odd little book, but some of the loveliest poetry in the Bible. A man named Job has a wife, children and wealth. And he’s a good man. Satan goes to God and makes a sort of bet with him, saying that Job is only good because he’s blessed, but if you take his blessings away, he won’t be righteous anymore. God takes him up on that bet and wipes out Job’s entire family, his wealth and his health. He’s literally sitting in ashes using potsherds to scrape the sores off his body.”
“Oh, my God, that’s disgusting. Even I didn’t have it that bad.”
Pat laughed. “I told you it was a strange little book. But it does have a happy ending. Job keeps his faith in God, though he demands God explain himself.”
“Does he?”
“God shows up and gives the ‘who do you think you are?’ speech to end all speeches. The short version is basically ‘I am God. You’re not, so stuff it.’”
“Very poetic.”
Father Pat smiled but didn’t laugh. He took a breath and met her eyes.
“‘Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou hast understanding. Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? Or who laid the cornerstone thereof, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Or who shut up the sea with its doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb? Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? Or hast thou walked in search of the depth? Have the gates of death been opened unto thee?’”
Pat stopped and sighed. “It goes on like that for a long time. God wanted to make sure Job got the point.”
“That’s beautiful,” Faye breathed. “What does it all mean?”
“It means a lowly man may never understand the ways of God.”
“And you find that comforting?” she asked.
“A little. If lowly little me could understand God, then he wouldn’t be much of a God, right?”
“I guess,” Faye said.
“I do find this comforting, though—even after God tells Job off, he restores him. New wife. Children. Even more children than he’d lost. Twice as much wealth. And a life so long he meets his great-grandchildren.”
“If only,” Faye said.
“Yes,” Pat said. “If only.”
Faye wiped her face with Pat’s handkerchief again. She didn’t know many men who still carried handkerchiefs. Will always had—a red bandanna in his back pocket just like his dad.
“When Will and I got married, we did all the usual wedding vows. Love, honor, cherish, until death do us part. But that wasn’t good enough for Will. He added one more vow. He said...” She stopped to breathe even though it hurt to breathe, but she kept on doing it. Will would have wanted her to. “He said, ‘Come heaven or hell or high water, I will love you and take care you of you as long as you live, Faye.’ I asked him, ‘Don’t you mean as long as you live?’ He said no. He wasn’t interested in till death do us part. Even if he went first, he would find a way to take care of me. I treasure that vow. I hold it right here,” she said, touching her chest over her heart. “But I’m still waiting for him to keep it.”
Faye squeezed Pat’s hands again. He had nice hands, a younger man’s hands. A painter’s hands even if they did tremble.
“You can’t go back, you know,” Faye said.
“Go back where?” Pat asked.
“Once someone loves you that much, loves you more than you deserve, you can’t go back to being loved the normal way,” she said. “You ever been loved like that?”
“Only by my creator.”
“Pat, I have to tell you something else crazy,” she whispered.
“Tell me something crazy.”
“I think I’m supposed to go the lighthouse,” she said. “I think... I don’t know. I feel like someone wants me out there.”
“What do you hope to find there?” Pat asked, and Faye could tell he really wanted her to think about it before answering. So she thought about it and admitted she didn’t know the answer.
“I don’t want to see any ghosts, and I know Will’s not going to be there waiting for me. But it feels like I’ve had a nightmare, and if I got out there, I’ll wake up and know it was all a dream. I just... Maybe it would help me. Like it helped you.”
Pat took a steadying breath and nodded his head.
“All right. I’ll get you there. But if Ms. Shelby’s out there and catches you, you don’t know me, right?”
“Right. Promise. Never met you.”
“And you have to swear to me you’ll be careful. That lighthouse is old, and the water there is choppy as hell. It’s more dangerous out there than you can imagine. You swear you’ll be safe?”
“I swear,” she said.
“You swear you’ll stay out of the water?” he asked.
“I swear,” she said again. He gave her a long, searching look, then sighed like he knew he was wasting his time. Pat got a sheet of paper and scribbled a little map for her and walked her through the steps of how to find the road with the bridge, what turns to take and when to take them.
“Good enough?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Faye said, folding up the map and shoving it into her back pocket. “Thank you. I should go. I haven’t eaten much today, and I know I’ve taken up way too much of your time.” Faye’s head throbbed from hunger and crying so hard. She’d lost control of herself, something she rarely did. She didn’t want to lose it again in front of this kind old man.
“You made my day, young lady. Beautiful woman in my house? The neighbors are loving this. They can’t wait to find out what I’ve been up to with you in here.”
“Keeping me from having a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s not a very sexy rumor. We’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something good. Feel free to ruin my reputation. I wasn’t using it anyway.”
“Count on it.” He helped her to her feet.
Before letting her leave, Pat pulled a small red book off his shelf and pressed it into her hands.
“Take this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“It’s a prayer book, a very special one,” Pat said.
“I’m not really religious.”
“I’m not giving it to you because I want to convert you. But I think you should have it. Please.”
“Are you going to pray for me?”
“For you. For Will. And for Hagen.”
“For Hagen?”
“Ex-husbands are people, too,” he said.
“If you say so,” she said and smiled.
He kissed her goodbye on the cheek and held her hand.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Faye,” he said. “But if you don’t find it...”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Just stay out of the water,” Pat said again. “Please.”
Faye promised him faithfully she would and then took her leave.
By the time Faye made it back to the Church Street house, she felt almost human again. She took a long shower, ate some homemade spaghetti with Miss Lizzie and another girl staying at the house that summer. Afterward she went up to her room to upload her pictures from the Marshlands.
As she suspected, most of the pictures were a bust. Maybe she could salvage a couple she’d taken off the dock for a stock photo site, but they wouldn’t do for the calendar. It was what it was. She’d get back to work tomorrow.
Although it was barely seven o’clock, Faye was already sprawled in bed wearing nothing but her black silk robe. Her summer robe, a gift from Hagen. A thoughtful gift. Pretty and practical. She could say that much for Hagen; he gave good gifts. They’d skipped dating, being engaged, but at their wedding he’d given her a band and a four-carat diamond engagement ring. Both were in her makeup bag. If she ran out of money, she’d have them to pawn.
An old Catholic prayer book, on the other hand, might be the oddest gift anyone had ever given her. She’d read it maybe. Who knew? She might find the perfect prayer for her. A prayer for a widow who had remarried too soon and had lost her late husband’s baby. Perhaps the generic “Prayer for Someone Suffering” would cover all that. Faye turned to the back where the index should be and found some handwriting in pen on a page.
The handwriting looked as old as the book, and the book, according to the title page, was printed in 1954. The ink was faded but the script neat and sturdy.
Lord, I give Thee thanks that Thou didst die upon the cross for my sins. Forgive me the blood on my hands. Forgive me the life I took and wash the blood from my hands and the stain of sin from my soul. Thou art infinite in mercy. Shower Thy mercy upon Thy son.
And the prayer was signed.
It was signed “Carrick Morgan.”
Faye sat straight up in bed.
This was Carrick Morgan’s prayer book? The lighthouse keeper?
Faye’s hands shook as she gingerly laid the book open on her lap and traced his words with her fingertip. Carrick Morgan had a beautiful signature, an old-fashioned, elegant script. She should have guessed he was Catholic, being of Irish stock. The prie-dieu in her room... Had he carved that himself? And he prayed for forgiveness and for mercy because he took someone’s life. He’d killed someone. Who? Father Pat had owned this book for years. Carrick Morgan himself must have given it to him. Pat would have known about the prayer for forgiveness, and yet he’d called Morgan the best man he’d ever known. It made no sense. None of it did. Staring at Carrick Morgan’s words in the prayer book made it impossible for Faye to sit still in her room and wait for tomorrow. It felt like an alarm was blaring somewhere and she had to go to the lighthouse to find a way to turn it off. It was growing dark, too dark for pictures. But this wasn’t about the photographs anymore.
Faye dug through her suitcase for a clean top and spied her little jewelry bag under her black tank top. When she opened it she found Will’s old college championship ring that he’d given her right after they started dating. “Does this mean we’re going steady now?” she’d said, teasing him. She’d worn the ring on a necklace until they’d gotten married and he’d slipped a wedding band on her finger—one that fit.
Though she no longer wore it, Faye treasured the ring. She wouldn’t pawn it, not if she were starving. The ring was white gold with a blue stone in it, Will’s name and a baseball insignia emblazoned on both sides. It comforted her to look at it, to hold it. She slipped it over her thumb and felt calmer in an instant. Here was the reason her marriage to Hagen had been so hard. It wasn’t that she’d had to pretend to be in love with Hagen. It was that she’d had to pretend she wasn’t in love with Will. She didn’t have to pretend anymore.
“I love you, Will,” she whispered, then kissed the ring for luck.
Faye pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, grabbed her camera bag and her car keys and headed out. Earlier that day Pat had asked her what she thought she’d find at the lighthouse. She hadn’t known the answer then, but she knew it now.
She went to the lighthouse for the same reason anyone went to a lighthouse.
She went because she needed the light.
