Anna set the receiver back in its cradle and stood a moment, listening to the house breathe. Late light stretched across the courtyard, the hour when voices softened and shutters clicked. When she stepped outside, Luca was waiting by the gate with two paper cups from the café around the corner.

“A gift,” he said, offering one.

Anna smiled. “For me? Why?”

“Just because.”

She took it, the lid warm against her palm. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” He tipped his head toward the lane. “Walk?”

They crossed to the harbor and sat on the low wall, watching the boats bump their moorings. No crowd—just water and a gull that refused to share the rail.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“She finished the journal,” Anna said. “She wants to meet my mom. We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

“That sounds good.”

“I called my mom.”

“And?”

“She didn’t hang up.” Anna’s mouth tilted. “She listened.”

A boy walked along the promenade with a paper tray of fried dough sugared like snow. Luca waved him over, paid, and tore a piece in half. They ate over the water, laughing when the sugar clung to their fingers.

“Food like this should only be eaten in the dark,” he said, licking a thumb. “So no one can see the mess.”

Anna brushed sugar from her cheek. “When storms woke me as a child, my grandmother would sing or tell stories until I fell asleep. She’d bring me sweet things when life felt heavy. I believed nothing could touch us then.”

“She sounds like someone worth remembering,” Luca said.

“She was.” The ache rose; she smiled anyway.

He reached without thinking and wiped the last fleck of sugar from her jaw. The touch lingered one heartbeat longer than necessary. She didn’t pull back.

They walked home as the square hummed behind them. At the gate, he stopped. “I know you’ll go home soon,” he said. “But will you come back?”

“I promised Sister Teresa I would.” Her voice caught. “And I want to.”

Relief softened his face. He leaned in and kissed her, warm and sure, not hurried. When he drew back, he whispered, “So you don’t forget me.”

Anna’s breath shook. “I couldn’t.”

She carried the shape of his smile with her into the night.

*****

Morning broke clear. Before the town had fully woken, Anna and Rosa walked to Santa Lucia. At the gate, Rosa touched Anna’s sleeve. “I’ll wait by the roses.”

Sister Beatrice met them just inside. “She asked if you were coming,” she said, pleased by the answer she already knew. “She waits in the garden.”

Teresa sat on the bench near the fountain, the carved bird cradled in her hands. She rose when Anna entered, then hesitated like someone not quite sure of what was expected.

“Buongiorno,” Anna said softly.

“Buongiorno,” Teresa echoed, and then—unexpectedly—she smiled. “I slept,” she said, a little surprised at herself. “I’m not afraid of what lies ahead.”

“That’s good,” Anna said, feeling the truth of it warm her chest.

Teresa glanced at the far beds where geraniums flared red. “I prayed another foolish prayer last night,” she admitted. “That when your mother comes, my legs will carry me, and my voice will not fail.”

“Your legs will carry you,” Anna said. “And if your voice stutters, she’ll hear you anyway.”

Teresa looked down at the bird. “I should keep this,” she said, “but I want to give you something to bind us.” From the pocket of her habit, she drew a narrow ribbon, faded blue. “It tied the journal—kept our mother’s words together. Let it keep us together until you return.”

Anna’s throat tightened as she took it. “I’ll wear it on my wrist,” she said. “Until we’re back.”

Teresa’s eyes shone. “Tell your mother—” She steadied herself. “Tell Maggie I will stand at the gate when she comes. And if I forget how to speak, tell her I have been waiting all my life, and that I am grateful to her mother and to your grandmother, and to you.”

“I’ll tell her,” Anna said. “Everything.”

They stood for a moment listening to the fountain. Teresa lifted her hand, palm outward in blessing. “May the Lord keep you between here and there,” she said. “May He make straight the path over the water.”

“Amen,” Anna whispered.

The bells tolled and Sister Beatrice appeared, not intruding, simply waiting. Teresa nodded to Anna, then to the Sister, and raised her arms. Anna didn’t hesitate. She stepped into them and they hugged, holding on to a promise that she would return.

At the gate, Anna turned once more and waved goodbye. Teresa raised the carved bird slightly, like a promise held up to the light.

*****

Rosa had coffee waiting in the kitchen. “Well?” she asked, though her eyes already knew.

“She told me she slept,” Anna said, touching the ribbon at her wrist. “She isn’t afraid.”

“Good,” Rosa said, approving this small miracle. She opened a drawer, took out a postcard of Santa Lucia, and wrote the address on the back in neat script. “For your mother,” she said, tucking it into Anna’s hand. “So she sees the place before she sees the place.”

“Thank you.”

Luca came in from the courtyard with a delivery list clipped to a board. He saw the ribbon at Anna’s wrist and the suitcase waiting by the door. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Let me call you a taxi in the morning,” he said. “Deliveries start early for me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said. He stepped closer; the laundry line lifted and settled in the courtyard breeze. A neighbor called his name about two zucchini; he answered with a chin lift, eyes never leaving hers. “I’ll try to make it to the airport. If I’m late, I’ll come straight to the gate.”

“Either way, I’ll see you,” Anna said.

He searched her face. “I don’t want this to end because there’s water between us.”

“It won’t,” she said. “Unless we let it.”

He nodded, like signing his name to a pact. He leaned in and kissed her once, nothing rushed.

They ate something light that evening—tomatoes with salt, bread with oil, and a handful of olives. No one tried to pad the quiet. After the dishes, Anna went upstairs, sat on the edge of the bed, and wrote one line in her notebook: Tomorrow I go home. With or without Mother, I promise to return.

She turned off the lamp. The house settled—the fans hummed, someone tossed a footfall in the courtyard, a chair moved in the kitchen. She let it all be what it was.

*****

The next morning moved quickly. Rosa checked the suitcase zip, pressed a small medal into Anna’s palm, and hugged her so tight it made her laugh.

“For luck,” Rosa said. “For the border between here and there.”

“I’ll bring her back,” Anna said into Rosa’s shoulder. “I will.”

“We’ll be ready.”

A shadow crossed the threshold. Isabella stood there, hair smooth, smile neat. She grinned and called out, "Buongiorno! The day is glorious." She hugged Rosa and gave Anna a nod. "Luca says he won't make it here to see you off," she said lightly. "He told me to say arrivederci — e buon viaggio. He wishes you safe travels."

Anna frowned before she could smooth it away. “You saw Luca?”

“At the coffee shop,” Isabella said, settling a hand on her hip. “He bought me a cappuccino and a pastry. It was our routine. Before you came.” She lifted two fingers in a small wave. “Ciao, Americano.”

Rosa stepped closer and took up the suitcase handle, drawing it beside the door. “Pay no mind to that woman,” she said, quiet but firm. “She is not the one for my son.”

Isabella’s smile thinned. She turned and left without another word.

*****

The taxi idled in the lane. Anna blinked—same driver as the day she arrived. He tipped his cap and lifted her suitcase into the trunk.

“Signorina,” he said warmly. “Back to the airport?”

She nodded and slid into the back seat. The door shut with a soft thud. As they pulled away, Anna kept her gaze on the courtyard gate, as if the right person might appear if she looked hard enough. No one did.

She tried to swallow, but Isabella’s words lodged like a stone. It was our routine. Before you came. The first tear surprised her. Then another. She turned her face toward the window, willing herself to breathe—slow, careful.

In the rearview, the driver’s eyes were kind but not prying. He gave her three quiet streets and then asked, almost conversationally, “Did you enjoy your visit, Signorina?”

Anna pressed the medal in her pocket. Her voice wavered. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Much more than I could have imagined.”

He nodded, as if that answer had a shape he recognized. “And did you find what you were looking for?”

She watched the town pass in familiar pieces—shutters propped with spoons, geraniums spilling fire from balconies, the cat draped over a scooter seat. Tears kept coming, but softer now. “I did,” she said. “And more.”

“Bene,” he said. “Sometimes Sicily gives exactly what is needed, and sometimes she adds something you did not know to ask for.”

Anna let out a breath that trembled and steadied. She unfolded the postcard in her lap, ran her thumb over Rosa’s neat script. “Someone tried to make me doubt it, just now.”

The driver’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “There is always someone,” he said. “But also—there is always you.” He tapped the steering wheel. “What you know inside. Keep that.”

They climbed the road along the harbor. Sun glazed the water. The driver glanced at her gently. “Will you return soon?”

The answer rose from a place that didn’t belong to fear. “Yes,” she said. “As soon as I can.”

“Then Sicily will wait,” he said. He pulled to the curb, stepped out, and set her bag at her feet as if it mattered. “Buon viaggio, Signorina. Until next time.”

“Until next time,” Anna echoed. Her eyes were still wet, but the ground under them felt solid. She lifted the handle and walked inside.

The airport hummed — announcements, rolling bags, hurried goodbyes — yet Anna felt alone. She'd been sure Luca would be waiting when she arrived, but she'd been wrong.

She checked her luggage, went through security, bought a magazine — all while her eyes kept straying to the sliding doors. She tried to shut out Isabella's remarks, but maybe she was fooling herself. Luca wasn't coming. Deep inside, she kept hoping.

To distract herself, she bought a coffee and set it on the counter, meaning to add sugar. Her mind drifted, and she walked away without it.

"Ma'am — your coffee?" the clerk called.

Anna blinked, apologized, and carried the cup to a seat near the gate. She opened the magazine, then tossed it aside. Her thoughts slid home to her mother. She opened her wallet for a photo of her — instead, she slid out the picture of herself with David — two stiff smiles with joy in their eyes. He was kind. He deserved the truth. She couldn't help thinking. Even if she never saw Luca again, she couldn't go back to pretending. She tucked the photo away, wrapped both hands around the cup, and tried to breathe.

Boarding began. Rows were called. People stood too early, the way they always do. Anna stayed seated through Group One, Group Two, and Group Three. When her row lit on the screen, she rose and took one step toward the line.

"Anna!"

She turned, scanning the crowd. Seeing no one, she faced the line again.

Luca was weaving through the terminal, breathless, hair everywhere. He clipped a rack of neck pillows, sending them skittering across the floor. He murmured an apology and kept going.

At the rope, a security guard stepped forward, hand raised, then squinted and recognized him. "Luca, slow down. Since when do you make deliveries through the lobby?"

"What?" Luca's eyes were fixed on Anna — the woman he had to reach before it was too late. "Deliveries?" No, I've got to get to that plane."

"Luca — you can't go through this way."

"Sam, please." He glanced at the gate, at Anna inching forward. "I've got to get to that woman before she boards. I'll owe you a case of tomatoes. Two."

Sam had known Luca for a long time and had never seen him so undone. He looked around once, then lifted the rope. "One minute," he said, half stern, half fond. "And don't forget those tomatoes."

"I won't." Luca slipped through and darted into the crowd. "Anna! Anna!"

She turned and saw him. He reached her, bent as if he might fall over, then straightened. His words tumbled from his mouth.

"I went to the house first. You were gone. I thought I'd be too late." He swallowed. "Mamma told me what Isabella said. I'm sorry. But, Mama said not to worry. She spoke with her after you left. She's certain Isabella understands. Probably the entire neighborhood understands our situation now."

"Our — situation?" Anna asked, the words catching.

"That I love you," he said. "And I'll wait for you."

She didn't move, didn't speak, afraid the moment would disappear if she breathed. Everything went quiet inside her. "I love you, too."

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. It wasn't long. It didn't need to be, but it was filled with promises.

"Miss?" an agent called. "The doors are about to close."

Luca pressed a small folded slip into her palm — his business landline and address, his name scrawled beneath. "In case anything changes. In case you need me."

She closed her fingers over it. "I already do."

"I'll be at the gate when you come back," he whispered.

"I know," she said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, giving him her heart.

 

The attendant moved to the doors. "Miss — final call."

Anna walked down the jet bridge, glanced back once, and blew him a kiss. When the plane lifted, the coast curved away into blue. She closed her eyes and saw a garden bench, a carved bird, her mother's hand in hers, and, most of all, the love in Luca's eyes.

 

*****

Epilogue

The plane banked gently. Sunlight slid across the wing. Anna leaned her head against the window and watched the blue below give way to the pale curve of Sicily's coast.

Six weeks had passed — ordinary days full of hard things. At home, she and her mother had talked with the kitchen light on until early morning. There were tears and small, unexpected laughs when a memory returned intact.

Anna met David in the park and told him she couldn't marry him. He listened, hurt but kind, and they parted without anger. Between errands and work, she circled dates on a calendar, priced flights she might not buy yet, and carried a postcard of Santa Lucia until the corners softened.

Beside her now, Margaret slept, chin tucked into her scarf, fingers loose on the armrest. The captain announced their descent. Anna touched her mother's sleeve.
"We're almost there," she whispered.

Margaret blinked awake and nodded, breathing slowly as the plane dropped through a layer of clouds.

*****
Luca stood just beyond the arrivals barrier with a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. When he saw them, he lifted the flowers like a signal.

"For you," he said, bowing to Margaret, and the small courtesy made her smile. Then he turned to Anna — and the formality fell away. His smile deepened into something tender. "And for mi bella." He swept her into his arms and kissed her — long and hard. His lips lingered against her cheek. "You came back to me," he whispered against her hair.

Anna's eyes glistened. "I told you I would."

*****
By late morning they reached Casa Sul Mare.

Rosa waited in the courtyard, hands outstretched. She pulled Margaret close before either of them had time to be shy. "My mother kept a photograph of Sophia before the war," she said, dabbing at one eye. "You look so much like her — especially the eyes." She took a breath, smiling now. "Come. There is coffee."

They didn't linger long. Cups were poured, and a plate of biscotti was set out, but it was mostly ignored. When Rosa asked if they were ready, both women nodded in agreement.

*****

At Santa Lucia, Sister Beatrice met them just inside the gate. "She's in the garden," she said, her voice soft with approval.

Teresa stood when they entered, then hesitated as if moving too quickly might shatter what was finally whole enough to touch.

"Teresa," Anna said, "this is my mother — Margaret. Your sister."

Teresa's voice trembled. "May I call you Maggie?"

Margaret nodded, then opened her arms. The two women clung to each other, wordless, breath mingling with tears. In that moment, a family bond was formed.

At last, they sat together on the bench. Between them lay the small carved bird Teresa had kept. Margaret slipped a photo from her wallet — the wooden horse that had once sat on Elizabeth's table. She placed it gently beside the bird.

"Two things made by the same hand," Margaret whispered. "We can't fix the war. We can fix this."

Teresa nodded, tears bright but not spilling. "Si."

*****

That afternoon, they walked to the cemetery. The markers were plain, many handmade, worn down by years of salt and wind. Sophia's marker stood among them. Margaret laid her flowers there. Teresa pressed her palm to the name.

"Hello, Mama," she whispered. "Maggie and I are here."

Anna stood close, Luca's fingers laced with hers, Rosa just behind. On the stone lay something small: a wooden heart with Sophia carefully etched into the grain. Anna lifted it, turning it in her hand. The carving was simple, the work of someone trying to say what words could not.

She lifted her head and saw an old man sitting on the bench near the gate, his back bent, his hands clasped on a cane. His eyes kept watching them.

When he rose to leave, Anna hurried after him. "Wait!" she called, holding out the carving. "Did you leave this for Sophia?"

The man nodded, his voice raw. "You are too young to understand, but the war — it took so much." He paused, steadying himself. "My Sophia was my only love." He shifted as if to rise, to leave quietly. "I lost her, and my heart went with her."

"Please," Anna said gently, coming closer. "I did not live through it, but I have witnessed the grief and loss my mother and aunt have lived through." She extended her hand to touch his arm. "You should know — Sophia had two daughters. Your daughters, I believe."

The man's eyes filled. "My daughters?" he whispered, looking past Anna to the women by the stone. "Maggie and Teresa?"

"Yes, they are here. Would you like to meet them?"

For a long moment, he only stood there, shaking. Then he pressed a hand to his chest and let the tears come. "Perhaps God has seen fit to bless me in my final years."

No one hurried the moment. The old man came nearer, and the daughters did not retreat. Margaret reached for his hand. Teresa laid hers over his knuckles. They stood like that — three lives touching for the first time, anchored by a name on stone and the small wooden heart that had brought him there.

The man's eyes widened, glistening with emotion. "My daughters?" His voice broke as he looked from one woman to the other.

Margaret nodded, "Yes."

Teresa made the sign of the cross. "Our Lord, the All-Merciful — thank you."

Nothing could change the past, but in that quiet place by the sea, love stitched together what war had torn apart.

Author Notes

Thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope you enjoy it. Next up: a new story begins—Untold Story (The Photograph)—where a daughter opens a handbag and finds a past her mother never spoke aloud.

Chapter 23
The Untold Story Chap 1

By Begin Again

Rachel kept both hands at ten and two, as if the car might argue with her the way her mother used to. The heater breathed a thin warmth across the windshield. At the first red light, she heard herself rehearse the old lines — I'm fine, Mom. You don't have to fix everything. Please, just listen.

Their fights never broke dishes; they frayed hearts. Her mother's words still stung 

"Did you say you were going out?"
"Yes. With Jeremy."
"He's not right for you."
"I think he is."
"You don't think about the future."
"I am thinking about it."
"I see how he looks at you."
"It's my body."
"It's my daughter."

Advice and warnings — her mother's jaw set whenever Rachel said, "I don't want that life."

They'd circle money, men, church, what counted as success, until one of them retreated to the sink or the car. Then a softer memory came — shoulder to shoulder at the counter years ago, peeling apples, talking about nothing because the actual words — "I'm proud of you. I'm sorry." — felt too expensive to spend.

They hadn't spoken in months. Maybe longer, depending on whether you counted the stilted voicemail — "I made soup. Call me when you can." Rachel had saved it without pressing play again. She kept things she couldn't face — voicemails, photos, entire months of ignoring each other.

She turned off the main road and into the cemetery. The iron gates stood open. Paint flaked from the bars. The drive curved past rows of headstones — some tilted, some bright and new. Planted flowers dotted the grass, flags flapped, and the wind pushed at the bare trees.

She slowed near the bend. A tall marble monument rose over a crossroad of paths. Three words were cut deep across the front — FAITH. LOVE. HOPE.

Her hands tightened on the wheel. Faith? Their family hadn't lived like that. Her mother believed in working, saving, and maintaining her composure in public. Love? They had it in pieces, often tied to a lecture or a long silence. Hope? A word people said at church and forgot by Monday.

She pulled into a space by the newer stones. The engine ticked when she shut it off. For a minute, she just sat, staring through the windshield. She'd almost not come. She was good at staying away. Easier than facing what had hardened.

She got out and closed the door. The wind cut through her coat and lifted her hair. She tucked it behind her ears and reached into the back seat for the carnations.

The ground around her mother's grave was fresh and flat. The grass hadn't grown in yet. Other bouquets lay there from the funeral two weeks ago — roses dried and brown at the edges, white lilies drooping, a ribbon loosened and fallen into the dirt.

There hadn't been as many people as she expected. Her mother had cooked for neighbors, driven friends to appointments, and watched kids after school. Rachel had looked up at the church and counted open spaces in the pews. She'd listened to the minister — "She gave more than she ever asked for" — and felt something rise in her throat. If she gave that much, where are they? Her mother was always too busy for family; they hadn't returned the favor.

The wind pushed at her coat again. She stepped closer and crouched to arrange the carnations. Her fingers wouldn't work right. The flowers slipped, hit the dirt, and scattered. She reached to set them straight and stopped. Her stomach knotted.

The last fight came back in sharp pieces. She'd been alone in her apartment, pacing the kitchen, stuffing carnations into a vase while her phone heated against her cheek; her mother's voice was tired and tight. "You don't hear me, Rachel. You never have."

"I hear you fine," Rachel said, already angry. "You want me to do it your way, or you won't stop talking."

"One day you'll regret this," her mother said. "One day you'll wish you had answered me with respect."

"Then maybe we shouldn't talk for a while," Rachel said, because pride felt safer than giving in.

A pause. Her mother hung up first.

Afterward, Rachel walked around her apartment with the phone in her hand, promising she'd call tomorrow. Tomorrow slid to next week. Next week to months. Then it was too late.

The memory hit hard. Her eyes stung. "I should've called," she said to the stone. The wind took some of her words, but she said them anyway. "I should've called sooner."

Gravel crunched behind her.

"Don't cry for our mother now."

She stood and turned. Mark was a few feet away, collar up, hair blown out of place. He didn't step closer. His tone was flat.

"I'm not crying," she said. Her voice trembled, and it made her a liar.

"Could've fooled me." His gaze flicked from the carnations to the other wilted flowers. "Where were those when I was up at two a.m. changing her sheets?"

Heat rose and fell in her chest. "I stayed away," she said. "You know why."

"Do I?" His jaw tightened. "Because you don't like being told no?"

"That's not fair." She heard the crack in her own voice and hated it.

"I did the doctors, the bills, the insurance calls. Fixed the bathroom leak. Found her glasses when they were on her head. And now you're here with flowers."

"I know you were there," she said. "I wasn't. I can't change that."

"I want you to understand what it cost."

"I do." The words tasted bitter, but they were true.

He came to stand beside her and stared at the headstone without reading it aloud. The wind pressed both their coats to their bodies.

"I came to say good-bye," she said. "You don't get to tell me how."

He didn't argue. The plastic around the carnations rattled, then settled."Are you going to the house?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'll meet you there." He hesitated. "There's a lot to sort. I put some things away so she wouldn't get upset. I'll show you what's what."

"Fine."

"And if you find anything you don't understand, ask me," he added. "Don't go asking the neighbors."

"What would I be asking?"

"People like to talk," he said. "They didn't show up when she needed them. They don't get a say now."

He turned to go. Passing the path's trash can, he took a folded envelope from his inside pocket, looked at it, and slid it back with careful fingers. Not a bill — people don't hold bills like that. He kept walking. He didn't look back.

Rachel knelt and straightened the carnations. "I'm sorry," she said to the stone. "I should've called. I should've listened." She set the stems where they wouldn't roll and stood. Her knees twinged as she straightened.

On the drive out, she passed the monument again. FAITH. LOVE. HOPE. She looked away, gripping the wheel, and told herself three things — go to the house, keep quiet, and don't cry. She would break two of them before dark.

Author Notes

This is the third story within Yesterday's Dreams. I hope you enjoy it as much as The Forgotten Dress and By the Sea. Thank you for continuing to follow the series. Have a great day!

Chapter 24
The Untold Story Chap 2

By Begin Again

The front struts squeaked at the corner, and the loose change in the door pocket made the 1999 Civic rattle like a jar. Her mother had called it the red rattletrap. It probably was, but Rachel had bought and paid for it, and wasn't that what mattered?

She turned onto Ashland Avenue, mid-chorus in a Shania Twain song — off-key but happy — then went silent and coasted to the curb. She clicked the radio off and checked the street sign, just to be sure she hadn't taken a wrong turn.

Kids used to race their bikes here until the porch lights blinked. Chalk lines marked starts and finishes, and on the Fourth, bottle rockets hissed from coffee cans. Fathers dragged sprinklers across the grass, and in July, children cupped fireflies and let them go.

She wondered what had happened to those easy days and how it had come to this.

 

She sat a moment and watched the block as if it were an old photo. The once neatly kept homes now looked tired — the corner mailbox leaned as if the wind had blown too hard, the garage hoop was gone, and SUVs crowded the curb.

She bit her lip and eased back into the roadway.

The house slid into view — smaller than she remembered, tucked behind a maple that needed trimming. She turned into the driveway and let the engine idle.

 

A gutter hung loose with maple seeds packed in the corner. Paint curled under the front windows. The third step sagged. The porch light lens was yellowed and full of dead bugs.

Be fair, she told herself. Mark had the night calls, the pills, the doctors, and his job. Maybe he ran out of weekends. Maybe winter got there first. Perhaps he just hadn't gotten to it yet. Still, installing a porch bulb takes only five minutes. A rail needs one bolt.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel. Guilt followed on the heels of her anger. Suddenly, she could see her mother on the front step, yelling, "Don't come back crying when things don't work out!" — and a twenty-year-old version of herself throwing an army-green duffel bag into the trunk and getting into the car because leaving felt like the only move left. She had driven away fast, pretending her hands didn't shake, and pulled over three blocks later when the tears came.

Rachel shook her head, trying to make the memories go away. She cut the engine. The car ticked in the quiet. The excuses sat there. So did the questions.

She climbed out of the car and walked to the front porch. The third step still gave under her shoe. Through the glass, she saw the outline of the living room, and for a moment, she thought she saw her mother in her favorite chair, her hand on the arm, and her chin tilted as if she were listening.

Rachel gasped and stepped back. "I can't do this." She turned toward the steps, stopped at the rail, and drew a slow breath. "In and out, just breathe," she said, and then turned back to the door.

The lock scraped softly. Lemon cleaner mixed with something sweeter — vanilla from a grocery-store candle. The thermostat was set at the same number her mother kept year-round — 65 degrees.

She didn't know what felt worse — the cold or the silence. She wrapped her arms around herself and whispered, "Hi, Mom. I'm home."

The little table by the door still held the violet dish with two pennies, both heads-up the way her mother left them. She set her purse down and stepped into the living room.
The favorite chair faced the window. A folded throw lay over the back of the couch. On the table beside it, a coaster showed a faint ring. The dial radio sat ready, cord coiled, tuned to 88.3.

She moved to the bookcase. The white ceramic vase stood where it always had, the hairline crack mended with a neat line of glue. She touched the seam with one finger and saw her mother at the kitchen table with toothpicks and epoxy the night teenage Rachel knocked it over. "It's just a thing," Julia had said, and fixed it.

In the hall, the potluck photo hung crooked — Julia laughing with a wooden spoon, eyes on someone out of frame. They had argued about a dress that morning. The drive was tense. The afternoon was fine. Rachel straightened the frame and kept going.

The kitchen stopped her in the doorway. The round table still had the burn mark from a hot pot. Magnets from a church bazaar, an animal clinic, and Whitman's Pharmacy crowded the fridge. Each held appointment cards, a shopping list, and a recipe card. On the counter, a plastic pill organizer sat open, revealing a week's worth of pills no one would finish.

She set the carnations in the sink and ran a little water until the stems darkened — a peace offering to the house or maybe the spirits that might still think of it as home. The hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet.

"Okay," she said to the empty house. "Now what?"

She opened a cabinet. The angel food cake pan waited with the paper sleeve tucked inside, measurements in Julia's hand. A mixing bowl on the rack still wore a dusting of flour along the rim. She closed the door.

"Don't make a shrine out of it," she told herself. Saying it put her stamp of reality on the moment.

She poured water and didn't drink it. On the message board, she found a dentist reminder, a veterans' hall calendar, and a coupon. Tucked under a cookie recipe, a small photo — she and Mark as kids, faces sticky, their mother behind them, eyes on the sky. Heat pressed behind her eyes. She set her palm on the counter and counted to five.

"No self-pity," she said. "What's done is done. You were you. I'm me. Nothing can change that." She knew the last part wasn't all true. It kept her moving.

The dining table was bare except for a placemat with a coffee ring. One chair cushion wore blue stitches that didn't match, pulled tight and neat.

In the bedroom, the bedspread was pulled flat. On the dresser, a dish held safety pins and two buttons. A sweater lay folded with a receipt pinned to it: Hem repair, $6. She pictured her mother holding it to the light, checking the stitches, and setting it back.

A small jewelry box sat by the mirror. She opened the lid — a church pin, mismatched earrings, a thin chain kinked near the clasp. She lifted the tray to see underneath.
A soft thud came from the closet. The door had eased an inch, and a shoebox slid off the top shelf and hit the carpet. Rachel snapped the jewelry box shut and kept her hands there a second longer than she needed. For a moment, she felt sixteen again, caught in a room where she didn't belong.

"I'm just looking," she said. She put the box back exactly where it had been and nudged the closet door closed with her hip.

On the nightstand, a small notepad — first page blank, second page with Whitman's Pharmacy and Refill due? in the margin. She slid it back under the radio.

In the hall closet, the winter coat still hung on its wooden hanger. Tissue in the sleeve. In the pocket were cough drops and a folded receipt for carnations. She put everything back where she found it.

On the bureau, a frame faced the wall. She turned it around. Julia stood by the lake pavilion, younger, hair pinned up. A man's shoulder was cut off at the edge. Rachel set it down, glass up, and looked at it until her throat tightened. Her mother looked so happy.

Why couldn't I ever see that side of her?

Her phone buzzed — a text from Mark. "Five minutes out." The words made a chill run down her spine. She didn't know why, but he seemed different to her. Had carrying for mom been too much? He'd never said, though they'd rarely talked.

Tires crunched in the drive. The back screen door bumped. She wiped her palms on her jeans and opened the back door before he could knock.

Mark stepped in and took a slow look around. "What have you been doing?" he asked.
It sounded ordinary, but it landed with a heavy impact.

"Remembering, I guess."

"Why bother? It won't change anything."

She scowled and started to walk away. "Maybe I should leave. You can do whatever you want with everything. I think that's what you want anyway."

 

The second the words were out, she regretted them —not because of the glare and the muttered curse, but because she felt she'd gone against something her mother wanted her to do.

 

"Sure, leave the work to me and then complain later. That sounds about right."

“Sorry, Mark. I came to help, and that’s what I will do.” More words she regretted saying, but ones she knew she had to keep.

Chapter 25
The Untold Story Chap 3

By Begin Again

Silence held for a few seconds after the argument. Rachel stared at the door and counted to five. Leaving would be easy. Staying would cost. She wasn't going to run — not yet, anyhow. Ten minutes, she told herself. Then she could rethink if necessary.

"Can we call a truce? I'll make coffee."

Mark rubbed his jaw and nodded. "Half-and-half's in the fridge."

She ran water, measured scoops, and let the coffeemaker hum. She couldn't believe her mom still used the old thing. The small sounds —spoon against mug, the click of the warmer — took the edge down a notch. She set a mug in front of him and kept one for herself.

"I meant what I said," she told him. "I came to help."

"Good," he growled. Still agitated, he tore a strip of tape and wrote on the box flaps — KEEP, SALE, DONATE. He muttered, "You can read that, right?"
 

Ignoring his jabs, she let her eyes go to the living room. A darker rectangle marked the spot on the carpet where the grandfather clock had stood. She knew now wasn't the time, but when was?

"What happened to the clock?"

"Halpern picked it up," Mark said, still writing. "It's not coming back. He's moving high-value things off-site for the sale."

"You moved it without telling me?"

"We've got deadlines," he said, voice tightening. "If you wanted it, you should've spoken up."

"I just arrived a few hours ago, Mark."

"You could've said something the day of the funeral."

"Excuse me, but my thoughts were on other things."

"What? Like how you left our mother with a broken heart so you could run off to the big city?"

"I didn't run off."

"Really? What else do you call it?"

She swallowed. "Maybe I did run off at first. But I got a good job, and you told me I wasn't needed. All Mom or you had to do was ask."

"You'd have liked that, huh? Making your ailing mother beg."

"Stop right there, before we both say things we shouldn't."

"It wouldn't make a difference anyhow." He stared at her a second, then added, "I'm doing the kitchen and then the basement. We've got work to do."

"Where do you want me?"

"Bedroom," he said. "Finish up in there. Paperwork and the desk are mine."

"Fine." She started down the hall, then paused. "By the way, I looked in Mom's jewelry box earlier. I didn't see Grandma's brooch. I'd like to keep it."

"Like I said, you should've said something. It's with the jeweler for appraisal."

"Mark, I'm not looking to fight with you, but I did just get here today. You've made a lot of decisions without considering me."

"Yeah. Old habits. You weren't here to ask."

"The brooch is an antique. Do you have a receipt?"

"He'll email it," Mark said, already turning back to his boxes. "Let's keep moving."

"Of course, let's get rid of our past," she said, soft enough that he wouldn't hear.

The bedroom met her with order that felt staged. Bedspread pulled flat. Dresser tops wiped. In the top drawer, the small jewelry box held what she already knew it would have — the church pin, mismatched earrings, and a thin chain. No cameo. No locket. None of the good jewelry she remembered her mother wearing. She closed the lid and kept her hands there a second longer than necessary.

The closet smelled faintly of cedar. Coats on the left. Sunday dresses under plastic. On the shelf above them, a row of handbags. She brought them down one by one. Everyday purse — soft and slumped. A canvas tote with a pharmacy pen in the pocket. At the back, the good one — a small black patent purse Julia carried to weddings and funerals.

Rachel unclasped the purse, and a faint lavender sachet drifted up. She breathed it in, remembering the little packets her mother used to tuck in drawers, and smiled. Inside were the usual things — a folded church bulletin, two tissues, a stick of gum, a dime, and a flat lipstick.

 

She ran her fingers along the lining; one side felt stiff. The stitches there were short and tight, not factory. She eased a fingernail under the seam and opened a one-inch gap, then pinched the lining and coaxed the hard shape toward it until a small black film tube slid into her palm. Masking tape wrapped the lid. FRIDAY was printed in her mother's block letters.

She glanced at the doorway. Nothing moved.

She turned the tube in her hand and listened to the tiny shift inside. Her mother labeled everything — casseroles, envelopes, pill boxes. Perhaps she labeled the film by the day it was shot. Maybe Friday meant the veterans' hall fish fry. Possibly, it was the day for pharmacy refills. Or it could be nothing, just one of her mother's quirky ways.

"Bedroom done?" Mark called as he came up the stairs.

She slid the film into her jeans pocket and pressed the tiny opening in the lining flat with her thumb. "Almost," she said, and lifted a folded sweater with a hem receipt pinned to it — something harmless he could see.

He leaned on the doorframe, taking inventory. "Bedroom looks close. I'm going to the basement. If you find envelopes or receipts, put them on the table. The desk stays closed."

"Understood," she said.

He shifted the pad under his arm and went downstairs.

She checked the other handbags quickly — nothing in their linings, just tissues and old receipts. She set the Sunday purse back on the shelf. She glanced around the room. She could almost feel her mother here, or maybe she wished she could. With a sigh, she left the bedroom.

In the dining room, she chose a safe task — sorting the hutch and boxing the cookbooks. She opened Community Favorites to retrieve her mother's recipe cards, and a folded paper slipped from between two pages and landed on the table.

Not a recipe. A note. Cream stationery, creased twice. She unfolded it.
Looking forward to seeing you again. Same time. Same place.
— A.

No date, just the line and the initial. She read it twice. She turned the paper over as if more might be hiding on the back. Nothing.

She set the note beside the box and felt the small film tube in her pocket. Friday in her mother's hand. Same time. Same place. In someone else's. It could be nothing. It could be important. More likely, it was her imagination running rampant.

She carried the cookbooks to the box and went back for her coffee. It had cooled, but she took a sip anyway and stood by the table, looking at the note and thinking about the roll in her pocket.

 

What could be on it? Perhaps the ocean trip they took when they were kids. Maybe Christmas at Aunt Linda's.

 

She almost smiled.

 

Maybe Mom had a secret love affair, she thought, half-teasing herself.

Get real, Rachel! This is Mom you are talking about. Between helping everyone else and church, she rarely had time for us. And for her younger years — nah, not mom.

 

From the basement came the scrape of a box and the rip of tape. Rachel slid the note into her pocket with the film and pressed her hand there. She didn't know what was on the roll. She only knew she wanted to see it before anyone else did. She didn't know why. Maybe it was just one last thing to share with her mom.

Chapter 26
The Untold Story Chap 4

By Begin Again

The bell over Whitman's door gave one short chime as Rachel stepped in. The pharmacy smelled of cologne, coffee, and floor cleaner. A few customers waited by the counter with prescriptions. The photo desk sat empty except for a small sign: Film Processing — Ask Noah.

The rack of reading glasses was new; the card carousel and the photo counter weren't. When she was ten, her mother had stood at that counter circling something on a slip of paper and tapping a quarter against the glass while Rachel read candy labels to stall another fight in the car. She remembered as if it were yesterday.

Noah appeared from the stockroom with a carton of printer paper and a pencil behind his ear. He had the same look he'd had in high school — quick smile, blue eyes, and brown wavy hair. He stopped short when he saw her.

"Hey, stranger," he said. "Aren't you a surprise? It's been a long time."

"How've you been?" she asked.

"Oh, same old, same old — until you walked in. My day's already looking brighter."

She felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You never change."

He lifted the counter flap and came around for a quick hug. "Not when it comes to you. Some things don't." His voice softened. "I was sorry to hear about your mom."

"Me, too. I wish things had been different, but it is what it is." Rachel glanced around the pharmacy, trying to compose herself. Finally, she turned back to Noah, taking the canister from her pocket. "I found an old roll of film." She set the black tube on the counter.

He picked it up and turned it in his hand. "Thirty-five millimeter. Looks like it's been around a while." He glanced up. "Do you want the usual — develop and print?"

"Please."

*****
Outside, a bucket truck idled at the curb. Two utility workers were halfway up the pole. One waved a gloved hand to someone down down the block. 

Noah noticed. "Heads up — the power company's working outside and might be cutting juice for a bit. If they flip it, my machines nap for a while. Let me get this into the dark bag before that happens."

She took a breath. "Thanks, Noah. I'll wait."

He grinned and nodded toward a small table by the front window. "There's coffee. Help yourself." He slipped through the swinging door with the roll in his hand.

She poured half a cup and took the chair that faced the street. The morning was gray and ordinary — dog walkers, a school bus, someone sweeping on the far side of Ashland. Her phone buzzed once with a text from Mark — Lawyers are calling at ten. She let it go dark.

Five minutes later, the bell above the door chimed again. Denise Karr slipped in with a scuffed bakery box, cheeks pink from the air. "Morning, Lizzie." She handed a box to the girl behind the counter. "Tell Noah that these are for his dad." She spotted Rachel and smiled. "Rachel — hello. Nice to see you.

"You too, Mrs. Karr."

"I've been trying your mother's cinnamon roll recipe," Denise said. "Not as good as hers, but I thought Mr. Whitman might like a box."

"That's kind of you. I bet he'll love them."

Denise lowered her voice. "If you need anything, I'm only a few houses away. I can sit with you a while if you want."

"I'm okay, thank you."

Denise nodded. She glanced around the room and then lowered her voice. "Has your mom's friend been by?"

"Mom's friend?"

"Your mom used to walk on Fridays," she said. "I saw her sometimes when I cut through by the cemetery. She wasn't alone."

Rachel kept her face steady. "I didn't know that. Who was it?"

"William?" Denise said, then winced. "Or maybe she said Tom. I might be wrong. Older man. Nice. Tipped his blue cap when I saw him. They just walked and talked. Nobody thought it was scandalous except your brother, of course."

"Scandalous? Did my brother ask you not to tell me that?" Rachel asked.

Denise looked uncomfortable. "He said the women in town were always telling stories, and he didn't want me starting anything about his mother. I'm not starting anything. I'm just remembering what I saw. I thought he might have come by since I didn't see him at the funeral."

"What else —" Rachel started to ask, but Denise suddenly became upset.

"Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn't have said anything. I did promise, but —" She shrugged and left with a quick wave.

Rachel watched the street for a while longer. Who was this William or Tom? And why wouldn't Mark want her to know? Before she could draw any conclusions, Noah returned with a small paper envelope.

 

"First few prints are done. I'll finish the rest after the power folks are gone."

Rachel slid one photo free — Julia at the lake, head tipped back, laughing. The bird charm at her throat caught the sun. Rachel's breath snagged and then eased.

Noah peered over her shoulder. "That's your mom, isn't it? She was quite a bit younger there, but I can still tell it was her. Quite the looker."

Rachel nodded, trying to control the tears threatening to wash down her cheeks. "You're right. She looks so young — and happy."

"Kind of tough to see her and remember, huh? It's okay to be upset." He squeezed her shoulders and then quickly added, "If you want adjustments, say the word. And if you find more rolls, bring them. I'll take care of you."

"I'll look," she said, and thanked him, eager to be alone.

Outside, the air was crisp. Rachel stopped for a moment, breathing in and out, her mind swirling around the woman in the picture — she looked like her mom — except she was laughing. Rachel remembered seeing the necklace once long ago when playing in her mother's jewelry box.

She waited to cross the street until the approaching pickup passed. He slowed at the corner and glanced at her, tipped his blue cap, and then rolled away.

Rachel was in the middle of the street when the driver's blue cap registered with her. Hadn't Denise said he wore a blue cap? It had to be him. She looked down the street, but it was gone.

Retracing her steps, she returned to the pharmacy and walked directly to the counter in the back. Noah was helping a customer, but he finished and hurried over to her. "Back so soon? Did you need something else?"

"Noah, I was just wondering, do you know any of my mom's friends?" she asked, as if it had just occurred to her. "A William or a Tom? Mrs. Karr said my mother walked with someone through the cemetery on Fridays."

"William?" Noah frowned. "We've got a Bill Lane who comes in on Fridays. Army vet. He orders double prints for the VFW board." He shrugged. "Could be he used to walk there, but I don't really know."

"Bill Lane," she repeated. Do you think someone might be able to tell me at the VFW Hall?

He lifted a shoulder. "Small town. Half the guys know each other from the hall. Why?"

"Just curious." She tried to sound casual and felt like she failed. "I never knew Mom had any male friends. Daddy would have freaked if he were still alive."

"Forgive me, but he didn't want any guys hanging around his daughter either, if I remember right."

Rachel nodded as she stammered, "I'm afraid — you're right." Rachel turned away, embarrassed that the past still had such a profound impact on her.

Sensing that his remark had caused her discomfort, he quickly tried to change the conversation. "I bet those pictures are done. Give me a sec." He spun on his heels and disappeared through the curtain.

A few minutes later, Noah returned with a small stack of prints in a paper envelope. "Here you go. I did a second set in case you want to share. If you want enlargements, I can do those this afternoon."

Rachel slid one photo free and held it by the edges — Julia at the lake, laughing in a blue swimsuit. A man facing away from the camera. Rachel's own breath caught as she stared at her mother — she'd never seen this side of her.

Noah pretended to check the next print and gave her a minute.

"Can you print the porch ones a little brighter?" she asked. "I think there's someone in the doorway."

"I'll tweak exposure and contrast. It might bring out more detail." He hesitated. "You okay?"

"I will be." She put the photos back in the envelope. "Thanks, Noah."

He nodded. "There are a few frames left on this. Old cameras sometimes never hit thirty-six. If you find more rolls, bring them. I'll take care of you."

"I'll look," she said.

Outside, the air was crisp. Rachel kept the envelope close under her arm and cut across to the side street that would take her back to the house.

Mark's car sat crooked in the drive with the trunk up. He was hauling boxes from the garage. Rachel slipped the photo envelope into her tote and kept her face even.

"Where'd you go?" he asked.

"Needed a few things from the pharmacy, and I grabbed some more labels," she said, and held up a pack from Whitman's she'd grabbed at the register. It wasn't a total lie.

"Good," he said. "Lawyers had to cancel. So that gives us more time to go through things."

Next door, Mrs. Lawson's storm door squeaked as she stepped onto her porch with a covered dish. "Rachel!"

Rachel waved and called, "Hi, Mrs. Lawson."

Mark turned to walk away, but not before muttering, "Make it quick. We don't have all day to gossip with that old woman."

Rachel ignored him and met her at the hedge. "It's good to see you."

"I'm so sorry about your mother." She handed her the dish. "Chicken and noodles."

"Thank you. That's kind of you." Rachel shifted the weight to one arm. "I've only got a minute, but I was hoping you might help me out."

"Anything dear. What is it?"

"I ran into Denise Karr at the pharmacy. She asked if Mom's friend had been by. Someone she walked with. Would you know anything about him?"

Mrs. Lawson glanced nervously toward the driveway, then back to Rachel. "I saw them sometimes. Near Hillcrest. Fridays, mostly."

"Do you know his name?"

"Bill. An older gentleman. Blue cap. Polite. He'd tip his hat. I think I recall your mom saying that he was a friend of someone else she once knew."

"Was there anything else?"

"Not that I remember. You know how it is when you get old, you forget things." She stared at Mark's car for a moment. "Wait!" She shook her finger. "I'm not sure, but I think he came in a red pickup truck once. He was taking her to an appointment."

"Thanks for telling me and thanks for the casserole, Mrs. Lawson. You shouldn't have bothered."

"It's no bother, dear. But if you wouldn't mind, please don't tell Mark what I told you. I couldn't bear another row with him."

"Don't worry. I won't mention it."

"And Rachel, I think your mother might have given him your phone number in case of an emergency. I recall her mentioning it or at least, I think I do."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lawson. That's good to know." Rachel headed for the house, determined that starting tomorrow, she'd find the man with the blue cap.

Chapter 27
The Untold Story Chap 5

By Begin Again

The landline rang from the kitchen. Mark answered on speaker. "Hart residence."

A pause, then an unfamiliar voice — older, roughened by cigarettes. weather, or age. "I'm calling for Rachel Hart?"

"Who is this?" Mark's tone was brusque.

Rachel hurried across the room toward Mark. "I'll take it," she said, lifting the handset and shutting off the speaker. "Hello."

"Rachel Hart?" the voice asked.

"Yes."

"Your boss told me to give you a call."

She almost said, My boss? But swallowed it with Mark nearby.

"My name's Bill Lane. A friend of your mom's." He hesitated and then asked, "Maybe we could meet?"

Rachel gripped the phone. "I don't know, Mr. —"

"Lane. Bill Lane.

The name registered in Rachel's mind. Now she understood why he was being evasive. She glanced to see if Mark was still standing there, but he'd left the room. She lowered her voice, "Trina's Coffee Shop at 4."

"No, it will be busy. Meet me at the monument at four."

"Which monument?"

"The big one in the cemetery," he said. "The one with the three words on it."

Rachel looked at the counter where her mother's two pennies sat heads-up in the violet dish. She remembered the large stone from the other day. "I know it."

The line went quiet. She realized he was waiting for her answer.

"I'll come," she said.

"Good," Bill answered, and the line went dead.

The back door opened, and Mark stepped in from the garage. "Who was that?"

"A guy from work. They needed info on a job."

"Don't they know you're busy?" He rubbed his jaw. "I think I'll make a run to the hardware store. I might grab something from Arnie's on the way back — the deli on Third. Do you want anything?"

"No, thanks. I am fine for now."

He took his keys and was gone a moment later. The side door thumped, and silence settled over the house. Rachel sighed and glanced at the clock.

Four o'clock. Two hours.

She pulled the photo sleeve from her tote and fanned the prints on the kitchen table — the lake, a blanket, the hand tracing her mother's palm, the porch light on the stoop. The brief note from the cookbook lay beside them — Same time. Same place.

"Who were you, Mom?" she asked the room. "Why all the secrets?"

She tried to keep working. Cupboards were safe. On the top shelf sat the cowboy-boot glass her mother used for iced tea. On the next shelf, jelly jars with cartoon lids, washed and saved as cups. She put them all in the DONATE box.

In the back corner, an old red cookie tin rattled when she lifted it. Inside were buttons, two stamps, safety pins, and a small bird pendant — the same shape she had seen at her mother's throat in the lake photo. She held it for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket. "I'll put you back if you don't matter," she said and closed the tin.

*****
She checked the microwave clock — 3:22.

She slid the prints into their sleeve, tucked them and the note deep in her coat pocket, and zipped it shut. "Help me out here," she said to the two pennies in the violet dish, both heads-up. "Nothing, huh?"

At 3:30, she locked the back door, left the boxes where they were, and stepped onto the porch.

By 3:35, she was in the Civic, heater blowing dusty warm air. She took the long way —past the lake road and the corner where the red pickup had slowed that morning.

At a light, she let her mind drift. She saw her mother laughing in the sun, then the porch light and the open door. It all meant something, but what did it mean?

A car honked, jerking her back to reality. She continued toward the cemetery.

She turned in through Hillcrest's iron gates and followed the path. A red pickup sat by the bend, its cab empty. Two rows over, a man in a blue cap stood at her mother's grave with both hands on a cane. When she parked and stepped out, he looked up, saw her crossing the path, and walked toward her.

Rachel couldn't help thinking that she liked his smile.

"Rachel Hart?" he asked.

"Bill Lane," she answered.

He tipped his cap. "I'm sorry for your loss." His eyes went back to the stone. "Your mother and I were friends. I'll miss her. We walked here on Fridays."

"I didn't know." Her voice came out thinner than she liked.

"She meant it to be that way." He looked toward the big marble at the crossroads —FAITH. LOVE. HOPE. "She carried a lot. She always said daylight kept stories honest. I wasn't sure I agreed, but I didn't press the issue. That would have given her more to worry about."

He extended his hand toward the bench beneath the engraved LOVE. "Shall we sit, or will you be too cold?"

"No, here is fine."

They were both silent for a moment, and then Rachel asked, "You asked me to come. Why?"

"So, you don't have to guess." Bill reached inside his coat and took out a thin envelope, edges softened by time. "It's time you know the truth. Anthony handed me this the week before he was gone. I gave it to Julia once." He paused as if remembering. "She read it, cried, and gave it back. Said it wasn't safe in the house —Joe's temper, and a boy who might find it before he should. She asked me to keep it for her. So, I did. I often thought she felt as if I had it, it was buried and would remain in the past."

He held it out. The front read Julia in a quick, slanted hand.

Rachel's fingers felt clumsy. "Does anyone else know about this?"

"If you mean Mark, I never told him," Bill said. "Julia didn't either. She was afraid of what Joe would do if the wrong person heard the wrong word at the wrong time. Maybe Mark guessed things. Guessing and knowing aren't the same."

Rachel nodded once. "I need to read it."

"I'll give you the space," he said, and rose. "I'll have a word or two with your mom."

He moved off toward the grave, cane steady on the gravel. Rachel opened the flap and unfolded one page. Anthony's handwriting slanted across the page, neat but hurried, like a man writing against the clock.

Julia,

By the time you read this, I'll be far from here. I wish I could have stayed longer, but duty calls. I don't regret answering, except for leaving you behind. You're the best part of me, the only part that feels true.

Rachel's eyes blurred. She pressed her lips together and read on.

You said once that love is a kind of faith. I laughed, but you were right. Faith is believing without proof. I believe in us. I believe in the life we'll build when I come back — a porch, a garden, maybe a dog that won't listen.

The words pressed deeper with every line.

If the child you carry is mine, then I have two reasons to fight my way home. If he's not, I'll still love him because he's yours. Raise him to be kind, Julia. Don't let this world harden him.

Rachel's breath caught. Her hands shook. The page blurred again. She blinked, trying to see the words written on the page.

If anything happens to me, keep this letter. Someday, when he's old enough, tell him that his father's last thought was of him and of you.
Always,
Anthony

She read it twice. The line the child you carry hit hard and wouldn't let go. She kept seeing the photos she'd picked up — her mother laughing at the lake, a hand tracing her palm, the porch light making a small circle of yellow.

Rachel clutched the letter to her chest. A sob broke free, sharp in the cold air. She bent forward, pressing her elbows to her knees, the words circling in her mind — the child you carry — tell him — always.

Her brother. Mark. Was he Anthony's son?

 

Her tears slipped faster than she could wipe them. For once, she didn't try to stop them. They poured out — grief for Julia, for Anthony, for the love stolen by silence.

When she could see again, she folded the paper on its crease and slipped it back into the envelope. She stood and walked to her mother's grave..

"He — Anthony — loved her," she said. It came out as fact.

"He did," Bill said.

"What happened to him? And don't tell me rumors. Was my father involved?"

Bill's jaw worked as his eyes studied her. Finally, he spoke. "It was about a year or so later, Joe knew Anthony had come back. He heard that there were meetings. He didn't like it." He paused, struggling with what to share with this vulnerable woman, but he knew what Julia would want, so he continued. "There was a fight outside Miller's Bar the week Anthony disappeared. I wasn't there. You'll never know how I wish I'd been there. I heard the stories. Anthony didn't come home. Men who drank with your father said Anthony 'took off.' Joe's knuckles and my faith in Anthony said different." He lifted his hand a little. A sadness filled his eyes. "That's as far as I can go today."

"Today? No, I want to know. Tell it all to me." She heard the edge in her own voice.

"I don't want to overwhelm you," Bill said. "Your brother watches. People talk. Let's take one step at a time. Trust me — it's better if you have time to digest things."

"Mark? Who does he watch? Is this why he doesn't want me to talk to the neighbors?"

"Perhaps, or maybe there is more." He softened it. "You've got the letter. Start there."

Rachel swallowed. "Is there anything else? Proof. Not stories."

"Your mother kept things neat," Bill said. "She tucked what mattered where anyone looking wouldn't bother. Sewing basket. Button tin. Inside seams." He looked at her. "You already found one roll of film. There were others, once. She hid them, afraid to even have them developed."

"Does Mark know any part of this?" she asked again.

"He knows your father," Bill said. "He knows what fear does to a house. That makes its own kind of silence."

Rachel looked back toward Julia's stone. "Why didn't she tell me?" It broke out raw.

"Because she was trying to keep you clear," Bill said. "And because the last time you two tried to talk, it went sideways." He let that sit without judgment. "She didn't want to give you anything more to carry."

He glanced at the gray sky. "I don't stay out long in the cold," he said. "Tomorrow, same place if you want more. I'll bring the one letter I kept from Anthony, besides this one. You bring what you find."

"Okay." She slid the envelope into the inside pocket of her coat, buttoned it, and kept her hand there.

"Promise me you won't take your brother head-on," Bill said before turning. "Make space for him to be wrong without making him your enemy."

He tipped the brim of his hat and headed for the truck. The door creaked; the engine turned over; he rolled off slowly.

Chapter 28
The Untold Story Chap 6

By Begin Again

The cemetery had emptied of its visitors by the time Rachel found the courage to unfold the envelope again. She sat on the bench under the monument, her fingers stiff from the cold and nerves, the paper shaking as if it resisted being opened after so many years.

"Rachel?"

The voice came gently, almost uncertain.

Rachel straightened, her hands fumbling to fold the letter. A woman stood a few feet away, clutching a bouquet of chrysanthemums, her hair tucked beneath a knit hat.

"Karen?" Rachel blinked through tears. "Karen Morris?"

The woman's face broke into a smile of surprise. "It is you. My goodness. I thought —well, I didn't think I'd run into you here." She stepped closer, flowers cradled against her coat. "I'm sorry — I didn't mean to interrupt."

Rachel swiped her eyes. "You didn't. I just —" Her voice wavered. "It's been a hard day."
"The first visit always is." Karen smiled. "Are you home — I mean —"

"It's okay, Karen. I came back to help Mark pack up Mom's things."

Karen sat beside her without waiting for an invitation, the way old friends do. She set the flowers on her lap and studied Rachel with kind eyes. "I was bringing these for my dad. Five years this week. I like to think he knows I still come."

Rachel managed a nod. "I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"Life keeps handing us losses, doesn't it?" Karen gave her a soft smile. "But here we are, stubborn enough to keep showing up."

Rachel pressed the letter between her hands, hidden but still there. "I didn't expect to see anyone."

"Small towns have a way of finding you." Karen tilted her head. "I heard about Julia. I was sorry I couldn't make the funeral. I don't live here now either."

Rachel swallowed hard. "It was — smaller than I thought it would be."

"She deserved more," Karen said. "Your mom was always helping somebody. I still remember the time she stayed with me after my appendectomy. My mother panicked, but Julia showed up with soup and crossword puzzles. Stayed until I was home from the hospital."

Rachel looked down at her hands. She hadn't known that story. Julia's love had slipped into places Rachel never saw.

"You were close to her?" Rachel asked.

Karen shook her head. "Not like family-close. But she had a way of making people feel seen. I always thought you were lucky." She hesitated, then added, "Though I know you didn't always think so."

Rachel's throat tightened. "We fought a lot. We never seemed to be able to talk."

"All daughters fight their mothers." Karen touched her arm lightly. "But it doesn't erase the love underneath."

Rachel bit her lip, the letter burning like a coal in her palm. She wanted to tell Karen about Anthony and about Mark. She wanted to share it with someone, to ease the weight of it, but now didn't seem right.

Instead, she whispered, "I didn't call her back after our last fight. I waited too long. I always had some excuse."

Karen's eyes softened. "Then maybe what you can do now is listen. Really listen to who she was. She left pieces of herself everywhere — in people's stories, in the quiet things she did. Maybe that's how you find her again."

The words settled over Rachel like a balm.

Karen glanced at her watch, then at the flowers. "I should go before it gets dark. But listen — don't disappear on me again. We used to be good for each other. I still have the yearbook where you wrote, 'We'll escape this place and conquer the world.' Maybe we didn't conquer it, but we did escape."

Rachel felt her mouth curve, just a little. "I'd like that."

Karen rose, gathering her flowers. She hesitated, then leaned down to hug her quickly, the way old friends do when too many years stand between them. "Call me," she said. "I'm still in the book."

When she walked away, Rachel unfolded Anthony's letter again. The ink caught the fading light.

If the child you carry is mine — tell him — always.

The words pulsed in her chest. For the first time in years, Rachel let herself imagine Julia not as the stern, disapproving mother, but as a young woman in love, standing at the edge of a new life.

Rachel pressed the letter back into its envelope, stood, and looked up at the monument one more time.

FAITH. LOVE. HOPE.

Her mother had carried all three, even if Rachel had never seen them. Now it was her turn to embrace them and carry them forward.

She walked toward her car, her mind whirling.

*****
She sat behind the wheel and stared through the glass until the sting in her eyes eased. Then she pulled out her phone.

You at the store? She typed.

Noah replied almost at once. Closing in ten. Grabbing a bite at Arnie's. Want to join me?

On my way.

As the Civic rolled down the small town's main street, she felt like she was looking at the stores with new eyes. She saw her mother standing outside Whitman's, or window-shopping at Hazel's Dress Shop, and the Friday-night fish fry at Miller's Bar & Grill. She spotted the small church tucked behind the shrubbery — she remembered playing in the front yard while her mother was inside at a bazaar meeting or gathering items for the rummage sale. Her eyes blurred, and she fought the tears. Why hadn't she remembered any of the good times when it would have counted?

She pulled into Arnie's lot, wiped her face, and put on fresh lipstick. Satisfied it was the best she could do, she climbed out and walked toward the restaurant.

Arnie's bell made a softer sound than Whitman's. Noah was at a corner table with two mugs and a napkin already folded under one.

"Hey," he said, voice low. "Rough day?"

She nodded and slid into the chair. "Yikes! Do I look that bad?"

"No, of course not. You look great to these old eyes." He added quickly, "Are you ready to order, or would you rather wait?"

"No, I could eat something. I haven't been here for ages. What's good?"

"I'm having tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. But have anything you want."

"Warm soup sounds good. I'll have the same."

They shared small talk — things about town she'd missed after being gone so long. He said his dad decided to name all the dogs "Buddy" because it was easier to remember, not because they were so friendly. She said the flower boxes were new on Main Street, but the stores looked the same. He laughed and told her a funny story that had happened at the store that day.

When the plates came, he slid the napkin dispenser toward her. "You don't have to talk. But you can."

She lowered her voice after checking if anyone was nearby. "Someone called today. A man who walked with my mom on Fridays. Bill Lane."

Noah lifted his brows a little. "VFW Bill? That's who you were asking me about when you brought the film in, right?"

"That's him."

He didn't pry. "Seems decent."

"He is," she said. "He knew her as someone I didn't." She gave him a sad look. "I wish I'd given her a chance."

Noah took that in. "You're allowed to have more than one version of a person. Doesn't make either a lie."

She sat with that.

When the check came, he slid it to his side of the table and didn't make a speech about it. "You can get the next one," he said, light enough she could call it a joke if she needed to.

Outside, evening had gone from gray to blue. He walked her to the Civic.
"Text me when you're home?" he asked. "So I don't picture you on the side of the road with steam pouring out of that rattletrap."

She almost smiled. "It's character, not steam."

"Uh-huh." He stepped back. "Come by the shop tomorrow."

"I will," she said.

He tapped the roof once, a small habit, then headed for his car. Rachel got in, set her hands on the wheel, and let the heat crawl in slowly. The meal had been good, but the company had made her feel settled. She chuckled to herself, realizing that Noah had always been her go-to when they were younger — the one who calmed her and comforted her without her even realizing it.

She pulled onto the street and drove toward the house.

Mark was at the dining table with a pad when she came in. "I expected you back earlier. Can't get things done if you're always out running around."

"I wasn't running around." She hung her coat up. "I was at the cemetery."

"Again?" He smirked. "Too bad you didn't visit her that much when she was alive."

"You know why I didn't, so let's leave it at that." She started to walk away, then stopped. She turned and stared at him a moment, deciding whether to find the courage to confront him.

Mark settled it for her. He snapped, "If you've got something you want to say, just spit it out."

"Fine." She moved a little closer to the table. "I have a couple of questions."

Mark capped his pen like a gavel. "Make it quick. There's work to do, and it doesn't look like you're going to give me much help."

"Grandma's brooch. You said it was out for an appraisal. I want the shop name in writing."

"Why? I'll get the appraisal, and then it'll be done."

"And the clock — Halpern gave you a claim slip?"

He hesitated a hair too long. "It's handled."

"Handled? What's that supposed to mean?"

He watched her, weighing the situation. "You come home two minutes and act like a foreman."

"I'm acting like a daughter." She kept her voice even. "Starting tomorrow, I photograph everything before it moves. We do this together — itemizing things, deciding what's for sale and what's for donation. Whether you like how I spent the last few years of my life or not, I am still her daughter." She held his gaze until he dropped his eyes.

He pushed his chair back. "Whatever. I'm done for tonight."

"Well, I'm not."

"What's so important that it can't wait till tomorrow?"

"It's a simple question." She inhaled. "There's no stone next to Mom's gravestone. Isn't Dad buried there?"

Mark's face closed down. He looked at the table instead of at her. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat.

"He's not there."

 

Rachel gasped, "Not there? Then where is he?"

Chapter 29
The Untold Story Chap 7

By Begin Again

Rachel's question hit him like a ton of bricks. He never expected her to question anything about Joe; after all, she didn't even come home for the funeral, so it made the lie easy. Now, he walked toward the fireplace, leaning his head against the mantel. His breathing was ragged.

Rachel watched him for a moment and then asked again, "Mark, what do you mean he's not there? Where the hell is he? For some ungodly reason, did you buy another lot? If you cremated him, where are his ashes?" By the time she reached the end of her questions, she was screaming. "You had to bury him somewhere. Where is he?"

Mark turned toward her, glancing everywhere but at Rachel. "Does it matter?"

"Have you lost your mind? Of course, it matters, regardless of what I thought about him." The words 'He's your father, too." stuck in her throat. She caught her breath, letting her hands tighten on the back of the chair. "Just tell me where he is? Did you scatter his ashes in the backyard or throw them in the trash? What?"

Mark rubbed his jaw. "He's in Riverbend."

Rachel's mouth dropped open as she tried to understand. "Riverbend? The prison?"

All Mark could do was mutter, "Yes."

"You told me he was gone." Her voice surprised her — calm, almost too quiet.

"Gone is what Mom wanted you to hear." He stacked two papers that didn't need stacking. "It kept the peace."

"It kept me ignorant."

He flinched, then shrugged it off. "Pick your word."

"You still should have told me." She paced the dining room. "Regardless of how I felt about him, or any of you, I had the right to know."

"You weren't here."

That old sentence found its mark. Rachel put the chair between them and let the silence take hold.

"What other things are you hiding from me?" she hissed.

"I'm not hiding anything." He pushed back from the table. "I'm done for tonight."

"I'm not."

"What's left to say?" He picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

The door closed. Rachel stood very still until she heard his tires squealing on the pavement. The fact that her father was in Riverbend didn't surprise her, but the cover-up did. She'd been home two days and already discovered that her mother was once head-over-heels in love with someone other than her father, that things were missing from the house, and Mark wasn't even close to being upfront about it, and her father wasn't dead — he was in prison.

She made tea and carried the warm mug to the living room. The favorite chair faced the window, just as it always had. She lowered herself into it and let the cushion remember the shape of a body that wasn't there.

"Mom," she said to the room. "What else don't I know about this family?"

She slept poorly and woke early. Mark had left a note on the table —Ten a.m., basement — under a magnet. She poured coffee, took two sips, and put on her coat.
Did he really think that things would go on as usual, no questions or answers, just packing up their mother's life and moving on?

She needed a friendly face, one that she could trust. Grabbing her coat, she ripped Mark's note in half and then once again, scattering the pieces across the table. She wouldn't be attending his ten o'clock command performance in the basement.

She arrived at the pharmacy just before 7:00 A.M. It didn't open until eight, so she tapped on the door. Noah looked up from the counter; his face softened when he saw her.

He hurried to the door and unlocked it, allowing her to step inside. "Morning. Don't take this the wrong way, but is something wrong? You are a little early." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"Not really," she said, and then, because it felt right to tell someone, "Mark told me where my father is."

A look of surprise spread across his face. "You mean — you didn't know?"

"No, according to Mark, he and my mother decided it was better to tell me that he was dead."

Noah couldn't hide his surprise. "Dead? Why on earth would anyone tell you something like that? I'm so sorry, Rachel. I would have told you, but when you didn't mention him, I assumed it was a closed subject."

She didn't trust herself to linger on Riverbend yet. "For right now, could we change the subject? I can't handle much more."

"Of course. I've got the prints you asked for, or would you rather wait on those too?"

"No, let me see them."

He set a small envelope on the counter. "I brightened the porch frames like you asked. Want to look here?"

"Please."

He flipped the counter flap and let her take the little table by the window. He brought coffee without being asked and didn't sit down until she nodded.

The first photo was of the lake. Julia laughing, head tipped back, the bird charm at her throat catching sun. Rachel ran her thumb along the white border, just as her mother used to.

"Still her," she said softly.

"Still her," Noah agreed. "In those days, she was beautiful and full of life. That smile of hers was a knockout."

Rachel moved through the set — the blanket, the thermos, the hand tracing her mother's palm. When she reached the porch shots, the circle of yellow fell across the step. The door was open a few inches.

"It isn't proof," she said. "It's just pictures of nothing special."

"It's a piece," Noah said. "Sometimes that's what you get."

Noah slid one more print across. "I brightened the porch."

 

The yellow circle from the porch light hit the steps. A man's hand clamped a girl's arm — her arm.

Something unlatched in Rachel's head.

She was back under that porch light. His fingers dug into his arm. She twisted and bit hard. He swore and yanked her hair. Her mother screamed her name. A woman's voice — someone other than her mother yelled, "I'm calling the police!" A beer can flew at her mother, hit the siding with a hollow slap. He shoved Rachel's feet out from under her, the steps catching her hips and back, and grit burning her palms. The door banged. Tires squealed. He was gone before the siren ever found their street.

A sound broke from her. The photo slid from her hand.

Noah was around the counter in a second. He put an arm around her and kept his voice steady. "I've got you. Breathe."

She shook. "He had me —" She gulped air. "I bit him. He threw a beer at Mom. He shoved me down the steps. He was gone before anyone came." The words came out rough and fast.

"I'm here," Noah said. He didn't let go until her shoulders eased.

She wiped her face with a napkin. "I shoved it so far down I couldn't remember — till now."

"That's how people survive," he said. "You're not wrong for it."

She stared at the porch shot, then slid it back into the stack. "I need to clear my head."

"I can walk with you," he offered. "Lizzie's due any minute."

She shook her head. "I need to be alone."

"Okay." He tucked the prints into a fresh envelope and handed them to her. "Text me when you're home or if you need me to come to you."

"I will." She met his eyes. "Thanks for understanding."

"I've got broad shoulders and I'm willing for you to lean on them if you need to," he said.

Rachel pressed the envelope to her chest once, then turned for the door. The bell gave a small chime as she stepped out into the cold.

She drove mindlessly through the town and down numerous back roads until she found herself at the lake — the same lake where the photos had been taken. She parked and sat staring at the water.

"Mom," she said aloud, "why didn't we talk? Why didn't you tell me?" She watched a gull skim the surface and then lift away. "How many secrets did you hold inside, and why? Didn't you think we could handle the truth? Is that why you were always snapping at me?"

She didn't even realize she was crying until she felt the front of her shirt damp. She grabbed a tissue from the pack on the dash and wiped her face before she allowed her thoughts to tumble out of her mouth. "Mom, I'm sorry. If I'd known, I wouldn't have left you. I should have asked questions, but I didn't, and now you're gone. I can't understand Mark at all right now, but I promise you, I'm not leaving until I get some answers."

She sat there for a few more minutes, just staring at the water, and then she put the car in gear and started back to town. At the corner, she took a wrong turn and was about to make a U-turn when she saw a red pickup truck. She wondered if it could be Bill's, but then chided herself for how many red pickup trucks existed in town. She pulled into the driveway and put the car in reverse when she heard her name.

"Rachel, stop!"

She looked through the windshield and couldn't believe it, but Bill was waving his blue cap and hurrying toward her car. She rolled down the window and laughed, "Oh my goodness, I can't believe it."

"How did you find me?"

"I don't really know. I was upset and driving, and suddenly here I am in your driveway."

"Your mom would have said it was meant to be. Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee? I've got a freshly made peach pie."

"Now, what girl would turn down that offer? I'd love some."

His house was neat and small — a VFW calendar hung by the phone. A framed black-and-white photograph of a platoon sat on the bookcase. He motioned her to the kitchen table and poured coffee without asking.

"You read the letter?" he said.

"I did." She wrapped her hands around the mug. "It changed a lot of things."

Bill nodded like he understood the kind of change she meant. "What did Mark say?"

"I haven't told him." She looked down at the rim of the cup. "I had questions of my own. I wanted to know why my father didn't have a headstone like my mother."

Bill's mouth tightened. "I figured you'd run into that sooner or later."

"Why didn't anyone tell me the truth?" she asked. "About any of it?"

"Some folks think silence keeps houses standing," he said. "Your mother did what she thought would keep you breathing."

Rachel pressed her thumb against the warm cup.. "Tell me about that night. The one you didn't see."

"I didn't see the fight," Bill said, steadily. "I got there after — at Miller's. Heard stories. I can tell you what I do know." He sipped his coffee and then began, "Anthony got into a fight. Some said it was Joe. He was really banged up and went looking for help. He didn't know anyone except your mother and me. I was gone, something I kick myself for every day. He wasn't drunk. He was scared. Somebody patched him up — asked me not to drag her name into it. She's a decent woman and didn't need trouble. He was gone by the time I spoke to her."

Rachel felt the prickle of recognition without a name to attach to it. "And Joe?"

"Joe heard there were meetings," Bill said. "He didn't like the idea of Julia breathing the same air as Anthony, even if it was just daylight and talk. After Miller's, there was a second round — fewer witnesses." He shook his head. "I can't prove the rest. Neither could your mother, but she had proof that your dad was involved, but she was terrified to use it."

"What proof?"

"She never really told me, but since she always had that camera hanging around her neck, I'm guessing she had pictures. Of what, I'm not sure." Bill studied her face. "You're angry."

"I'm tired," she said. "And I'm angry."

He stood and walked her to the door. On the way, she paused at the platoon photo. "Which one is he?"

Bill touched the glass two men in from the end. "Right there. He never liked pictures. Julia made him stand still long enough for all of us to take this photo."

Rachel looked at the face and felt something warm inside. "Do you ever wonder what really happened?"

"Every day."

Back at the house, Mark's car was gone. She went straight to the hall closet. Coats. Scarves. She took down the heavy winter coat and ran her fingers along the hem. Halfway around, the stitches changed — shorter, tighter.

She got the sewing kit, slipped a needle under the thread, and opened a narrow gap. A black film canister dropped into her palm. No label.

She put the canister in her pocket and texted Noah. "I've found another one. I'm on my way."

Whitman's door chimed when she walked in. Noah looked up from the counter. "I'll get right on it."

"I'll come back before you close," she said.

At five, she returned. Noah met her at the back counter with an envelope and a look that made her stomach dip.

"I didn't study them," he said. "But the first few — Rachel, you'll want to sit."

She opened the flap. The top print slid into her hand.

She gasped, but words wouldn't come. The room tilted, and her world went dark.

Author Notes

I apologize that this one got long... I got wrapped up in it, and it wouldn't end. I hope the chapter was worth the extra time. Thank you so much.

Chapter 30
The Untold Story Chap 8

By Begin Again

The darkness wrapped around Rachel as her mind whirled, trying to understand — knuckles grinding Anthony's cheek, the square watch flashing, a small boy pressed to a man's trouser leg, screaming. The pressure tightened until a ragged "Oh, God —" rattled, exploded in a scream, and the black split to light.

The room tipped. She lurched, hair in her face, breath breaking fast. Where was she? What was happening? Her heart raced.

Noah was already at her side. He caught her wrist mid-surge and set his palm to her shoulder, steady enough to stop the fall without pinning her. "Easy," he said, his voice low and close to her ear, so the word landed softly and comfortingly.

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked at him as if she was trying to see through water. The tremor in her chest ran under his hand; he kept it there, an anchor, feeling each breath fight and settle, fight and settle.

Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, then the walls — wood paneling, a small window, a sofa under her back instead of the pharmacy's tile. "Where am I?" The words rasped out, half breath, half question.

"Upstairs," Noah said quickly. "The apartment over the pharmacy. You fainted. I carried you up." His hand stayed steady on her shoulder. "You're safe here."

When her weight settled against the cushions, Noah twisted toward the doorway and called, "Doc, our patient is awake."

A step sounded at the doorway, and Dr. Patel stepped into the room; his coat was half-zipped, and the strap of his bag bumped his knee. "Morning, Rachel." He crouched at the sofa's edge, so his eyes met hers. "I'm Dr. Patel. Okay if I take a quick look?"
Her nod was small, cautious.

Two fingers slid to the inside of her wrist. He watched a second hand, then her face. A penlight flashed once. Her pupils pinched and released; she blinked hard against it.

"Did you hit your head?" His voice was even, steady as a metronome.

She wet her lips. "No. I — saw something." Her voice broke, rough-edged and raw.

"Mm." He didn't ask for details, but continued his examination. "Any pressure here?" He touched his own sternum. "Nausea?"

She shook her head. Noah pressed a paper cup into her hand. Water splashed against the rim when she lifted it.

"Your pulse is quick, but it's settling," Patel said. "What happened looks like a faint —your body slammed on the brakes to protect itself. Feels awful. Scary, but usually not dangerous unless you fall." He let that sit, eyes on her. "You don't have to tell me what you saw," he added, mouth softening, "but talking it through — with someone you trust — can help." His glance tipped toward Noah's hand still at her shoulder. "He's a good man."

Rachel's gaze followed his. Noah's jaw worked once, but he didn't look away.

"I know," she whispered.

.
Dr. Patel slid a card onto the table, tucking a corner under the lamp so it wouldn't disappear. "Here's the plan — sit a bit. No driving for a few hours. Small sips of water. If the spin comes back, lie on your side and call me. If anything feels off — such as pressure, confusion, or changes in vision — call sooner. I'm across the street for the next hour. I'll check back. Though you might consider getting something to eat."

He patted the sofa's back like it was a person and stepped out. The door clicked; the room exhaled.

Rachel's fingers tightened until the paper cup creased. "Where are the pictures?"

"They can wait," Noah said. "You don't have to —"

"No!" She shook her head and then stopped. A tear slipped from her eye, catching at her chin. "They can't, Noah." She drew a breath that trembled. "I think I saw what happened to Anthony." She inhaled a ragged breath, and a few more tears trickled down her cheek. "Mark was in the picture — he was there. He saw what happened." A bigger sob escaped, and she leaned into Noah's shoulder, mumbling, "I don't understand — why Mom — or anyone — didn't say anything."

Noah's hand pressed just a fraction firmer, an anchor more than a hold. "Okay," he said softly. "We'll look. Together."

He handed her a tissue and reached for the manila envelope on the coffee table. The metal clasp gave with a small resigned sigh. Rachel wiped her cheek with the tissue and pinched the first glossy by its edges.

Noah touched her hand. "Are you sure? You don't have to do it now?"

"I do. It's been hidden far too long."

She gasped, but this time she didn't faint. Her eyes blurred as she stared at the photo —

An ordinary yard — shaggy grass in need of mowing, a forgotten bicycle tossed against the hedges, and a scene she couldn't erase. A bloodied shirt, a bandaged man's head — Anthony — his mouth open mid-word. Another man, his fist already moving. The square watch on his wrist glared like a neon light. At the edge of the frame — blurred — a young boy.

Her breath clipped. "Anthony — and that's Mark." Her fingertip hovered over the blur. She looked up at Noah. "What happened that night?"

Noah didn't answer. His hand stayed at her shoulder, offering warmth and comfort.

She slid the next photo free.

The neighbor's fence line, slats casting thin jail-bar shadows. Tessa, the babysitter, half-turned, hair dragged by the wind. Mrs. Lawson's hand braced on her arm as if to root her in place. Both of them were facing the yard that wasn't ordinary anymore. Tessa's mouth was open — possibly a scream.

Rachel swallowed. She pressed the edge flat and set it aside, then turned to the next picture.

A bathroom mirror fogged at its edges. Julia's reflection ghosted in the glass, chin set, eyes too bright. A dark line disappeared into her hairline, purple swelling around her eyes, and smears of blood across the porcelain. A towel clenched uselessly in her fist.

The room tilted again — not much, just a notch of memory shifting. A low moan escaped before she could stop it. Noah's arm gathered her in, giving her a safe place to rest.

"Rach, I'm so sorry. I'd heard rumors but —" he shook his head. "You know how gossip is. She never said anything to anyone."

"Noah, how much have I suppressed?" She shivered. "I remember — the yelling, doors slamming, and muffled screams."

"Your mind couldn't deal with it, Rach. It's not your fault."

"But — I left her here. Why didn't I take her with me?"

Noah's voice was barely a whisper, "She didn't want to go. She chose to stay."

She turned the picture face down and drew the last one out of the envelope. For a moment, nothing registered, and then she gasped as she dropped the picture, as if it had burned her fingers.

Noah picked it up. Pain and anger registered in his eyes. "Oh, my God, Rach."

She stuttered, "It — it's me."

A child on a bed — knees tucked, face turned away to protect whatever was left to protect. Red, blistering welts stretched across the small back, and the reflection of a man's distorted face and a belt in his hand.

Something in Rachel's chest went quiet, and then it grew loud. "My father," she said to the paper, to herself. "Joe did this. Joe did all of it." The next breath shook. "And Mark — he saw." She blinked hard; tears stood, then fell. "All these years, and he — Oh, Noah, I don't even know him, yet, he's my brother."

Noah's thumb moved once against her shoulder, not a stroke, just presence. "I'm here. We'll get through this together."

She let the photo fall onto the table face up. The welts appeared to be still rising under the light. She closed her hand, then opened it, and reached for the envelope again, almost afraid the past would disappear again.

 

*****
Down on the street, a ticket flapped under a wiper like a small, mean flag. The pharmacy bell chirped. Lizzie looked up from the counter and waved. "Hey, Karen. What brings you out so early?"

"Came for aspirin. Got a headache that won't quit."

"Aisle three — you know the drill."

"Lizzie, have you seen Rachel? Her car is in the no-parking zone, and she's got a ticket."

Lizzie glanced at the register as if it had the answer she was looking for. Finally, she leaned across the counter, whispering, "She's upstairs."

Karen felt the heat spread across her cheeks. "Oh! I didn't mean to pry. I just thought — never mind what I thought."

Lizzie smiled, almost laughing at Karen's frustration. "It's not like that. She fainted, and we had to call Dr. Patel. Noah carried her upstairs."

"Fainted? Is she alright?"

"I think so, but I don't really know, except the doctor was here and then he left."

Karen stepped to the base of the stairs and cupped her hands. "Rach? It's me. You decent?"

A beat, then Noah's voice answered, "Is that you, Karen? Come up."

The stairs announced each footfall. Karen reached the doorway, took in the little apartment with one sweep — the envelope, the fanned photos, the crushed paper cup, and Noah's arm around Rachel's shoulder.

"Hey," Karen said, softer than she'd planned. "You scared the hell out of Lizzie."

"Sorry." Rachel tried for a smile and didn't get far. "I'm okay."

"Dr. Patel was just here," Noah said. "Says she needs to sit. We were —" He glanced at the table. "Going through some things."

Karen's gaze fixed on the pictures. "Those are the things."

"They are," Rachel said. She turned the photo only far enough to show grass, the slash of a watch glare, then laid it back as if it might cut. "They say what everyone kept quiet."

Karen lowered herself onto the opposite cushion. She glanced at the pictures, winced, and turned her eyes away, focusing on Rachel. "All right. Tell me what you need."

"The truth," Rachel said. She didn't look away. "This story has been quiet for too long."

Chapter 31
The Untold Story Chap 9

By Begin Again

After reassuring Lizzie that Rachel was going to be all right, the trio walked outside and crossed the street to Arnie's. The bell announced their arrival, and several heads turned. After a few hellos and waves, they worked their way to a back booth.

Rachel slid in first with the manila envelope on her lap. Noah took the outside seat. Karen flagged the waitress for coffee without asking. Bill arrived last, cap in his hands, the brim working a slow circle under his thumb.

"You all right?" he asked, voice low. Concern creased his face.

"I will be," Rachel said. "I'm glad you could join us." She made introductions, and he slid into the booth next to Karen.

"You walked with Julia, didn't you? At the cemetery?" Karen asked.

Bill nodded. "Now I visit her there, but it's not the same." He sighed; age and weariness were immediately apparent.

Rachel waited for the waitress to fill Bill's cup, then set the manila envelope on the table. Bill stared at it but didn't comment, trusting she'd speak when she was ready.
She lifted the flap. "I know you and Anthony were close and that you always suspected my father was involved in his disappearance," she said softly. "We've found proof."

"Would I be right to guess your mom always had it?"

Rachel's eyes filled. She reached across to take Bill's hand. "Yes. I don't know why she didn't develop the film. I also found a disposable camera with a note signed

Sharon — she'd taken pictures of a fight outside Miller's and told Mom to do what she wanted with them. She did nothing. I don't understand, Bill. She loved Anthony. Why wouldn't she give the film to the police?"

"She never shared what went on inside her home," he said. "But makeup never hid all the bruises. I prayed she'd trust me enough to share, but—" He caught his breath, stared at the table. "Now it's too late."

"It's not too late," Rachel said, her voice trembling. "We have proof." She patted the envelope. "It might not be enough, but it's a start."

Bill's fingers rubbed the brim of his cap. "Show me."

She eased the first glossy halfway into the light.

Shaggy grass. A grill leaning on one good leg. Anthony's mouth open mid-word. Joe's fist already moving. The square watch burned like a dare.

Bill's breath snagged. "I was supposed to be there," he said, barely audible. "Walk him home, like every Friday. I —" The brim bent under his grip. "I was late."

Noah didn't fill the silence. Karen didn't either. They both sat silent, allowing Bill and Rachel to work through the photos.

Rachel slid the following picture  — fence slats, throwing thin shadows. Tessa half-turned, Mrs. Lawson's hand braced on her arm, both faces locked on the yard.

The next — the mirror — blood threaded down from the hairline; the towel clenched uselessly in Julia's fist.

And last — the small back, welts laddered, a warped reflection at the edge of a mirror, a belt raised mid-air.

Bill's hand lifted, then stopped, as if touching would make it worse. His eyes glistened, but the tears didn't spill. "Honey," he said to Rachel, a word older than the room. "I'm sorry I was late."

"You're here now," Rachel said. She closed the stack and fastened the clasp. Her palm stayed there, warm through the paper. She drew in a breath that scraped and steadied. "I have to see Mark. We've got to talk."

Noah shifted. "Not alone. I'll go."

She shook her head once. "No. I need to do this myself."

Bill set the cap on the table and folded his hands around it, as if in prayer. "Look him in the eye, girl," he said gently. "Let the truth stand between you and see which of you steps around it."

Rachel nodded. The waitress came by with a pot and topped cups mechanically, her smile small and uncurious. Outside, a truck rumbled past. The world continued to pretend that life was normal.

Rachel tucked the envelope under her arm. "I won't be long."

Noah's jaw worked. He didn't argue. "Call me," he said. "Any way this goes."

She met his eyes. Something in her chest eased a fraction. "I will."

 

*****

The Civic sat idling in the driveway. Rachel had felt braver at the diner, held up by her friends. On the short drive from Main to Ashland, the nerves began to build. She wasn't sure how to approach Mark — her own brother was a stranger to her. He'd always carried a chip on his shoulder; now she thought she knew why, but did that account for everything else? How many secrets were hidden within these walls?

She shut off the car and climbed out, standing a moment to catch her breath and find the strength to do what she'd come to do. She climbed the porch stairs and let the screen door slap the frame behind her.

"Mark?" Her voice was louder than she expected.

He appeared from the dining room with a pen behind his ear and a stack of envelopes in his hand. Tired, unshaven, annoyed at being interrupted. "Well," he said. "Look who finally showed up."

"We need to talk."

"Talk?" He set the stack on the buffet, shuffling envelopes like they mattered. "You think words unravel this mess? If you're here to help, the lawyer wants death certificates certified, utilities are a mess, and the roof —"

"Mark, where are the clock and Grandmother's brooch?"

His hands froze, clenching the papers he'd been looking at. He didn't look up. He snarled, "Not this again. The clock's being repaired; the brooch is getting appraised. You sound like a stuck record. Anything else?"

"Yes. I'd like to see Mom's checkbook and the CDs."

He laughed once, a single hard exhale. "What gives you the right? You've never cared before."

"That's a lie. Every time I asked if Mom needed anything, you shut me out. You told me she didn't want charity from me." She inhaled sharply, swatting away the tears that threatened. "I wanted to help. I just couldn't come home with Joe here. And then you told me he died —" She crossed to the window and her mother's chair. "Do you know how much guilt I carried? And for what? It was a lie."

"You heard what you wanted to hear. You never wanted to come back."

"You're right — I didn't. But I would have if you'd told me the truth. All of it."

"What do you know about truth?" The words came fast, practiced. "You call twice a year and call that help? You swoop in with your big eyes and act like I picked Mom's pockets."

She swallowed. "Did you?"

He stepped toward her, anger warming his face. "I kept this place standing. Appointments. Pharmacy. Nights she couldn't sleep. Where were you when Mom needed you?"

The question landed like a slap. She had answers. They crowded in her mouth and found no way out.

She set the envelope on the table and opened the clasp with a click.

He watched her fingers, then the paper. "What is that?"

"The truth." Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. "Things you already know."

He snorted. "You brought me gossip in a manila envelope?"

She slid the first photo out and set it face up: the yard, the swing, the watch.

He didn't look at it at first. He looked at her, as if the trick might be in her face.

"Tell me that's nothing," she said.

He glanced. The muscle in his jaw flicked. "Looks like two idiots throwing punches thirty years ago. Looks like nothing."

"Anthony," she said. "Joe."

"Looks like nothing," he repeated, louder. "And even if it was something, what do you want? To reach backward and rearrange it?"

She set the second down —Tessa half-turned, Mrs. Lawson's hand pinched white on her sleeve.

"The neighbors saw," she said.

"Neighbors saw plenty," he shot back. "They were afraid. So they turned their backs on us."

She set the third — Julia's reflection, blood at the hairline, towel balled, chin up like she might dare the mirror to say it out loud. "And this?"

"Stop!" The word came sharp and reflexive, like he'd touched a hot stove. His eyes cut from the photo to Rachel's face and away again. "What are you doing? Let sleeping dogs lie."

She slid the last one free — the child's back, welts raised, a belt lifted in the ghost of a mirror.

Something flinched in him and vanished. "That could be anybody," he said too quickly. "You don't even see a face. People take pictures. People —"

"It's my wallpaper," she said quietly. "My room."

Silence lifted the hair on her arms.

He moved first. "If Mom asked me to do something, I did it. Where were you when she needed you? Where were you when I was carrying everything? You left. You left me to it. So don't stand in our kitchen and wave old paper at me like you've got a right."

"You're right — you were here," she said. "But was it all for Mom's benefit? Why did you let Joe do those things to her? And murder?"

Mark's face turned red. He snarled, "Murder? Joe was good to me. He gave me things. I believed him — and he said there was no body."

Her grip on the chair back tightened until her fingers hurt. The photos made a hard little row on the table. Each one tugged a thread she'd knotted down for years. The knot loosened. The room swam.

She looked at the photos until they began to blur. "Did you love him?" she asked, surprising herself.

"Who? Joe?" He shrugged. "As long as I kept my mouth shut and stayed out of his way, there was always an extra hundred on the table. If I mentioned wanting something, it appeared the next day. No explanation."

"Did you love Anthony at all?"

He stared like she'd switched languages. "He was a man my mother knew," he said. "A long time ago. He died. And I had to keep going."

He gathered the papers from the buffet and stacked them neatly. "If you're done, I have calls. You can let yourself out."

Her mouth opened. Nothing came. She lifted the envelope with clumsy fingers, slid the photos in, got the clasp wrong, and tried again. She walked stiffly across the room and opened the door. The hinges creaked as if they, too, were crying for what lived in the house.

She made it to the car and sat there, stunned. She'd just been told to leave her own home by someone she almost didn't even recognize. Was this the real Mark — cold, calculating, and powerless to the man they'd called their father?

The keys lay in her palm. She pocketed them and decided to walk — somewhere the dead might listen. Somewhere, Faith, Love, and Hope still stood tall.

Behind her, the house stood still, but she couldn't shake the thought — if Mark had learned to live with lies this long, what else was buried inside?

Chapter 32
The Untold Story Chap 10

By Begin Again

The wind nipped her cheeks until they turned pink. Tears mixed with mascara striped her face like a crooked mask. Her feet carried her, zombie-slow, to the cemetery gates.
The monument — Faith, Love, Hope — stood like a proud sentinel, tall and strong, watching over the living and the dead. As Rachel reached the gate, whatever promise it held slipped through her fingers like sand through an hourglass.

She stumbled over gravel and past rows of headstones, oblivious to names. The sky was the color of old sheet metal. Trees along the fence clicked their naked fingers; the last colorful leaves were gone. A soft mist drifted down as Rachel folded into the damp grass.

Sobs came choppy, stealing her breath. Finally, she managed to speak. She cried, begging her mother for an answer, "Was everything in our lives a lie?"

She pressed her fists to her eyes, but the flood only swelled. "I can't —" The rest tore out. "Am I supposed to fight for what's right when you couldn't?" She swept the envelope across the stone. "You chose hatred over love. Why? What hold did he have on you?"

She tipped her face up. "Father in Heaven, please." The prayer shook. "My life, my family — was it all deceit?" Her breath came in gulps. "What do you expect me to do?"

Gravel shifted behind her.

She turned — red eyes, hair stuck to her face — and there he was.

 

Noah. Hands in his pockets, still as if any sudden move might spook a wild thing. He didn't speak. He waited. 

A guttural sound, much like a wounded animal, broke from her. He crossed the space in three strides, knelt close without crowding, and opened his arms.

She fell into him like the air had given out. One hand found the small of her back; the other cradled her head. He held her firm — solid like the ground. "I can't," she gasped against his shirt. "I can't do this."

"You can," he said into her hair, softly. Barely more than a whisper. "Remember, you're not alone. I'm here."

She sobbed once, sharply, and again, a bit longer. He didn't shush her. He didn't try to explain Mark, or Julia, or the years of history that pressed down on her. He just held her like a stone, unmovable.

When the sobs thinned to jagged breaths, he loosened his hold only enough to see her face. "Look at me," he breathed.

She did. Their eyes met, and she didn't look away.

"None of this is your fault," he said. "You hear me?"

She nodded.

"Blank spots kept you breathing," he said. "You're filling them now. That's brave. That's hard. And you're not doing it by yourself."

Her chest hitched. "Mark made me feel so small, as if the whole thing might be my imagination. Like the pictures were just —" She swallowed. "— nothing."

Noah glanced at the envelope on the ground, then back. "They're the truth," he said. "And we're going to prove it to anyone who will listen."

She wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, leaving a streak. He reached into his coat and produced a clean handkerchief, as if he'd planned to have one. "Here."

"Who even carries these?" she said, taking it.

"Men who work counters and get sneezed on," he murmured. "Men who sit with women in cold places until their breathing evens out."

The wind pressed at their backs. The cemetery was silent. The headstones asked no questions, and their occupants offered no answers. Rachel breathed in and out until her lungs continued to do so without her having to remind them. "He's made the lie into a life," she said. "It's all he'll see." She let the handkerchief rest in her lap. "I have to finish this, don't I? But I don't know if I can."

"We will," he said. "Together we'll hunt the truth, and when we find it, we'll put the past to rest."

She nodded — the movement felt like the start of steadier ground. Her gaze drifted to the monument, then down to the envelope in the grass. She closed her hand over it. "Faith. Love. Hope," she whispered. "That's where the truth lives."

Noah stood and offered his hand. She took it. He pulled her up slowly so the world wouldn't tilt. They stood under the gray sky for a moment, just the two of them, shutting out the world, the pain, and the grief.

"We search for the truth first," he said. "Only then can we find the rest."

"Truth first," she echoed, and slid the envelope under her arm like a thing worth carrying.

They walked to the gate. At the curb, his truck waited, paint scuffed by honest work. He opened the passenger door and didn't hover; he knew she'd ask if she needed help.
When she was settled, he closed her door and rounded to his side. The heater coughed and then sighed, letting its warmth fill the cab. A faint splattering of rain marked the windshield.

"Where to?" he asked.

She looked through their shared reflection in the glass — their faces superimposed, a little blurred. The weight in her chest shifted from crushing to heavy — but lighter than before. Her eyes lifted to his. "Would you hold me?"

He wrapped his arms around her across the bench seat, pulling her close. "I was hoping you'd ask."

She tipped her chin up. His lips brushed hers softly, then with more intention. The cab went very still as they clung to each other, finding something both of them had been looking for.

Neither wanted to let the moment slip away, but they both knew they had things to do. Noah was the first to speak, though his arms remained wrapped around her. "Where do we start?"

"Karen and Bill," she said. "Then, Tessa. Then, Mrs. Lawson." Her fingers tightened on the envelope. "And after them, the prison."

Noah nodded, eased the truck into gear, and pulled them into a town that had learned to keep its secrets. The tires hummed a low, steady note. "Let's go find the truth," he said.

She let out the breath she'd been holding. "Yes," she said. "Let's."

*****

The house was quiet after Rachel left. He'd almost gone after her — almost. He watched her in the car, and when she got out, he hoped she was coming back, but she turned and walked away.

His anger had surged. How dare she make a fool of him, teasing him and waiting for him to come to her? He watched her go, cursing her every step.

Minutes later, he stood in the dining room with a stack of bills in his hand. He didn't remember crossing the room. The bills were just there. He set them on the buffet and leaned on his palms. His anger hadn't subsided. With each passing moment, his thoughts got wilder. He counted the envelopes twice, then again, lips moving.

She had no right to march in and throw pictures on his table. She didn't know the nights he drove their mother around because she couldn't sleep. She didn't sit in waiting rooms. She didn't hear Julia call for Rachel until her voice wore thin. He stayed. He did the work. He was her savior. She couldn't take that from him.

That was the story he'd built and held on to. The one Joe had taught him to live by.

Joe made everything else easy. Cash on the table. Hundreds in the glove box. "For groceries." "For the lawyer." He signed a second mortgage because Joe said it was the only way to do it. He sold the clock. He sold the brooch. He sold the silver. The house was still here. The lights stayed on. What was the harm?

He tried to laugh and stopped. Instead, his head filled with his mother's voice from the bedroom — Rachel. Where's my Rachel? It started softly. It turned into a plea. It ended as a demand he couldn't shut out.

Bits of the night she died flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes, trying to shut the thoughts out. He told himself he didn't kill her. He'd only done what she asked.

He looked at the cabinet where they used to keep the insulin. He saw the orange cap and the clear barrel as if they were in front of him. He saw Julia in the chair by the window, robe loose at the knee, hands shaking, whispering, "Please, Mark. Make it stop. Call Rachel."

He took the syringe. He pulled the plunger past the number the doctor said. Past the next mark. He kept going until the barrel was full. He smiled so she wouldn't be afraid.
"You're not going to feel pain again," he'd whispered.

The needle slid under her thin skin. Her hand twitched once and relaxed. Her face eased. Her last breath escaped her lips, raspy and low. He lifted her. She was light. He carried her to the bed, tucked the blanket, smoothed her hair, and kissed her forehead. "Sleep, Mama," he said. "Sleep."

A quick call to one of Joe's friends, a doctor, and the paperwork said heart attack. No one asked questions. No one cared.

Now the kitchen light buzzed. A pipe ticked. Mark rubbed his face with both hands until his eyes watered. "They don't know what I carried," he said into his palms. "They don't know what I did."

Joe's voice came back the way it always did — inside his head, as clear as a mouth at his ear — Do what needs doing. Keep your mouth shut. Be useful.

An icy fear crept across his heart. If Rachel took those pictures to the police — if she brought that girl and the neighbor and their notes — if she started asking questions he couldn't dodge— Too many ifs screamed in his head.

He yanked a drawer, pulled an envelope, and slid out the checkbook. The number wasn't enough. Not for the next payment. Not for anything.

He shoved the register back and slammed the drawer. The dishes in the hutch rattled.
"She doesn't understand," he said. "None of them do."

He looked toward the back door. On the other side was the yard, beneath the flower garden— where he'd worked with a shovel when he was a kid because Joe told him to. He remembered — Joe backed the truck in. Joe gave orders. Mark kept his mouth shut and did what he was told. Sometimes, late at night, he still heard metal hitting stone out there. He still saw the body.

If Rachel dug, she would find what he already knew was there.

He turned back to the table. He could still see where she'd laid out the photos in a row. He wiped the spot with his hand, though there was nothing on it.

A car door closed on the street. Voices faded.

"Secrets don't stay buried forever," he said, his voice too loud. He swallowed, fighting the tears. "I just have to keep shoveling — burying it all — until she goes away."

He listened for her car, for the opening of the door, for anything besides this silence. There was nothing, but he kept listening to the voices in his head.

Chapter 33
The Untold Story Chap 11

By Begin Again

Not far from the cemetery, Noah pulled into a small parking lot outside Trixie's Donut Shop. Rachel stared through the windshield, lost in thought. Her tears had stopped, but her mind was still reeling with mixed emotions.

The truck's engine continued to purr as Noah studied her profile and felt the old pull —high school afternoons on the river, freshman year coffee runs, the way she laughed when they cut across lawns to beat curfew. He'd thought it might last. Then one day, she was gone — no note, no call, and he packed those feelings away because he had to. Seeing her again had cracked the lid. It wasn't new. Was it possible that his feelings had remained dormant in his heart, blocked by the pain and loss he felt when she left without a word?

"Noah, are you alright?" Rachel's hand reached to touch his arm.

"What? Oh yeah, I guess I was trying to put things in order in my mind. You seemed to have been lost in yours as well."

For the first time that day, a smile crossed her face and stayed there. "It's a lot to digest at once."

"Rachel — I didn't mean to crowd you. If I did —" he dropped his gaze and stared out the windshield.

She turned and touched his hand. "Oh, Noah, it's not you." She shifted closer to him. "I couldn't do this without you. I came home to pack boxes and find closure to my childhood. Instead — well, I walked into something I could never have imagined, and now I can't put it into one of those boxes and seal it away." She let her head rest against his shoulders. "I'm glad you're here."

Noah ran his hand across her cheek, murmuring, "Me, too."

She noticed the sign on the side of the building. "Trixie's," she said. "Mom and I used to stop for hot chocolate and chocolate-covered donuts. This has got to be the best donut shop in town. Does Trixie still own it?"

"She does. Why don't I grab some donuts and hot chocolate, and you can make your phone calls to Bill and Karen? I'm sure they are worried."

*****
"Karen, it's Rach."

"Finally! Are you with Noah?"

"Yes, he found me at the cemetery."

"The cemetery? I thought you went home to talk to Mark."

"I did. It didn't go well."

"Girl, you've had us worried sick. I thought Bill was going to have a stroke sitting here waiting."

"Tell him I'm sorry."

"I would, but he took off a little while ago. Said something about doing some digging on his own."

"Oh dear, that doesn't sound good. People might not like a stranger prying into things that have been buried."

"Tell me about it. I'm sitting here with Tessa and —"

Rachel cut her off. "You found Tessa? Is she willing to —"

"Rach, come up for air, okay? Tessa's really nervous, but she does admit that the night has changed her life and not for the better. It seems as if Joe and his cronies kept close tabs, ensuring she never spoke about what she saw."

"I can relate. My father's anger sent me running to the city. I'm sorry for what she had to live with. Is she willing to talk to me?"

The line was muffled, and then Karen returned. "She's frightened, but I told her I wouldn't leave her side. She has to go back to work but says she'll be off by three."

"She's not going to change her mind, is she?"

"Nope, I'll be waiting right outside to pick her up. Should I call Bill and tell him to meet us at Mrs. Lawson's around 3:15?"

"Sounds good. Tell Tessa I really appreciate the fact that she's willing to talk to us. See you later."

"I'm not sure it's fair to say she's willing, but she has agreed to meet with us."

"Karen, you didn't —"

"Rach, don't get too worked up about it. I didn't strong-arm her if that's what you are thinking. I just reminded her that withholding evidence was a crime. Oh yeah, and I did mention that if Joe was back on the streets, her life might be in danger. It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes, but —"

"No buts! She's agreed to meet us, and that's a start. Here, listen for yourself."

Static filled the line for a moment, and then a trembling voice spoke, "Rachel, it's Tessa. I've agreed to come to your meeting, but if it comes to court —"

Karen's voice came back on the line, "We're not going to worry about any of that right now. We only want to learn the facts." The line was quiet for a second, and then Karen said, "We'll see you at Mrs. Lawson's."

 

*****
Noah slowed as he turned onto Ashland Avenue. Rachel's fingers were locked around the seat belt, knuckles pale. Her face had gone the color of paper.

"You want to wait?" he asked. "We can circle the block. Or go somewhere else."

She shook her head. "No." She hesitated and added, "It's just — I'm afraid of my own house, Noah. The place I grew up in has a story I never saw. Or I did, and I shoved it somewhere I couldn't reach."

"Okay," he said. "We'll do this together."

He parked half a block down. They got out. The air felt colder on this street. As they walked, Rachel glanced toward the driveway and came to a stop. Mark stood by the garage, his sleeves rolled up, a shovel in his hand. Fresh dirt clung to the blade. He didn't move. He just stared at her.

Rachel went still. Noah stepped closer, set an arm around her shoulders, steady but not tight. "Mrs. Lawson's porch," he said quietly.

She nodded. They turned their backs on the garage and climbed Mrs. Lawson's steps. Rachel kept her eyes on the door and didn't look back.
 

****
Mrs. Lawson opened the door before Noah's knuckles landed. "Come in," she said, "and be quick." She turned the deadbolt behind them. Rachel and Noah exchanged glances, but neither said a word.

 

Her kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls. Yellow curtains half-closed the window that faced Rachel's hedge. Coffee cups were waiting on the table.

"Mark's out there," Rachel said. "In the driveway."

"I know." Mrs. Lawson pulled a narrow spiral from a drawer and flipped to the last page. "He was out in the backyard late last night, too. He had some kind of work light rigged up." She tapped her pencil notes. "I wrote it down —12:18 a.m. —yard light on. 12:31 —metal scraping and 12:50 —light off." 

Rachel kept a hand on the envelope with the pictures. "Karen and Tessa should be here soon. And I think Bill will be coming as well."

As if called by the name, the bell rang. Karen stepped in first, phone in hand; Tessa followed, eyes down. She hovered near the door as if she might back out. Seconds later, Bill arrived, removing his cap as he entered.

"Thanks for coming," Rachel said.

They took places at the little table — Mrs. Lawson at the corner, Rachel beside Noah, Karen across from Tessa. Bill remained standing, glancing out the window toward the backyard.

Rachel kept her voice even. "Tessa, can you start with Sharon?"

Tessa's hands tightened around each other. "Sharon drove me," she said. "My mom's car was in the shop. We came past Miller's. Joe was outside. There was a crowd gathering, and a fight broke out. Fists flying everywhere. Sharon had one of those throwaway cameras." She swallowed. "She took a couple of pictures through the window."

"Are you sure it was my father?"

Tessa nodded. "We knew him. The fight was just getting started; people were shouting. We didn't stay. We swung through the Burger Drive-In for food and ate in the car." She swallowed. "By the time we turned onto your street, Joe's truck was already up on the curb. He and another man were beating a third."

Mrs. Lawson said, "That was Anthony. I'd cleaned him up and bandaged him. He'd gone to your mother's, but no one answered. He was leaving when Joe showed."

Rachel's fingers tightened. "Where was I?"

Mrs. Lawson met her eyes. "You weren't home. Julia told me you were at a sleepover — the Carsons' girl, two streets over. That's why Mark was the only one on the porch when I ran up. He froze. Didn't move."

 

"Then what happened? Where was Mom?"

Tessa picked up the thread. "Sharon told me to stay in the car. I didn't. I ran to the porch. Mark stared at me as if he couldn't hear. Your mom got between them. I saw Joe slam his fist into her face. I screamed. Joe was cursing and yelling that he was going to kill both of them."

"I grabbed Mark and Tessa, and we went into my house. Mark stood at the window, not saying a word." Mrs. Lawson sighed. "I guess Julia got into Sharon's car, and Joe and his buddy must have shoved Anthony into the truck." Mrs. Lawson nodded. "After the shouting stopped, I heard the truck door and tires as they sped away. Later," she tapped the notebook," I heard what sounded like shovels."

 

Tessa's voice splintered. "I'll never forget how Joe looked at us that night," she said. "Right at us with his cold eyes. The following day, he showed up at my school. Followed me in his truck until no one was around. Then he got out and shoved me inside. Took me down by the mill. I was sure he was going to kill me then and there." Tessa buried her face in her hands, and the tears started to flow.

"Oh, Tessa. You must have been terrified. I'm so sorry."

Between gulps for air, she added, "I've had nightmares ever since. I remember his hands around my throat, screaming if I told anyone what happened, he'd find me and kill me and then my family."

Karen leaned in, gentle but firm. "You'll tell the station what you told us," she said. "I'll sit next to you. He's never going to get near you — ever. I promise."

Tessa nodded once. "I'll hold you to that promise."

Suddenly, the back door flew open, and Mark stood in the doorway.

Noah slid his chair back and stood. His voice was calm, but his fingers tightened on the back of the chair. "You need something, Mark?"

Mark waved his gloved hand toward Rachel. "Mom says for her to come home." He laughed hysterically and then turned around, marching back out of the house. He shouted over his shoulder, "You're in trouble now, little sister."

Noah moved to the door and locked the latch. "Rachel, you aren't going back home tonight. I'm afraid Mark is on the verge of a nervous breakdown."

Bill's gaze moved to the window, then to the notebook. His jaw set. "I talked to an old army buddy of mine. He's a detective now. His name is Paul Runyard. We had lunch, and I filled him in on the details. He says it was before his time, but he's had his own run-ins with Joe, so he's prepared to listen to what we've found."

Noah nodded. "Well, that's a start, just getting someone to pay attention and listen."

"Paul's a good guy. I'm not promising that he'll be able to follow through, but I know he'll listen."

They reviewed the plan: Karen with Tessa to the station at four; Mrs. Lawson after. Rachel and Noah would go to the bank, the jeweler, and the clock shop, and everyone would return to the station by five for copies and signatures.

Tessa stood first, still shivering but not retreating. "I'll come back," she said. "I'm tired of being scared."

"Why don't you stay with me tonight, Tessa?" Karen said. "And you too, Rachel."

Noah moved and placed his hand on Rachel's shoulder. "She can stay in the apartment. I'll stand watch."

The kitchen quieted. Mrs. Lawson handed the notebook to Rachel. "Take it," she said. "Photocopy it and bring it back."

"I will," Rachel said. "Thank you."

They stood. Noah unbolted the door and checked the steps. "Clear."

On the porch, the air felt colder. Rachel looked straight ahead, not toward the hedge, the house, or the backyard. She didn't want to think about Mark or any of it at the moment.

"Ready?" Noah asked.

"Ready."

They went down the walk together. At the curb, Noah unlocked the truck. Rachel slid in and set the notebook on top of the envelope, palm flat on both. He put the truck in gear and drove away, eager to put distance between Mark and Rachel.

Behind them, Mark dropped to his knees, clawing at the dirt with bare hands. Pebbles scraped under his nails as he dug faster, muttering, "I know it's here — Daddy said it was here." Then his fingers closed around something small and cold. He lifted it to his chest, whispering, "I've got it, Daddy. Just like you wanted me to."

Chapter 34
The Untold Story Chap 12

By Begin Again

Detective Runyard's number flashed on Rachel's phone as Noah pulled into the bank lot.

Rachel scowled as she stared at the phone. "It's Detective Runyard. Do you think something's gone wrong?"

Noah chuckled. "You keep working yourself into a frenzy. Why not answer, and then you'll know."

Rachel looked sheepish. "I suppose you're right."

"You know I am, so answer the phone before he hangs up."

Rachel touched the answer button and said, "Hello, Detective. What's wrong?"

He chuckled. "Are you always such a positive person? Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to give you a heads-up that I've already made calls this morning to the bank, the jeweler, and the clock shop so that you won't be walking in blind. They know you are helping me gather information on a case and have agreed to cooperate."

"Thank you," Rachel said. "That should make things much easier. We're at the bank now. So, we'll see you later."

As she disconnected the call, Noah couldn't help but tease her. "So, did the big bad wolf blow your house down?"

Rachel laughed and climbed out of the truck, followed by Noah. "I guess he's not so bad after all."

They walked to the bank together.

The branch manager, Ms. Herrera, had the door open before they reached it. "Detective Runyard phoned," she said, ushering them to a small office with frosted glass. "I can't disclose account holders outright, but I can confirm activity patterns and provide a transaction summary."

Noah held Rachel's chair till she was seated, and then he sat beside her.  Rachel looked at Noah and then Ms. Herrera. "As you know, my mom passed, and I am here to close her estate. I noticed CDs and bonds were missing, and I thought she had more money in her accounts. We're trying to understand where her money went."

Ms. Herrera handed her a printed page, most of which was redacted except for dates and amounts. "There was a second mortgage, six months ago, and a large disbursement the same week," she said, sliding the sheet across. "Multiple cashier's checks to a law firm in Clayton. Regular late-night ATM withdrawals at convenience stores. Not consistent with her prior years."

"New signer?" Noah asked.

Ms. Herrera kept her voice neutral. "Someone amended documents within the past year. There are also transfers marked 'home care' to a private caregiver. If Detective Runyard emails me, I can provide invoice names."

Rachel breathed once, exhaling slowly. "This helps. We'll get him to follow up with an email."

They thanked the banker for her time and left her office.

When they stepped into the sunlight, Rachel lifted her face to it, as if the warmth might thaw the cold beneath her skin.

"You good?" Noah asked.

"I'm mad," she said. "Joe has to be behind this. I doubt that Mark could handle it all alone."

They walked two blocks to Hanley Jewelers. The display cases glowed. In the window, second row, third stand — Nana's brooch — pearls clustered around an emerald, a hairline nick near the clasp. Rachel could have found it blindfolded.

 

Rachel spoke first this time. "I think you are expecting us — about a brooch."

Mr. Hanley looked up from a loupe. "Detective Runyard said you were coming," he said, already reaching for the key. "I'll pull it."

"Who consigned it?" Rachel asked.

He lowered his eyes. "A man — six weeks ago. He presented a letter and a claim of authority. Name on my copy reads Mark Lawson." His voice went quiet. "I'm removing it from sale and holding for the police."

"Thank you," Rachel said. Her hands stayed flat on the glass until her legs remembered how to move. Noah cupped her elbow in his hand and steered her toward the door.

Outside, Noah let the door fall shut behind them and angled his body between her and the passersby. "Two down," he said. "Clock shop next."

Heplin's Clockworks smelled like oil and old wood. Pendulums kept competing for time.

Noah took the lead and introduced himself and Rachel, stating that they were looking for a specific clock.

"A Detective called," Mr. Heplin said from behind a bench. "Said to cooperate. You're asking about a tall-case?"

"Walnut," Rachel said. "Ribbed hood. Crack near the five."

Mr. Heplin pulled a pink duplicate from a file box. "Came in April on a repair ticket. Balance wheel. Two weeks later, a claim check was presented, paid in cash, and picked up." He tapped the signature: M. Lawson. "He asked about selling. I said we don't broker. He said he had a buyer."

"May I photograph this?" Noah asked.

"Please do. And tell the detective I'll scan the original."

Outside, the wind pushed hard down Main. Rachel didn't realize she was shaking until Noah guided her back to the truck and turned the key.

"Food," he said. "Then statements."

They didn't drive to the pharmacy. He took the long way, past the school, past the river bend, out to the small city lake where cattails leaned and a line of winter-white gulls stood ankle-deep at the shore. A faded No Swimming sign creaked on its chain.

They parked under a bare-limbed maple. Noah split a turkey sandwich and set half in her hand. The quiet sat beside them like a third person.

"What if I never stop being angry?" Rachel said, staring at the choppy gray water. "At Joe. At Mark. At myself for leaving. At Mom for staying."

"Then we let the anger simmer," Noah said. "Until you are ready to deal with it."

She tore a bite from the sandwich and finally tasted it. Across the lake, a boy skipped a stone; it hopscotched twice and sank. She watched the rings widen and fade.

"Back when we were kids," she said, "you used to say the lake could listen."

"It still can," he said.

She leaned into him, head on his shoulder, sandwich forgotten in her lap. He didn't talk. He let their breaths line up. He let the quiet hold.

"I like this," she said after a while. "The doing-nothing part with you."

"Top skill on my resume," he said, and she snorted, surprised by the sound of her own laugh.

He brushed his lips against her hair — not a question, not an escalation, just an answer. "Are you worried about seeing Joe? Because we don't have to go. Runyard said he could do it without anything from him."

"I have to admit, it scares me." She stared at the water, thinking. "But, it's something I must do — not for the case, but for me. I need to look him in the eye and let him know I'm free from his hold."

Her phone buzzed — Karen: Going to the station with Tessa. Mrs. L soon. You two okay?

Rachel typed — Lunch at the Lake. Ten minutes. Then we're coming in with the bank summary & clock ticket. Tell Tessa I'm proud of her.

Noah crumpled the sandwich wrapper and started the engine. "Let's get it done," he said.

"I'm ready," she answered..

 

*****
At the station, Detective Runyard had a conference room ready — six chairs, a copier, and a legal pad already labeled with their names. He took the bank summary, Mr. Hanley's verbal confirmation over the phone, and the clock ticket photo. He watched Rachel's face like a person trying not to hurry someone who has run an endurance race.

"You did well today," he said. "This is clean. It lines up."

Down the hall, Tessa finished her statement with Karen at her elbow. Mrs. Lawson waited with a tin of cookies on her lap because she didn't know how to arrive empty-handed at a tricky thing like today. Bill hovered in the doorway, hat in hand, eyes soft on Rachel.

They signed where Runyard pointed. The copier hummed. When they stepped out into the late light, Noah didn't ask what she needed. He already knew.

He drove straight to the apartment above the pharmacy.

"Stay," he said. "No argument."

She didn't argue. She showered, enjoying the steaming water till her skin turned pink. She pulled on the soft sweatshirt he left for her on the chair. He made tea. They sat on the small couch, wrapped in a blanket over their legs, their shoulders touching, steam ghosting in the lamplight.

"I keep waiting to crack in half," she said.

"You keep showing up," he said. "That counts more."

She turned enough to look at him. His hand found the back of her neck, warm and sure. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, then paused, asking nothing.

She moved the smallest distance and found his mouth. The kiss was slow, careful, an answer without any demand. When it ended, they stayed close, breath on breath.

"Will you stay?" she asked.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere." Noah gave her a quizzical look. "Did you think I would leave you here all alone?"

"That's not what I meant." She lowered her eyes as her cheeks turned a soft pink. "I want you to stay in the bedroom with me."

"I was hoping you'd ask," he said, and his smile reached his eyes.

 

He stretched out on top of the covers, tugged her into the curve of him, and pulled the blanket higher. His hand settled flat at her waist — a promise, not a claim.

The room eased. Outside, Main Street softened into the evening. Above them, the old clock over the stove ticked at its own stubborn pace.

Rachel's phone buzzed on the table. She turned it over.

Stateville Scheduling: Your visit is confirmed for Saturday, 10:00 a.m. Arrive 30 minutes early.

Her chest lifted and fell. "Tomorrow," she said into his shirt.

"Together," he answered, kissing the back of her neck. He drew the blanket higher and counted her breaths until they matched, and sleep finally took her.

 

Chapter 35
The Untold Story Chap 13

By Begin Again

The prison sat low and square against the horizon, its fences topped with coils of wire that glinted dully under the overcast sky. A cold wind swept across the parking lot, tugging at Rachel's coat as she stared at the heavy walls and narrow windows. Her chest tightened; it felt like the air was being pulled out of her.

Noah cut the engine and studied her face. "You don't have to do this today," he said quietly. "We can walk away. Let Runyard handle it."

Rachel shook her head. Her voice wavered but held. "No. We've come this far. I can do this — for Mom, for Anthony, for me — and maybe even for Mark."

Noah reached over and gave her hand a steady squeeze. "Then let's finish it."

She nodded once, opened the door, and braced against the wind as they walked toward the entrance.

Inside, a guard directed them through the metal detector. Both Rachel and Noah surrendered their phones, keys, and wallets, each item dropped into a plastic bin and locked away. The guard stamped their wrists with invisible ink and waved them down the corridor toward the visitor room.

The space was small, with fluorescents humming overhead, the air sharp with the scent of floor cleaner and old coffee.

Noah sat close enough if she needed him, far enough to let her lead.

The door buzzed. Joe Lawson shuffled in, thinner than his mugshot but cocky, a grin pulling at his mouth. Wrists cuffed to a belly chain, an orange jumpsuit worn thin at the knees. He stopped just inside, eyes cutting to Noah. "What the hell," he said with a dry laugh. "I agreed to see my baby girl, not one of the town criers. Needed a witness? Or a bodyguard?" He half turned, but the guard slid across the door, blocking him. Joe smirked. "Guess I don't get to pick my company."

Rachel straightened. "What's the matter, Joe? Afraid?"

"Afraid?" He dragged out the chair and dropped into it, the chain clinking. His glare shifted to Noah. "You had to bring support because you're still shivering in your shoes. What's the matter, girl? Still afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?"

Noah's chair scraped a fraction. "Watch your —" he started.

Rachel touched his wrist — one quick squeeze — her eyes never leaving Joe. "I've got this."

She folded her hands. "I didn't come for a friendly chat. I want answers."

Joe chuckled. "Ha. You don't even know the questions."

"Let me tell you what I do know," she said. "Mom was smart enough to take pictures."

His smile twitched. "If that were true, sweetheart, the cops would've solved her boyfriend problem long ago. Ask me? He had had enough of her weak self and walked."

"You're wrong," Rachel said, even. "She had the pictures. Maybe she was too afraid to use them." She leaned in a hair. "I'm not."

Anger flashed in Joe's eyes; he leaned forward until the chain pricked. The guard shifted a step, hand near his belt.

Joe sat back with a short laugh, voice turning knife-sharp. "Should've used that strap more. Maybe you'd have learned respect. Instead, you ran." He jerked his chin at Noah. "Where was anyone then? Left me and the boy to carry it."

Noah's jaw set; he held his tongue. Rachel drew strength from his stillness.

"Where I can be stubborn, I will be," she said. "I want to understand that night. I want to be clear on what you did — and what Mark did."

Joe's laugh went dry. "What night would that be?"

"The one where you killed Anthony."

"I'd watch your tongue, young lady. Where's your proof? Sure, we had a little fistfight, but that doesn't prove I killed anyone. Somebody find a body? 'Cause if they did, I haven't heard." He laughed. "Nothing gets by me, even in here."

"You're so proud of yourself," Rachel said. "You left a boy to clean up your mess and follow your orders."

"He took directions," Joe said, eyes glittering. "He did his part. He's been useful — took care of your mom, sent a little extra to my account now and then."

"Do you know what you did to him? He was a child."

"He was whatever I needed him to be." Joe's tone turned almost bored. "Might not even be mine. Your mama had a soft spot for that veteran — you think I didn't see it? Didn't matter. Blood or no blood — the boy did his job."

Rachel let a breath in and out. "You won't tell me where Anthony is?"

Joe smiled, almost fondly. "What good would that do me? You want dirt, you do the work. You want proof? Bring the law and let it grind."

"Tessa told the truth," Rachel said. "Mrs. Lawson wrote down what she heard. Bill remembers what Anthony wore around his neck. The law will grind."

For a moment, his smile thinned. "Memories fade. Facts get lost. You think they can beat me?"

"Every time."

A tic flicked in his jaw; he smoothed it away. "Your mother signed what I put in front of her. When she didn't, the boy fetched another paper. Fixed it."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Which paper?"

He made a show of thinking. "Ask that little lawyer in town about drafts that were never filed. Ask who came late to pick up the old copy after Mama changed her mind. Ask who liked to play delivery boy. Made him feel important. He caught on fast."

"The game?" she said quietly. "You played with his life — and Mom's."

Joe's smile warmed into something like joy. He leaned until the chain protested. "Where were you when she needed you? Off to a sleepover? Off to college? She was always calling for you. Where's my Rachel? You didn't hear it, did you?"

Rachel flinched, then steadied. "I hear it now. And I'm here."

Joe's voice dropped, mock-tender. "You think you can unteach a lifetime? Scrape my voice out of his head? Good luck."

The guard tapped his watch.

Rachel stood. "We're finished."

Joe glanced at the clock, then back at her. "Tell your detective to start where he already started," he said, voice warm as a trap. "With people who were useful to me. They remember what they did." He smiled, small and pleased. "They always do."

They turned to leave. As the door buzzed, Joe's laugh chased them down the corridor. "Let me know when you find a body."

 

*****
Detective Runyard had a conference room ready. He listened without interrupting as Rachel summarized the visit.

"He's careful," she finished. "He'll smear everyone before he gives anything away. He's got people caught in their fears and webs of mistrust."

"Then we don't wait for him to give," Runyard said. "We build around him."

Noah laid out what they had gathered — the bank summary with redacted dates and amounts, the clock ticket photo, and Mr. Hanley's note stating that the brooch was pulled from sale and held for the police. Runyard scanned, copied, and clipped everything to a thin but growing file.

There was a knock at the door. A tired man in a good suit eased in, clutching a worn briefcase. "Detective," he said. "Ms. Hart. I'm Thomas Ambrose."

Runyard stood halfway. "Mr. Ambrose, thanks for coming."

The lawyer set the case on the table and opened it, as if something might jump out. He slid out a heavy paper document. "I heard you were looking into the Lawson estate. I wasn't going to get involved, but —" He pushed the paper forward. "This is the original will Julia signed years ago. Proper witnesses, proper seal. It names you, Rachel, as primary heir to the house and its contents."

He wet his lips. "Months before she died, Mark brought me a draft favoring him. Asked me to 'fix' a clerical issue. I told him I would only file anything new with Julia's signed confirmation in front of me." He glanced up. "The next day she called — upset — said she'd been pressured, didn't want to change anything. I never filed a new will. I kept the original in my office safe."

Ambrose's mouth tightened. "Later that week, Mark came back, insisting on 'picking up the old copy' to show someone. He left with a copy. He never returned it."

Runyard tapped the heavy paper. "So the valid instrument is this original, naming Rachel. The later draft was never executed and never filed."

"Correct," Ambrose said. "But because Mark had a copy, he could wave papers at jewelers and repair shops and use the word estate like a magic trick. I'm not accusing those businesses — only noting how it was done."

Rachel's stomach tightened. "He used Mom to empty her life."

Ambrose winced, then steadied. "He used her name," he said gently. "People believed him because it was easier than asking hard questions. Small towns tend to back away instead of getting involved." He hesitated and then added, "Including me."

Runyard slid the will into a clear sleeve. "This gives us motive, method, and a paper trail. With your permission, I'll get a certified copy attached to affidavits and lodge the original with the court for safekeeping."

Rachel nodded. "Please."

The copier whirred. Ambrose buttoned his coat. "I'm sorry," he told Rachel and meant it.

In the hall, Tessa, Karen, and Mrs. Lawson waited. Tessa grabbed Rachel's arm as she approached. "I did it," Tessa said, voice tremoring. "All of it. I thought I'd throw up, but I didn't."

Rachel took her hand. "I'm proud of you."

Mrs. Lawson lifted her spiral notebook like a flag. "I showed them what I wrote — the times. That's exactly what they needed."

 

Runyard joined the group and agreed, taking both the notebook and the cookie tin. He looked around at them all — the neighbor with her pencil, the babysitter with her shaking hands, the widower with tired eyes, the daughter who looked steadier than yesterday.

"We'll keep moving," he said. "I'll push subpoenas for the Clayton law firm and caregiver invoices. Once I've got a judge, we'll proceed by the book. No surprises in court."

 

*****
Outside, the air smelled like coming snow. Noah put Rachel into the truck and gently shut the door. He rounded to his side and buckled in.

"Home?" he asked.

"Home," she said. "I want to sit where it's quiet and remember there's a tomorrow."

He drove them to the apartment over the pharmacy. Inside, the lamp made a soft pool on the small couch. Coffee steamed. They sat shoulder to shoulder under a blanket, and she let the day slow down, comforted by his breathing.

Her phone buzzed, and Mark's face filled the screen. She stared at it until Noah slid his hand on top of hers, whispering, "It will wait till tomorrow. Tonight, you need to rest and regroup."

She let the screen go dark and leaned into him. "I keep expecting to fall apart, and then I'll run again." 

"But you won't. You'll keep showing up," he said. "That counts more."

She turned and kissed him — steady and full of meaning. He kissed her back, at first, it was soft and gentle, and then the kissed deepened. He had a message he needed her to understand. 

When she pulled away, her voice was almost a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere. I know I can face tomorrow."

He pulled the blanket up and kissed the back of her neck. "Together. We face it together," he said, stroking her hair until sleep took her.

*****
On Ashland Avenue, Mark crouched beside the shovel, dirt clinging to his hands. In a small, eerie voice, he whispered into the dark: "Mark's a good boy, Daddy. He found it — just like you wanted him to."

Chapter 36
The Untold Story - THE END

By Begin Again

"Rach, I've got a few things I need to do at the shop," Noah said, grabbing his keys. "Give me a little time and I'll go with you to the cemetery."

"You've got a business to run," she said. "Besides, Bill's meeting me there. I'll be fine."

He dipped to kiss her. "You sure are a stubborn woman."

"I prefer determined." She laughed, waved, and headed for the door.

"Determined to drive me crazy," he called after her, grinning.

 

*****
Thirty minutes later, Rachel maneuvered the Civic through the gate and parked near her mother's gravesite. She looked for Bill, but he hadn't arrived yet. Grabbing the flowers from the backseat, she crossed the drive and slipped past the stones until she stood in front of her mother's stone.

She knelt and placed the flowers against the granite. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, swatting away the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks.

The second she opened her mouth and said, "Mom," the floodgates opened. Sobbing, she cried, "Mom, I feel like a fool. I'm sorry I didn't know."

She looked toward the FAITH — HOPE — LOVE monument and then down the lane, hoping to see Bill's car. Sniffing back the tears, she managed to speak. "My eyes — my heart — are open now. I can't change the past, but I can fight for you. I promise."

She looked at her watch. Bill was thirty minutes late. She checked her phone twice. She didn't have any missed calls, and there weren't any text messages either. She called; it went to voicemail.

She walked in circles around the grave, her eyes shifting to the driveway time and time again. "Mom, I've got a bad feeling," she murmured. "My gut's telling me something is wrong."

She checked her phone again. "I hope Bill is okay. Now I know how you felt when I didn't come home or call. Another thing for me to be sorry about."

Gray clouds moved in, blocking the sunlight. The temperature dropped a notch; a shiver ran through her. "If you've got any pull up there," she said, trying to smile, "tell Bill to —"

Her phone pinged. She jumped. It was a text from Bill.

Going by the house. It's time I spoke for Anthony.
If you don't hear from me in 15 — call Runyard.

"Bill, no," she breathed.

She was already on her feet, the chill gone, replaced by fear. She called, but it went straight to voicemail.

"Please be okay," she said, and ran. She cut across the grass to the gate, fumbled the latch, and sprinted for the car. As the engine turned over, she punched in Runyard.

"Detective — it's Rachel Hart. Bill just texted — he's gone to the house to confront Mark. I'm on my way there now."

"Don't go in alone," Runyard said. "I'm rolling units."

She was pulling onto Ashland as she yelled, "Hurry."

Rachel ended the call. Houses slid past in gray smears. She pressed harder on the gas.

She screeched to a stop in front of the house and hurried up the walk. The front door was unlocked. The kitchen light was on. She called, "Mark!" When no one answered, she called, "Bill." The house remained silent.

She rushed toward the back door and yanked it open. A mound of fresh earth sat beside a hedgerow. 

Her heart raced.

Mark stood with his sleeves rolled, and dirt covered his clothes. He looked up when she called his name. For a second, his face was blank like nothing had happened. Then it tightened.

"Mark," she said. "What are you doing?"

He straightened, wiped his palms on his jeans. "I'm finishing," he said. "Daddy wants me to get the job done right."

Bill lay off to the side, half-turned, one hand clamped to his shoulder, blood darkening his shirt.

"Mark," Rachel said. "What did you do?"

Bill tried to rise and gasped. "Stay back, Rach."

Mark lifted the shovel again, eyes gone wild.

Rachel lunged, catching the shaft near the blade.

"Drop it," she said, voice shaking but clear. "You don't want to kill anyone."

He laughed. It was high and piercing, like something snapping. "You don't know what I want," he said. "You have no idea."

"What are you talking about?"

Bill groaned and Mark raised the shovel again. Rachel screamed, "Mark, don't!"

Noah came up the path behind her — he'd left the truck on the street. He was there in two strides, fists clenched, eyes fixed on Mark.

Blood spread on Bill's shirt. He moaned, "You were there."

"Yes!" Mark shouted. "I did what men do." He jabbed a finger at Rachel. "You left. I kept the roof. I took the money Joe gave me. Then I was smart enough to take it on my own. Mom begged me to stop the pain, so I did. I saved her."

Rachel's palms burned. "You couldn't have — killed Mom."

He shrugged. "She wanted peace." His voice softened horribly. "You'll call me a monster. Maybe. But I did what I was told."

"I want to know why you watched them put Anthony in the ground," Rachel said. "Why did you help?"

 

He stared, then smiled like he'd won. "He wanted her," he said. "He wanted Julia, and Daddy said he'd never have her. So, we ended it. Joe and I are a team." He jabbed at Bill. "You started this. You wouldn't let it rest. I did the right thing. Now Mama's with him."

"No," Bill hissed, pushing up. "You didn't. You sold your soul for a pocketful of bills. You let two decent people die."

Mark's laugh turned to a snarl. He wrenched the shovel sideways, but Noah was faster. He locked both hands on the shaft and ripped it free; the blade spun out of Mark's grip.

Mark's eyes went bright. "I buried him because Joe told me to. Because that's what you do. You keep your mouth shut. You do what they tell you because you owe them." He looked furious, triumphant, and scared all at once.

A cruiser skidded to the curb. "Officer requesting backup, 1423 Ashland," a voice barked. Boots hit the grass. "It's over," the young officer said, weapon low but ready. "Hands where I can see them."

Mark twisted and cursed. Two more officers piled in, blocking his lunge toward Bill. Bill clutched his shoulder, breathing hard but steady.

"Help me!" Mark shouted at Rachel. "You know Daddy made me!"

Noah stepped between them. "Don't touch her," he said, calm and lethal. "Don't ever touch her."

Mark yanked something from his pocket and held it high, laughing — a pair of dog tags. "Game's over. You lose! I found the treasure. Tell Daddy I won."

They cuffed him. He kept talking, words tumbling. "You think you're clean? You think you can judge me?"

Detective Runyard eyes swept the yard. "You're under arrest for assault," he said evenly. "We're also opening a homicide investigation. You have the right —"

Mark screamed a single high shriek and then sagged as an officer led him toward the cruiser. He turned his head as he passed Rachel. For a wild moment, his face softened, like a boy asking to be forgiven.

Then the door shut.

Rachel slid down against the fence and sat hard on the ground. Noah crouched at her side and pulled her into his chest. She pressed her face into his shoulder and let all the air leave.

Bill sat up with help from an officer. They pressed a towel to his arm and helped him to his feet. He wavered and then steadied. "I'm okay," he said, though his voice cracked. "I'm —" He looked at Rachel. "I'm sorry."

She touched his hand. "Don't," she said. "You did what had to be done."

Runyard called for a forensic team. They roped off the hole and started working carefully. Another officer returned from the front and held out his hand — Anthony's dog tags.

Bill let out a sound like someone who had been suffering for a very long time. He reached, and the officer dropped the tags in his hand. He read the name on the plate, lips moving. "Anthony Michael Delaney," he said. "Thank you, God. May he rest in peace now."

They stayed until the techs finished and statements were taken. Mrs. Lawson sat on her steps, notebook closed in her lap. Tessa stood beside Karen, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes wide and glassy. At last, the yard stilled the way crime scenes do — purpose replacing panic.

Detective Runyard walked Rachel to the sidewalk.

"We'll file everything," he said. "We'll want full statements in the morning. We'll talk to the medical examiner and the county. Forensics will retrieve his body, and the coroner will verify that it is Anthony. You did the right thing."

Rachel could only nod. Her hands still shook.

Bill gripped her shoulder. "What happens to Anthony? He doesn't have a family."

Rachel pressed her hand against Bill's — letting her fingers graze across the silver metal and the embossed words, Anthony Delaney. "He's got family, Bill. You, me, Noah, and anyone else who cared. We'll bury him next to Mom, if that's alright with you."

Bill's eyes blurred, and he nodded. "He'd like that. The two of them together."

*****

They went together. The sky had gone the color of wet iron. At the grave, Bill held the dog tags like they were a relic. He knelt and pressed them into his palm.

"I'm sorry," he said to the name on the tag, to the mound where his friend rested. "I'm sorry it took so long."

Rachel stood beside Noah. She had her copies of the photos in her hand, stiff and clean. When Bill finally did what he needed to do, she stepped forward and set the manila envelope on the stone. It felt right, terrible, and necessary.

Noah put his arm around her. "You don't have to be the only one who carries this," he said.

She let him hold her. "I know," she said. "I don't want to be. We've set things right as well as we could, and I have to believe that Anthony and Mom forgive us for taking so long."

They stayed until it was nearly dark. Then they drove back to Noah's small apartment in quiet.

He fixed a light dinner, and they sat on the balcony for a long time, staring at the stars, neither breaking the silence. Finally, he stood and took her hand. She pressed against him, and he wrapped her in his arms. "Rachel Hart, I promised myself I'd wait, but I can't — I've waited long enough. I've got something I've got to get off my chest."

She tilted her head and stared into his eyes. "Tell me. What is it?"

He kissed her and then whispered, "I love you."

A chill ran down her spine, and she whispered back, "I love you, too."

Later, she climbed into bed and lay on her side, back to him. He reached over and slipped an arm across her waist, careful, not wanting anything more than to keep her safe. She tucked her hand into his and closed her eyes.

"Sleep," he whispered, and kissed the back of her neck.

She breathed out. For the first time in a long time, the sound that came back was softer than the one that had left.

Nearby, Ashland Avenue was quiet. The house sat with its windows dark. The police lights had gone.

The work ahead would be long. There would be court dates, paper, and new questions. There would be nights when the past bled back in. But the hole in the yard and the dog tags were facts now. The stories were no longer hers alone to carry.

They lay there together, awake a little longer, letting the steady press of someone beside them be proof that whatever came next, they would not face it alone.

Chapter 37
The Untold Story Epilogue

By Begin Again

The front parlor wore a new name on the bell: Jessup Investigations — Northern Branch. Lace curtains stayed because the house insisted, but everything else worked now — desks, a locked file cabinet against the wall, a small safe tucked beneath, Julia's chair by the window, and a framed training certificate beside Karen's Illinois license. Rachel's PERC card clipped neatly to an organizer that held more pens than any one office needed. It was proof that they were officially private investigators — thanks to a little extra boost from Karen's uncle — Southern Branch.

Tessa perched on the client chair with her ankles crossed, flipping through a bridal magazine. "Oh," she breathed, angling a page toward Karen. "Look at that one."

Karen leaned in. "The sleeves," she whispered, reverent. "And that neckline? It's perfect."

Rachel came out of the tiny copy room with a fresh intake sheet and stopped short. "You two are a hazard," she said, laughing. "Close it before Noah comes in."

"He'll live," Karen said. "Besides, we found the perfect dress."

Rachel looked, and for a second, the room softened around the picture. "It's beautiful," she admitted, then shook her head. "And expensive."

The bell chimed. Noah shouldered in with coffee and a paper bag. "What's expensive?"

Karen slapped the magazine shut. "Only the wild dreams of your favorite women."

"No, no," Tessa said, eyes bright. "The dress. The one that actually looks like Rachel."

"How much?" Noah asked.

Karen named the price.

He coughed on a laugh. "That is — not a small number. Considering you two just opened this business, we want to renovate upstairs, and I still run a pharmacy."

Tessa sat up, as if she'd just been hit by a bombshell.  "I've got it! I sew," she said, cheeks pink. "I won a contest once. And I have friends. We could make it."

"I can't ask you to do that," Rachel said, touched and flustered at once.

"You're not asking," Tessa said. "I'm offering."

Karen nodded. "Let us do what we're good at."

Noah slid a coffee to each of them. "Sold," he said. "But I'm buying the fabric. And if anyone bleeds on lace, I'm also buying Band-Aids."

They were still laughing when the door opened again and Mrs. Lawson swept in with a pie tin and her no-nonsense smile. "If you're planning something, I expect to be useful," she said, setting the tin down. "Who's baking the cake?"

"We haven't gotten that far," Rachel said.

"I have," Mrs. Lawson said. "I'll bake. And I can find two more women who decorate like they were born with piping bags in their hands. We can string lights across the backyard and borrow tables from the church."

Karen clapped once. "I know exactly who to call."

Noah leaned his elbows on the desk, taking in the scene, equal parts amused and amazed. "At the rate you're all going, you'll have a wedding planned before Rachel even picks a date."

He glanced at the wall calendar — two Saturdays circled in blue. He reached for a red pen, thought a second, and drew a third circle.

Rachel tilted her head. "What's that?"

"The day you walked back into my life," he said simply. "A perfect day to tie the knot."

Karen and Tessa made identical quiet noises that sounded like they were pretending not to cheer.
 

*****
At lunch, Rachel and Bill drove the two minutes to the cemetery. The wind skimmed the grass; the sky was the soft kind that makes even old stones look kind. A simple marker sat beside Julia's —

Anthony Delaney
Beloved friend. Loyal to the last.

They stood without speaking for a while. Rachel shifted the small spray of wildflowers until it looked right. "Bill?" she said at last.

"Mm?"

"Would you walk me down the aisle?"

He didn't answer right away. He took off his cap and cleared his throat. "I am not a man short on words," he said, voice rough, "but you caught me." He put the cap back on, eyes shining. "I'd be honored, honey."

She breathed out. "Thank you. It will mean so much to me, Noah, and I bet Mom and Anthony will be watching, too."

Bill smiled. "You know, I bet you're right."
 

*****
 

Back at the office, Karen fanned two files like cards. "Quick morning chat, then cake tasting."

"Cake tasting?" Noah echoed from the doorway.

"Yes, but work first," Karen said, solemnly. " The DA says Joe's trial is set for September. Subpoena refreshers next week. Mark's still at the state hospital, and it looks like he'll be there for a long time. He's very unstable. I'm sorry, Rach."

Rachel nodded. "It's okay. He's somewhere where he can get help. That's what matters."

"And this," Karen went on, tapping a thinner folder, "is our pro bono. Daughter thinks her mom's 'helper' is siphoning cash. No retainer, but she has receipts and a knot in her stomach."

Rachel slid the folder toward her. "I'll start. Bank records with mom's consent, a clean timeline, background on the helper, and APS ready if we confirm."

Karen gave her a look that was half partner, half friend. "You're getting very good at this."

Rachel shrugged, a little bashful. "I feel like Mrs. Lawson sometimes. We listen. We write things down. We help where we can. It matters."

The bell chimed. Their two o'clock stood in the doorway with a careful stack of papers. Rachel set a box of tissues on the client side of the desk — Noah's quiet habit — and smiled. "Come in," she said gently. "Tell us everything because we're here to help."

Karen clicked her pen, easy and sure. "And don't worry — we take turns saving the world. Occasionally, we send invoices, but more than likely, not."

The woman's laugh came out like a hiccup. Then she talked. They listened. By the time the clock over the stove chimed the hour, the folder had shape. Not a solution yet — just shape. It was enough to begin.

When the door clicked shut behind the client, Rachel's phone buzzed. She checked the caller ID and answered, a smile spreading across her face. "How nice to hear from you, Detective."

"All my pleasure," the detective said. "I just thought I'd let you know we're on track for September. Paper's solid. You can tell your neighbor and the babysitter that ordinary people doing hard things carry more weight than they think."

"I will," she said. "Thank you."

 

Runyard cleared his throat. "No problem, but if you really want to thank me, how about dinner tonight?"

Karen compressed her eagerness as well as she could. "Dinner? Let me see if I'm free." She rustled some papers while Tessa and Rachel leaned closer, squeezing her arm. Finally, in her sweetest voice, she answered, "Looks like you might be in luck, Detective."

"Great! I'll pick you up at 7." He paused and then chuckled, "Tell your friends to work on their surveillance techniques. I could hear their breathing." He hung up the phone.

Mrs. Lawson reappeared as the girls giggled like schoolgirls, her pie tin replaced by a notepad. "We're set for three cake trials," she announced. "Vanilla with lemon curd, chocolate with espresso, and carrot with cream cheese."

"Research," Karen repeated, still glowing from the phone call. "Critical."

Tessa flipped the magazine back open, but this time she was sketching — sleeves, a neckline, a train that didn't trip anyone. "If we keep the lines clean, it'll look like the one you loved," she said to Rachel.

"Thank you, Tess. I'm sure it will be wonderful."
 

*****
 

Evening found Noah and Rachel on the front porch, sipping from two mugs and basking in the last of the light. Ashland Avenue sounded like itself again — screen doors slammed, a dog barked, and someone calling a child in for dinner. Behind them, the parlor glowed softly through lace curtains.  

Noah leaned back in his chair, watching the last streaks of sunset fade. "We've come a long way from where this all started."

Rachel smiled. "We really have. The house feels different now. Like it finally remembers what peace is."

"Maybe because you do," he said, reaching across and brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

Her pulse caught, gentle but certain. "Maybe."

The quiet between them was easy, filled with the rustle of leaves and the hum of evening. Rachel's eyes lifted toward the window, where the wall calendar still hung — two blue Saturdays circled neatly, and one red ring marking the day she came home.
He followed her gaze and smiled. "Pick the date when you're ready," he said softly. "Though I admit — I already know which one I'm hoping for."

Rachel laughed under her breath. "You're impatient."

"Persistent," he corrected, and before she could reply, he leaned in and kissed her. The world seemed to hush — the porch, the street, even the air held its breath.

When he drew back, she stayed close, her breath catching. "You kiss me like that again," she whispered, teasing but tender, "and I might say let's get married tomorrow."

Noah's smile deepened, eyes warm. "Really?"

"Really."

He kissed her once more, slower this time, as the porch light flickered on. "Tomorrow it is," he said against her lips.

 

She kissed him and smiled, "Can we give Tessa time to finish my dress?"

Down the block, a church bell rang — a comforting sound in a world finally at peace.

Chapter 38
The Lighthouse Chap 1

By Begin Again

Author’s Note 
This is the fourth and final story in Yesterday’s Dreams, following The Forgotten Dress, By The Sea, and The Untold Story. It is a stand-alone novella filled with romance and mystery.

This final story in Yesterday’s Dreams brings Claire home to scatter her father's ashes and close a door—on grief, the lighthouse, and the past. Instead, she finds a locket, a name, and a question that belongs to more than one family. A planned goodbye becomes a quiet search for what really happened—and what should happen next.

 

THE LIGHTHOUSE

Chapter 1

 

The road narrowed as it neared the point, a ribbon of cracked asphalt hemmed by scrub and stubborn grass clawing through gravel and stone. Claire eased off the gas. Her headlights skimmed the cliff edge and caught a pale shape for half a heartbeat — a person? Then there was only wind and gulls and the shine of the restless sea.

She rolled the window down. Cold salt stung her cheeks; the air tasted like her childhood — and like the day everything changed.

She pulled into the gravel turnout and killed the engine. The night wasn't silent — surf crashed against the rocks, gulls quarreled overhead, and the wind whistled through the grass. Ahead, the lighthouse rose bone-pale, its lantern room dark. The keeper's house leaned close, shingles curled and weatherworn. Home, her chest said. Careful, the rest of her answered.

The urn sat in the passenger seat; brass polished to a quiet glow. She had chosen it and insisted on the compass rose. She traced the faint engraving with her thumb.

"Well, Papa," she whispered, "here we are. Just you and me again."

The yard gate banged once, twice, as if someone had just passed through and left it to the wind.

Claire popped the trunk. Inside lay the things you keep when you come back to a place like this — a coil of rope, a folded tarp, a flashlight, and her father's old storm stick — an oar handle cut down and sanded smooth, its end wrapped with worn tape. She took the stick in her left hand, the urn in her right, and crossed the patchy yard.

The latch rattled. When she reached for it, a man stepped out from the tower's shadow — tall, early thirties, rain in his hair, a rolled set of plans under one arm.
Claire's boot slipped on the damp plank. She tightened her grip on the urn and angled the stick so he couldn't miss it.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, palms half-raised. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't," she said, though her pulse thought otherwise. "The point is closed."

"I know." He nodded toward the tower. "I'm David Reed. My family —"

Anger flared in Claire's eyes. She swallowed hard before snapping, "Doesn't own this until Monday," she said. "Tonight, it's mine."

His gaze flicked to the urn, then to the stick, then back to her face. "Understood. I shouldn't have come. I only wanted a look at what we're taking on."

"Don't you mean what you're taking away?" she asked.

He took that without flinching. "Fair."

The wind pushed the gate. He steadied the latch without thinking. "This is loose. Wedge a scrap under the tongue and it won't bang all night."

"I can manage," she said.

"I believe you." He stepped back, careful not to crowd her. "I'm — sorry for your loss."

There was no good answer to that. She nodded and, in the strongest voice she could manage, she said, "Good night, Mr. Reed."

"David," he said, then seemed to reconsider. "Right. Good night." He turned and then stopped. "I didn't get your name."

Claire smiled. "Because I didn't give it. Like I said, goodnight, Mr. Reed."

He took the path toward the turnoff, his boots scuffing against the stone, and was gone. She stood with the quiet gate in her hand, the tower behind her breathing like a sleeping lion. The stick felt right against her palm, the old tape tacky with salt.

Her phone buzzed. Aunt Ruth's name lit the screen.

"I've just arrived," Claire said. "And before you ask — I'm fine."

"I don't understand why you had to go back there alone," Ruth muttered. "Didn't one person already waste his life defending that —" a pause, softened by force — "that dilapidated relic?"

"That's not fair," Claire said, pushing the gate open. "It needs work, but it's withstood a lot of storms and kept people off the rocks."

"Whatever you say."

"Papa always said, 'Others can point out the rocks, but it's the captain who steers the boat around them. Many take the journey, but the course is my own.'"

"Oh, Claire. You sound just like him. Can't you scatter his ashes and come home? Or at least stay in town?"

"I've come to give him a proper send-off," she said. "And to say goodbye to what we shared."

Ruth sighed. "He was a good man."

"He was. I'll call in the morning."

The keeper's door stuck, then gave with the same old sound. Inside smelled like coffee, salt, and damp wood. His yellow slicker still hung on the pegboard. The sight knocked something loose in her chest. She steadied herself with a palm on the doorframe, set the urn on the table, and leaned the storm stick within reach against the wall.

"Rules," she told the room. "I talk. You listen. No judging."

Wind moved through the walls in a way she knew by heart. Somewhere, a loose trim board clicked with the gusts.

Every Saturday, dust that edge. Press here to check for rot. Don't forget!
Her father's voice echoed in her mind.

She walked to the rear window. The trim board stuck out slightly — about a fingernail's width. On habit, she pressed it with her thumb.

A soft click. The board slid forward, and a slender envelope eased into her palm.
Her father's plain print on the face —  For the harbormaster if I am not here.

The tape on the corners had dried and curled. She turned it over, saw nothing, but her curiosity didn't allow her to open it. She set it beside the urn and listened as the house answered the wind. Under her fingers, the table's old groove from homework nights fit her thumb, a reminder of home.

The iron stair waited where it always had. She picked up the stick, tucked it under her arm, took the urn, and started up. At twenty-five steps, she paused, like he'd taught her, keeping her breath steady, and climbed on. The lantern room felt larger without the lens. Salt dulled the glass. A clean ring on the circular sill marked where the lamp used to sit. She set the urn there, propped the stick within reach, and rested her palm against the cold pane.

"Papa, it's over," she said, not sure whether she meant the fight or the keeping. White-capped waves hammered the crags below. A faint metal tick came from the frame, as if the tower remembered how to speak.

"If I bury you here, you'll always be at home," she said. "If I take you to the sea, you go where I can't." She swallowed. "Either way, you're gone from me forever, and I don't know how to go on alone and without this place."

Something beneath her boot gave a slight creak. She looked down. A hair-thin seam circled a panel in the pedestal where the lens had sat. She ran a fingertip along it and found a small resistance — a keyway — something she'd never noticed before.

He told her everything. Why hadn't he told her about this?

Below, the outer door let out a long, complaining creak. Claire snatched up the stick and stepped into the stairwell. "Hello?"

 

Her voice fell down the iron in hollow rings. No answer. Just the door easing back to stillness and the wind moving on. She scolded herself for being so jumpy. She'd heard the creaks and groans a thousand times, but tonight — without her father — it felt different.

Back in the kitchen, she set the kettle on and let the room settle into its day's end shape — fading light at the window, mug by the sink, slicker on its peg. She held the warm tea in both hands until the heat steadied her. The stick leaned against her leg.

By the back door, the shallow cabinet that always looked like an afterthought held nails, twine, a tin of screws, and behind them — a folded scrap of cedar shim. She took the shim outside and wedged the gate latch tight. David's advice, without the satisfaction of admitting it.

When she tugged the cabinet door closed, something clicked behind the jars. She reached in and found a brass key hanging from a nail on a loop of twine.
A strip of tape on the bow read, in his neat hand — Pedestal.

"Of course you did," she said, half laugh, half breath — his answer to the small groove that she'd never seen before.

She took the key and the stick and went back to the tower. The iron complained under her boots. In the lantern room, she knelt, slid the key into the slim keyway, and turned. The hidden latch let go. The plate lifted an inch.

Inside lay a cloth-wrapped bundle and a plain envelope sealed with brown tape. On the envelope, in his hand: For Claire — open when you're not alone.

He knew she would come alone. He also knew how to make her ask for help. Her father's voice was always with her.

She took both — the sealed envelope and the bundle, lowered the plate, relocked the seam, and slipped the key into her pocket. The stick came back down with her, tapping once on each iron tread.

She slipped the sealed envelope into her bag — something for later. At the table, each opened the bundle. Inside lay a small velvet pouch and a folded note brittle at the crease.

Lily —
I'll be on the morning ferry. If you are sure, meet me on the south slip. If you have changed your mind, leave the locket with Mrs. Harper, and I'll understand.
D. Reed

No date. No last name. Just that.

The pouch held a gold locket with a small dent near the hinge and a thin scratch across the face. No photograph — only a fold of pale-blue ribbon tucked where a picture would go.

Lily — Mrs. Harper — South slip.

Claire closed the locket and felt its warmth settle into her palm. 

She couldn't make sense of any of it. Was it a test of some sort? Certainly not about the future. No — it appeared as if her father had some unfinished business and he was laying it in her hands.

She made up the back-room bed with the wool blanket from the cedar chest, slid the storm stick between the mattress and the frame where her hand could find it in the dark, and lay down with her boots still on. Sleep came in short pieces and left. It was enough.

Before first light, she was up with the kettle. The sky wore a thin cloak of pewter. She touched the urn's rim. "Good morning, Papa."

On the porch, the air was clean and cold. Far out, a gull lifted with something bright in its beak, then let it fall to the foam. The sea took it and kept its own counsel.

She tucked the locket into her jacket and felt its roundness under her fingers. Names moved through her mind like buoys in a channel — Lily. Mrs. Harper. South slip. In a town this size, someone would know them. Helen at the wharf knew everyone. June Reed kept the church ledgers. The harbor office had maps so old the paper went soft at the folds.

Behind her, the tower gave a single, soft answer — a hinge acknowledging an old story ready, finally, to open.

"Lily," Claire said to the morning, "what story do you have to tell?"

With the wind at her back, she headed down the slope toward town.

Chapter 39
The Lighthouse Chap 2

By Begin Again

Morning was gray and cool. The wharf boards were wet and slick in spots where bait had dried. Two men in rubber boots looked up when Claire came down the ramp.

"Haven't seen you in a while," one said.

"Been gone a while," she said. "Came back to tie up some loose ends and say goodbye."

Helen stepped out of the bait shack with a towel. She stopped, took Claire in, and hugged her — quick and firm. "Good grief, kid. It's you." She held Claire by the shoulders. "I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you," Claire said. "Have you seen the harbormaster?"

Helen's mouth tipped toward a low building with fogged glass. "Gideon's in. Keys on his belt, pipe in his pocket." She squeezed Claire's elbow before letting go. "People will be glad to see you. They'll also be clumsy. Forgive the clumsy."

"I'll try." Claire smiled.

A fisherman passed with a crate of squid and tipped his cap. "Thinking of you, Claire."

"Thank you."

Each mention of her father was salt in the wound, but she knew they meant well. She was glad the community had liked and respected him. She crossed to the harbor office and lifted a hand to knock, but the door opened first.

Gideon Hale filled the frame — broad-shouldered, rain-dark cap pulled low, graying hair showing at the temples. His face was the kind the weather makes — brown from wind, creased kindly at the eyes, beard shadow speckled with silver. His voice had gravel in it, the kind that comes from years of calling across water.
"Claire," he said, and stepped aside. "Well, now. What a surprise. Come on in."

The office smelled of salt, coffee, and dampness. A chart of the local shoals hung crookedly above a dented file cabinet. A faded tide calendar hung beside a brass bell. A coil of line sat in a milk crate by the door; somebody's damp slicker dripped into a bucket. The desk was scarred, papered with forms weighted by a smooth rock.

"How do I have the pleasure of your company?" Gideon asked, pipe stem between two fingers, but unlit.

"Gideon. Good to see you." Claire took an envelope from her jacket. "My pop wrote this for you. Or whoever had your chair."

Gideon turned the envelope once in his palm, as if he could hear what the paper wanted. He worked the old tape loose with his thumbnail, careful not to tear it, and read it once, then again, more slowly.

"He asks me to point you to the south slip at low tide," Gideon said. "Says he couldn't fix what was between Lily and D. Reed. Hoped you might."

Claire put a hand on the back of a chair. Hearing her father through someone else's voice tugged at her chest. "Do you have any idea what it's about?"

Gideon set the letter down square on the desk blotter and nudged it straight with two knuckles. "Maybe," he said. He went to a shelf and pulled down a wooden ledger with worn corners. "Harbor book. Boats and slips, who signed what, what broke and got fixed." He opened it to a page held by a length of string. "Here —same season as your note."

He tapped a line with a blunt finger. "Two D. Reeds then. Daniel worked at the ticket window. Douglas signed cannery deliveries."

Claire took out the copy of the lighthouse note and slid it over. Gideon glanced, then nodded. "This signature leans forward. That's Douglas. Daniel printed straight."

"How sure are you?"

"Sure enough," Gideon said. He straightened and glanced out the window. "If you want it nailed down, see June at the church. She knows handwriting. She's got prayer cards, donation slips, and all the old registers — the town's history."

The bell on the door rang softly. David Reed came in with a clipboard under one arm and a stack of laminated placards under the other. He saw Claire and paused half a step.

"Morning," he said and turned toward the harbormaster. "Gideon, the county sent the caution signs. I'll post them on the path."

Claire raised an eyebrow. "They read like keep-out. Eviction notices."

"They're liability notices," David said.

"Funny how those feel the same." Claire stepped around him and opened the door. "See you later, Gideon."

David followed, shifting the placards. He reached as if to catch her arm, then thought better of it and let his hand drop. "Didn't expect to see you in town this morning."

"I had business with Gideon," Claire said. "Not that it's your concern."

"My family starts stabilization Monday," David said. "It's much-needed repairs, not a theme park."

"You call it repairs. Feels more like rewriting our life story." Claire turned away.

"Then tell me what not to touch."

"I'm not here to plan your future," Claire snapped. "How could you even ask?"

"The future's coming either way," he said. "I'd rather not trample your father's place."

Her anger rose hot and quick. She swallowed it back. "Stay off my porch today."

"Just the path," he said. "You have my word."

"Your word? Your family's money already bought the vote."

David's jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

Before it could go any further, Gideon filled the doorway behind them, pipe held at his side. "Put them where she says, David."

The men at the ice chest kept their eyes on the squid. One mumbled, "Soon as those signs go up, tempers do."

The other answered, "Some folks build new; some folks won't let go of what's left. It's what the town decided."

They stopped talking when Gideon stepped out into view.

Claire walked fast to the far rail of the wharf and set both hands on the gray board worn smooth by palms just like hers. Buoys knocked softly against one another. A gull worked a bait box and gave up with a scold. Her father used to stand in this exact spot with a paper cup and say — Let the noise clear first; then decide.

Her phone buzzed — Ruth.

Claire looked at the name, thought about not answering, then did. "Hi." Her anger still fringed her words.

"Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed. Forget the lighthouse and come home, Claire."

"I'm fine, Aunt Ruth. It's just hard dealing with some people. And Dad left a few things unfinished."

A deep sigh carried over the line. "Helen called me. Just to say she'd seen you. Friendly call."

"Friendly," Claire said. "Or checking up?"

"Don't you start," Ruth said, a sharpness Claire hadn't heard in a while. "People care. They ask. I didn't ask her to call. She mentioned you, that's all."

"It feels like someone's watching my every move."

"It's a small town, Claire." Ruth's voice softened, then hardened again. "Listen to me. Some names don't need waking."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about, but Dad asked me to finish something, and that's what I am doing."

"You know I loved him dearly, but he was an old fool when it came to that lighthouse and to people."

"Then, I suppose I'm a fool as well." She paused. "I'm sorry, but I've things to get done since I only have these few days. Thought I'd stop in at the church."

"The church? Would that be for prayers or to visit with that busybody June Langley?" Ruth snapped.

Claire chuckled. "Now who sounds like they got up on the wrong side of the bed? I'm just saying my goodbyes, that's all."

"June Langley is a gossip. I'd be careful about repeating anything she says."

"I'm not repeating anything," Claire said. "I'm looking."

A longer breath. "Call me later," Ruth hissed and hung up before Claire could answer.

On Main, a delivery truck idled in front of the diner. The owner lifted the coffee pot in question. Claire shook her head, waved, and continued down the boardwalk.

Harper's General had its bell propped with a clothespin. Mara Harper stood behind the counter with a pencil tucked in her hair — the same place her mother used to keep it. Folks still called it her mother's store, but Mara had the same quiet — she didn't repeat what didn't need repeating.

"Hey, Claire," Mara said, as if they'd seen each other last week.

"Hey," Claire said. "Do you have a small notebook?"

"Back shelf. Yellow pad, too, if you prefer."

"This'll do." Claire slid a couple of bills across the counter.

Mara pushed one back with a slight shake of her head. "Local discount."

Claire didn't argue. Mara tapped the counter once, a little good-luck signal their mothers used to use. Claire almost smiled and kept on toward the hardware store.

Mr. Pike was sorting screws into tiny drawers, just like always. He looked up over half-moon readers. "Well, I'll be. What can I do you for?"

"Nitrile gloves and a flashlight," Claire said. "Not the giant ones my father kept everywhere."

He swiveled, took down a sturdy hand light, clicked it on and off, and stacked a box of gloves on top. "You'll want the good ones," he said.

He pushed the bag toward her and shook his head when she reached for her wallet. "No charge. Your father dragged my brother's skiff off the bar in '03. He'd haunt me if I took your money today."

"Thank you," Claire said. The bag felt heavier than it should have.

She passed the post office. A woman coming out touched Claire's sleeve. "We're sorry, honey," she said. "Your father was a good man. He pulled us off a sandbar once."

"Thank you," Claire said, and meant it.

The church office was propped open with a cedar wedge. Dust hung in the slant of light. A bulletin board held a bake sale notice, a coat-drive flyer, and a choir schedule nobody had quite pinned down. June Reed stood behind a metal desk stacked with boxes and ledgers. She took off her glasses and came around the desk.

"Claire," she said, and hugged her. Not long. Just enough. "We've missed you. I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you," Claire said. "My father's what brought me here this morning. He left a note that I'm trying to make sense of. I need help with two names — Lily W. and D. Reed. It's dated 1979. No month, though." She set the copy on the desk. "Do you keep anything that might mention either name? Prayer cards, donation slips, a marriage or baptism register?"

"1979 was before my time here," June said, already heading to a shelf. "But they've always kept prayer cards, and the registries would be here. It's a small town, and I can't say I remember any Reeds getting married."

She pulled down a shallow tray and flipped carefully until her finger stopped. "Here." She read the card aloud: "Lily Wheaton — fever. Keep indoors. No travel." She set it on the desk. "No doctor's name on the card."

Claire touched the edge of the card. "Wheaton — that's the 'W' on my note. That must be her, right?"

"Looks like it could be," June said. "And your father's date lines up."

June glanced at the copy of the lighthouse note and nodded to herself. "This hand? It belongs to Douglas Reed. Daniel printed straight. Douglas leaned like he was already headed to the next word."

"Gideon said that too," Claire said.

June pulled a cloth-bound register and opened it to the middle. The paper made a dry whisper. "Let me check one more place."

Her finger ran down a page. She stopped. Color left her face, then returned.
"Oh my," she whispered. "This can't be."

"What's that, June?"

She turned the book so Claire could read.

Infant (female) — brought to the lighthouse —

Chapter 40
The Lighthouse Chap 3

By Begin Again

Claire heard herself repeat it, softer, as if testing words that didn't quite fit. "Brought to the lighthouse." She stared at the page, then at June. "A baby was left at the lighthouse. I don't understand."

June slid her fingertip under the following lines. "There's more," she said, eyes on the page. "Let me read it."

Claire's throat went dry. She braced both palms on the table as if the book — or was it the room — might slide.

"Parents —," June read. She shook her head. "Nothing is listed there. That's certainly odd." She continued, "Sponsors — Andrew and Ruth. Notes — foundling; to be cared for until family located."

Claire stared. "That can't be right. It must be someone else." She bit her lip. "But my father — the lighthouse — a baby." Her eyes read each word on the line again, catching on the date. "1979. That's two years before he married Mom." She swallowed. "Oh no. June, you don't think —"

"Claire, don't be jumping to conclusions," June whispered. "If that were true, he would have told you. The way he loved you, he would have loved another child just as much. The note states that someone left the baby there until they could locate the family.

"You're right," Claire said, though the blank line under Parents still pressed like a thumbprint.

She took quick photos of the prayer card and the register line. "Thank you."

June closed the book and set her glasses down. "If you want the truth behind the prayer card, talk to Mrs. Avery on Maple. Doctor Avery's widow. He made house calls. She knows more than the cards say. Maybe she'll tell if she remembers."

"Thank you, June." Claire shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm more confused than I was, but at least I have a start."

She stepped outside the church and paused at the rail above Main. The harbor smell — salt, bait, diesel — brought her childhood up like boxes from a closet. A gull tipped like a paper plane over the water; the bell at St. Mary's counted the quarter hour. She didn't remember anyone ever mentioning a baby. But what she did remember washed through her thoughts like the waves against the rocks.

Her mother had been sick on and off for years. Some days were good. On the bad ones, the stairs felt too steep and the light too bright. Andrew turned chores into games so the house would sound normal. "Two laps to the shed, then we're captains," he'd say, and she'd run because running felt like the opposite of worry. It set her free, at least for the moment.

After her mother died, Ruth came for "a few weeks" and never really left. She brought her daughter, Lucy, who was a handful of years older and was easy to laugh with. Lucy fell for the lighthouse like she'd been waiting for it — made beds with tight corners, learned the clock on the lantern room, claimed the little bench by the back door as hers. She showed Claire how to line up books on their sides so the covers wouldn't curl, and smuggled paperbacks into the house with ships on the front. They read under the kitchen table on hot days and on the back steps on cool ones, passing chapters and dreams back and forth.

Nights, when the air was clear, Andrew took them outside and showed them the same three constellations every time because he said too many stars made your neck ache. Lucy said they'd sail to all the places the books talked about when they were old enough. Claire believed her. The future felt like a straight line then — the school, the lighthouse, the sea, the same faces every Sunday.

That line had bent and bent again. Claire still knew where the extra blankets lived and which cupboard held the good mugs. She still knew the sound the tower made when the wind slid past it just right. None of that helped with the blank line under Parents now sitting in her head like a stone.

From the end of the planks, Gideon cupped a hand and called, "Claire! Four sharp — south slip. Wear boots. Bring gloves. I'll bring a bar and rope."

"I'll be there," she called back.

On her way past the bait shack, Helen slid a small paper sack across the counter. "Sandwich and an apple," she said. "Say no and a gull eats it."

"I'll take it. Thanks."

She cut toward the end of Main. Off to the side, a narrow path ran toward the point. She could see a man in the distance — someone she'd prefer not to see there — but he was, and she would have to deal with it, like it or not.

It was David Reed, with a mallet and a stack of plastic signs. Sunlight caught the edge of his hair, and for an instant, the glare haloed him in gold. Her stomach gave a slight, ridiculous flutter. She straightened her shoulders. Of all people, she told herself, he's the last one to go soft-eyed over.

Two posts were already set — a third lay on the gravel.

"You've been busy," Claire said. She glared at the posted signs as if they were rabid.

"County gave me the window," he said, not looking away from the post. He held a sign and drove a nail through the top. CAUTION — UNSTABLE CLIFFS. Another leaned against the fence: KEEP OFF STRUCTURE.

"People can read," she said. "They don't need to be shouted at."

"These are the small ones." He shrugged. "I said no to the orange mesh and the tape across the porch. This is the compromise."

She picked up the third sign to read the fine print. His hand reached for it at the same time. For a second, her fingers met the heel of his palm — warm, steady. Her pulse jumped before she could stop it. They both pulled back.

"Sorry," he said.

"Me too," she said, though it came out flat. "This isn't just boards and paint to me. It's a ledger — the town's history." Her voice dropped, and she whispered, "My father's life."

 

He nodded at the sign in her grip. "Bottom line says 'until stabilization.' That's what starts on Monday. We're not erasing your father."

"You don't get to decide what counts as erasing," she said. "You weren't here when this place was the difference between a clean run through the channel and a wreck against the rocks."

"My grandfather was," he said. "Douglas. He signed for cannery deliveries and patched boards out here on Sundays when the weather was good. I grew up hearing two versions of this place — the proud one they told in town, and the tired one they whispered when the storms were over. I'm trying to keep the first without handing the second to somebody else."

The steadiness in his tone caught her off guard. For a second, she almost said she understood. Instead, she passed the placard back. "Keep off my porch today."

"Already promised." He squared the sign, drove two nails, and flattened his palm against it to test for give.

She watched the motion — simple, careful, exact — and felt that same unwelcome flutter return. She shifted the tote higher on her shoulder, willing the feeling away.

"Back to the lighthouse?" he asked.

"While I still can!" She moved away.

Claire followed the road to the point. The gate latch she'd wedged last night still held. Inside, the kitchen felt like it always had — coffee stain on the counter, cup by the sink, the chair her father wore smooth at the arms. The air held the faint map of him — coffee, oil, salt — like a house remembers a handprint. It felt like home.

She set the tote on the table, tore open the gloves, and checked the flashlight. It clicked on with a solid white circle. She slid the light and gloves into a canvas tote and put it on the table as she pulled her phone from her pocket.

 

The photo from the church filled the screen —

Infant (female) — brought to the lighthouse
Parents —
Sponsors — Andrew and Ruth
Notes — foundling; to be cared for until family is located

She zoomed in until the blank line under Parents was all she could see. Who brings a baby to the lighthouse? Why would her father and Ruth stand as sponsors and then never speak of it? Where did the baby go?

 

Her thumb hovered over Ruth's number. She set the phone face down. Truth had a way of changing shape when you chased it with questions; she wanted something that couldn't wriggle free.

By three-thirty, she was back outside. The wind had come up a little; the bell buoy sounded once. Down the path, two more caution signs leaned against a post where David had left them. He was nowhere in sight.

Gideon came up the slope, boots dark to the ankles. "You ready?"

"Ready," she said. She lifted the tote.

"Good. Tide's dropping fast." He pointed with his chin. "We'll start shore-side, work out. If something's wedged, don't yank. Let me get the bar in behind it."

They went together past the sheds to the south slip. The pilings were slick and dark; kelp lifted and fell against the cross braces. Claire pulled on the gloves and clicked the flashlight. Gideon knelt at the first brace and felt along the joint, then moved to the next.

"Shine low," he said. "Things hide where the light breaks."

They worked slowly. Three braces out, Gideon leaned past a post and stopped. "There," he said. "Left of the ladder. Under the cross-tie. You see that?"

Claire crouched and brought the beam in tight. Something dark sat in the angle — small, wrapped, and wedged hard, covered with seaweed.

She didn't move. The water made a slow hollow sound under the boards. A thin ache opened behind her ribs because she already knew things were hidden for a reason.

"Hold the light," Gideon said. "I think I can reach it."

Claire drew a breath and held the beam steady as he reached for the bar. What had her father hidden here — and why? Would it answer her questions about the baby? 

 

She held her breath and waited.

Chapter 41
The Lighthouse Chap 4

By Begin Again

Gideon slid the stick under it and lifted. It didn't want to move. He eased the pry bar in from the other side.

"On three," Gideon said. "One, two —"

The bundle came free and hit the planks once. Claire caught it with her gloved hand before it bounced into the water. She stood there frozen, staring at the parcel until Gideon was at her side.

He slipped an arm around her waist to steady the tremor in her legs. "Are you okay?"

She nodded, but her eyes didn't leave what she held. "Let's not drop it."

"Dry boards," he said, gentler than his size suggested. He guided her up two steps from the wet and set them side by side with the thing between them.
Up close, it was a glass jar wrapped in old cloth, the lid sealed with wax gone brown with time. Twine had bitten deep into the weave. It smelled faintly of salt and old paraffin, the way the lantern closet used to when she was small and watched Andrew trim wicks.

Gideon took out a pocketknife. "You all right with opening it here?"

"Here is fine," she said. "If it's bad news, I'd rather not carry it further."

He cut the twine, peeled back the cloth, and tapped the lid with the knife handle. The wax cracked along a line like brittle ice. Claire held her breath without meaning to. Gideon worked the lid loose and set it aside as if it might bite.

Inside lay a faded ribbon, a ticket stub — SOUTH SLIP punched through, DELAYED BECAUSE OF WEATHER stamped across the date — a rolled note, and something stiff wrapped in waxed paper.

He passed them across to her gloved hands. "It's your find."

Claire worked the edge of the waxed paper free. A small card lay inside, white turned the yellow of old bone, the lines printed in hospital blue.

Pamela Lucille — mother: Lily Wheaton

The time and weight were there, but blurred, as if a thumb had pressed while the ink was still damp.

Her throat closed. She slid the card back into its paper and unrolled the note. The writing was neat, careful, not her father's.

My Darling Douglas,

I've been blaming the stars like a child, believing they fixed things so our paths wouldn't cross, and telling myself Saint Elmo turned his lamp away from us. I know that's nonsense, but it's easier than thinking you chose to go.

I regret not writing sooner, but the days blurred. The fever sent me back to bed again. I couldn't come to the ferry, and then you were gone. I told myself you had changed your mind, and I could not think how to live inside that thought.

Dr. Avery was sworn to secrecy by my father, and I was sent to my Aunt Milly's. It was there that I learned I was with child. Though I believe the doctor and my parents knew, and father sent me away because of it. I have brought a daughter into this world and named her for our mothers — Pamela Lucille.

Father has forbidden me to speak of her, and she's been left at the lighthouse. They are people of heart and kind hands. They will keep my secret and will protect her until you come, if you choose to do so.

I have struggled to give her the life she deserves, but I can't face a life that only echoes what might have been. In my darkest moments, I hear the call of the headlands as they beckon me to the cliffs and the sea.

Whatever you decide, carry this with you —I always loved you.

Forever, Lily

Claire reread it, slower, as if the words might change. The wind moved under the boards with a soft hollow sound, like breath in a stairwell.

"Pamela Lucille," she said, barely a voice at all.

Gideon kept his eyes on the water, giving her space. After a moment, he nodded toward the salutation. "Douglas," he said, quietly. "Would that be —?"

"David's grandfather — Douglas Reed."

They didn't speak for a while. The tide eased around the pilings, lifting kelp, letting it fall. A gull called from the flats and went silent.

"What do you want to do?" Gideon asked at last.

"I don't understand why nobody told me," Claire whispered. "My father trusted me with nights in the tower and the storm log, but not this? And Ruth? And you, Gideon, did you know?"

Gideon kept his eyes on the water. "Might not have been ours to tell."

"Whose, then? I grew up in that house, and this was under the pier the whole time."

"People talk," Gideon said. "I heard pieces — a storm, a baby, your father helping. But it wasn't my place to carry sad tales, not ones meant to lie quiet. Andrew never told me straight."

Gideon glanced at the time. "I've got to get back to the harbor office. You okay to carry it up?"

"I've got it."

"Call if you need me."

He squeezed her shoulder once and headed down the planks.

Claire wrapped the jar back in the cloth and held it against her side. At the rise, where the path broke toward the cliffs, she stopped. The waves rolled in and slid back. The bell buoy gave one low clang. As the wind swept through her hair, she thought —

People came up here to think. Maybe Lily did. Did Douglas ever come back? He must have — David said his grandfather patched boards out here on Sundays. But when? If he came back, why didn't he get this letter? Why didn't someone put it in his hand? Did he know about the baby?

She tightened her grip on the jar and kept walking.

At the top of the path, she stopped. The lighthouse looked the same as it always had, which somehow made it worse.

"What else don't I know?" she yelled to the porch and the empty yard.

The anger came fast. She'd been left out of the loop in her own house. She gripped the tote tighter and, without meaning to, remembered being ten and breaking the little model dory on the windowsill because two girls from school had left her out. Andrew hadn't raised his voice. He sat her in his chair, her hands on the worn arms.

"Tell me what the breaking fixed," he'd said.

She'd had no answer then. He'd waited.

"Not everything that happens concerns you," he'd said finally. "But the things that land in your hands do. Those you don't smash. Those you carry."

She stood a moment longer on the step, breathing until the sting eased. "All right," she said, to the door, to the wind. "This one's in my hands."

Inside the lighthouse, she set the jar on the table and sat. The chair Andrew had worn smooth fit her palms. Usually, it was reassuring, but today it didn't help.
She set both palms on the table. "You should have told me," she said to the empty room. "Storm logs. Night watches. You trusted me with all of that, but not this?"

Her jaw tightened. "Was it Ruth? Did you hand her the choice and call that fair? Did you wait on Douglas and say the rest would sort itself out?" The words came out sharper than she meant. "Forty years is too late."

She stared at the chair back, at the smooth place his hands had made. The heat in her chest pushed once more and then eased a little. He hated gossip. He always said the truth belonged first to the people it touched. He'd left her a route, not a speech. Maybe that was the best he knew how to do.

"I'm still mad," she said, softer. "But I'll carry it."

She took out the bassinet card and the folded letter and set them side by side.
Pamela Lucille — mother: Lily Wheaton and the the words that somehow searched for Douglas to return.

She looked from one to the other until the blur cleared. Andrew hadn't left a speech. He'd given Gideon directions. That was him. He'd set the truth where it would be found if Douglas came to ask, or if she did. She didn't know whether to thank him or be angry. Both were true.

She picked up the bassinet card and the letter. "Facts first," she told the room, and slid them into her jacket. Then she stood and headed for the door.

At the door, she looked back once — coffee stain by the sink, the curve of Andrew's chair, the jar sitting plain on the table. "Okay, Dad. Now it's up to me to figure this out." She closed the door behind her. "No more secrets."

Outside, the wind was up. The caution signs David had set kept their place. Claire cut across Main toward Maple.

She climbed the steps to Mrs. Avery's and knocked. The chain slid. The door opened a few inches.

"Mrs. Avery?" Claire said. "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Claire Crandon — Andrew Crandon's daughter."

Mrs. Avery studied her a moment, then softened. "Ah, yes. The lighthouse. It's been quite a while since I last saw you. I'm so sorry to hear about your father."

 

She unhooked the chain and opened the door wider. "Come in, dear. Let's sit in the parlor. I love how the sun brightens and warms the room."

They settled on the parlor chairs.

"News travels faster than the wind," Mrs. Avery said. "I heard you visited June at the church."

"I did." Claire looked down at her hands, then up. "My father left me a message — unfinished business. It points to Lily Wheaton and Douglas Reed. June and I found a line about a baby left at the lighthouse. I was hoping you might remember something that could help me understand what this is."

"My late husband — God rest his soul — was the doctor," Mrs. Avery said. "He held his patients close and didn't share what wasn't his to tell. I kept his books and his promises. I'll tell you what belongs to me to tell."

Mrs. Avery rose, crossed to a small cabinet, and brought back a thin folder. House Calls — 1979 was written across the front in her husband's block letters.
She set it on the table between them and rested her hand on the cover.
"All right," she said. "Let's see what can be said."

Chapter 42
The Lighthouse Chap 5

By Begin Again

Mrs. Avery let her fingers run across the top of the page, across Lily Wheaton's name, and then to a small red mark in the margin.

"My husband used that mark when a woman was with child," she said.

Claire read the line. "Did your husband deliver the baby, or tend to Lily while she carried the child?"

"Oh, no, child," Mrs. Avery said. "Her father would not hear of it. She was packed up the next day and driven to her Aunt Milly's, far from this town's scrutiny. Her mother told me it was for rest. I knew better, but it was not for me to say."

Claire touched her hand. "Please — anything you know about the baby who was brought to the lighthouse. My father and Aunt Ruth stood as sponsors. Was it Lily's baby?"

Mrs. Avery nodded slowly. "There was a storm. Your father called my husband — late, raw night, fog sitting on the water. He didn't want to go, but your father said it was urgent. My husband looked tired when he returned, and sadness filled his eyes. He didn't talk at first, but later, by the fire, he mumbled, 'Life turns from the intended path, and we must help where we can.'"

"Did he say who brought the baby?" Claire asked.

"He wouldn't give me names," Mrs. Avery said. "Only that the child was safe.

Claire swallowed. Her eyes stung. "What happened to her?" she asked, though part of her already felt she knew.

"It was never clear. Ruth moved away, and I guess people just forgot about it. One of those out of sight, out of mind things."

Mrs. Avery glanced once toward the window, then back. "What they didn't forget was the trouble at the cliffs." She paused as if struggling with memories long hidden away. "The town called it a terrible accident, because that is what her father called it. My husband did not make a speech. He wrote what belonged on his line and left anything else blank. It troubled him. That I know."

Claire sat very still. "And my father and Gideon?"

"Those two were the angels of mercy. They carried Lily's body from the bottom of the cliffs to the lighthouse, where her mother wept until a hearse carried her daughter away. Mr. Wheaton posted in the Gazette that their daughter lost her life in an accident, standing too close to the edge. He asked for respect while their family mourned. That was all. No funeral, no memorial, just whispers."

Mrs. Avery stood and walked toward the window, staring through the lace curtains. Finally, she spoke, "A letter came through our post by mistake that fall. Return to Sender stamped across the front. Douglas had written. We walked it up to the Wheaton house. They did not welcome it back. We were told not to come back, and the door was shut on us." She shivered as if she felt the coldness of that house. "I do not believe the young man knew there was a child."

She sighed and returned to her chair before she spoke again, "Your father asked me once when it might be kinder to speak. I told him that the mother who raised the child or her family should decide. He abided by that, I guess — until now." 

Claire nodded, jaw tight. "Did your husband ever question what he did? Keeping the town's story the town's way?"

"He was a careful man," Mrs. Avery said. "But in quiet moments, he'd sit just there —" she nodded toward the piano bench — "and say, 'I hope I did right by them. I wrote what I had to and didn't add what wasn't mine."

Mrs. Avery's eyes closed for one long blink. When she opened them, they were wet and carried a lost look. "She loved him," she said, without drama. "He loved her. They were young and decent and not equal to a storm and a father with a will like an oar."

Claire looked at the house-call page again and the small mark in the margin. "Thank you," she said. "May I have a copy of this?"

Mrs. Avery had it ready. "Take it," she said. "Paper helps when memories start to change shape." She hesitated. "Be careful when you speak to others. Some will deny the truth out of fear, and others will struggle to accept it. It won't be an easy path."

Claire inhaled and then exhaled slowly. "There's someone else I have to tell," she said. "David Reed. Douglas's grandson."

"Ah, yes. The young man working at the lighthouse."

Mrs. Avery walked her to the door. "Go steady, Claire. What you're carrying has sharp edges."

Claire smiled and stepped outside.

On the porch, the wind pushed along the street. Down by the point, she could see new signs and a man's bent-over back. She put her hands in her jacket pockets and started that way.

As she approached, David heard her boots on the gravel and turned. His hands tightened on the hammer, then eased.

Claire was quick to speak, "We need to talk."

"I have stayed away from the porch as I promised. Did I miss something?"

"No." She raised her eyes to meet his. "It's not about the lighthouse, yet in a way, it is."

"You're confusing me. What are you trying to say?"

"My father left me a letter — about two young people who were in love. Tragedy entered their lives. Maybe it was the fate of the stars or something as simple as family interference."

"These lovers — how does this have anything to do with me?"

"Does the name Lily Wheaton mean anything to you?"

"No, I can't say that it does. Should it?"

"I don't have the full story yet, but today, Gideon and I went to the South Slip per instructions from my dad. We found a jar hidden under the pier. Inside was a bassinet card and a letter. The card says Pamela Lucille — mother: Lily Wheaton."

He frowned. "I don't know that name."

Claire swallowed. "Lily was a local in 1979. She was supposed to meet her lover and leave on the ferry. She fell ill, and he left without her."

"That's sad, but I still don't understand how I can help you?"

"Lily was sent away because she was pregnant, and her family didn't want the town to know. In the letter, she names her lover as Douglas Reed."

David gasped. "My grandfather? No, that can't be? I've never heard the story or anything about a baby. I was told he married young and she died soon after. He remained a bachelor after that until he died. Said love was a foolish dream for the young."

"It's been difficult for me to understand, too. I've learned that Lily brought the baby, Pamela Lucile."

"Pamela? That was my great-grandmother's name." David looked past Claire toward the water, like it might help him think. "Okay," he said quietly. "Walk me through how you got here."

Claire nodded. "I started at the church with June. We found a line — an infant brought to the lighthouse. My father left a message for me and for Gideon — directions to the south slip. We found the jar wedged under the brace. The bassinet card was inside. So was the letter to Douglas. After that, I went to Mrs. Avery. She showed me her husband's note from that year, with the mark he used when a woman was with child. She remembered a Return to Sender letter from your grandfather turning up and being refused at the Wheaton house. And later that fall, there was trouble at the headland. The town called it an accident."

He listened without interrupting, jaw working once, then still. When she finished, he pulled a small folding bench out of his truck. "Sit a minute," he said. "You've been carrying all of this by yourself."

She sat because her legs wanted her to.

"My grandfather wasn't cruel," David said, steady. "Slow sometimes, and stubborn. Not cruel." He took a breath. "I don't know Lily Wheaton. I don't know about a child. But I can go to my father tonight. If anyone knows what Douglas carried and didn't say, it's him. We have boxes — letters, old photos — my mother kept everything in the hall closet. I'll start there."

"Thank you," Claire said.

"And I'll keep this between us until you tell me otherwise," he added. "No town talk from me."

"I appreciate that."

A gust came across the point and moved a strand of hair across her cheek. She tucked it back. She stood, facing the sea.

"I'm going to Ruth in the morning," she said. "She may deny it. I don't know what happens after."

"I'll be close," David chuckled. "Not on your porch but close." He didn't reach for her; he just stayed right where he was, calm as a post in solid ground. "If you need me to stand by your side while you speak, say the word."

She gave a short, tired smile. "That helps."

He nodded toward her. "Thank you for telling me before the rest of the town."

"It felt like the right thing to do," Claire said.

He glanced at the lighthouse, then back. "I'll talk to my dad tonight. See if there are any skeletons in the closet I haven't heard of. If there's a name or a date in those boxes, I'll bring it to you. Regardless of what I learn, I'll tell you."

"Okay."

Claire nodded, then the words jammed up in her throat. Suddenly, her emotions came crashing in, "My father and I shared everything," she said, and the last word broke. "Why not this?"

David didn't speak. He set the hammer down, stepped close, and folded his arms around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She let herself lean in. For a few breaths, the wind and the bell buoy sounded far away.

"I'm sorry," she said into his shoulder.

"You don't have to be," he said. "You're tired and you're hurt. I understand."

Her shoulders shook once, then again. He held steady — no shushing, no fixing — just the kind of quiet that lets a person breathe. When she eased, he guided her to the little bench by the truck and sat with her, his arm still around her. She didn't pull away.

"Okay," she said after a minute, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. "I can keep going."

"You don't have to," he said.

"I do," she said. "It helps."

When she finished, they sat without talking. A gull hung over the point and drifted off. The light changed on the water.

David turned and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. He hesitated, then bent and set a small kiss there — no more than a touch. "You're not alone in this," he said.

She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "Thank you."

"Tomorrow, you talk to Ruth," he said. "I'll talk to my dad tonight. If I learn anything, I'll come by first thing."

"Here," she said. "At the lighthouse."

"I'll be close," he said. He tightened his arm for a second and then let it rest. "And if you need this again — just say so."

She leaned into him one more time. "I will."

The bell buoy sounded once, low and even.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"Tomorrow," she answered.

She headed up the path toward the lighthouse, and he watched until the door closed behind her.

Fifty miles away, the phone blinked on Ruth Crandon's counter — one new message.

"Hi, this is Trudy Lansbury with the Gazette. I got wind of a story. Could you tell me anything about Lily Wheaton and the lighthouse?"

Chapter 43
The Lighthouse Chap 6

By Begin Again

Lucy poured a cup of coffee and let the warmth soothe her nerves. Moving back in with her mom wasn't ideal, but the dream job — junior investigative reporter —required a few sacrifices.

The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. A telltale grocery list lay forgotten on the counter — which meant Ruth would be gone for a while. After last night's mother-daughter argument, the quiet felt like a gift. She loved her mother, but sometimes Ruth went too far — always the overprotective one.

She set the cup down, noticed the answering machine's red light blinking, and pressed Play.

"Hi, this is Trudy Lansbury with the Gazette. I'm working on a story. Could you tell me anything about Lily Wheaton and the lighthouse?"

The message clicked off. Lucy stood still, then hit Play again. She didn't know Trudy Lansbury or Lily Wheaton. But the lighthouse — she knew that part too well.

For a second, she was thirteen again, elbows on the lighthouse table while Uncle Andrew showed her how to read a chart. Claire, younger by a handful of years, sprawled on the floor with a dog-eared book about ships. The kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls.

Her smile faded as she remembered her mother coming back later, after a walk with Andrew — tight-lipped, saying the lighthouse was a relic and they were done with it. Andrew hadn't argued. After that, the summers turned into other plans. Lucy learned to stop asking about the lighthouse and about Claire.

She listened to the message again. She knew how prying reporters could be; she was curious herself. Adrenaline stirred — whether it was the hint of a story or worry for Claire, she wasn't sure, but the pull was there.

She pulled a pen from the drawer and wrote a quick note:

Mom — Heard Claire was at the lighthouse. I'm going to see if I can catch up with her. Love, Lucy

She packed a weekend bag, left the note by the machine, grabbed her keys, and went.

Brake lights stacked up on the bridge behind a utility truck. Lucy drummed her fingers on the wheel and forced herself to breathe slowly. She wasn't chasing a story, she told herself. She was checking on Claire. If it were nothing, Claire would say so. If it was something, better to stand with her than read it in the Gazette later.

Past the marsh, the land rose. The sea showed in slashes between houses, then in one long gray sheet. Wind shouldered the car. At the curve where the headland came into view, she eased off the gas. The lighthouse stood up against the weather like it always had. The sight of it unknotted something in her and tightened something else.

She turned into the gravel and parked. The engine ticked as it cooled. She sat with both hands on the wheel for a count of five while memories rushed back. Then she got out, pushed her hair off her cheek, and took the steps to the porch. She knocked and turned the knob, as she always had.

Claire sat at the table with Andrew's storm logs — edges squared, a pencil laid across the top. She looked up and stood so fast that the chair legs scraped.
"Lucy?"

"Hi," Lucy said. The word felt too small, but it was all she had. "It's been a while."

Claire crossed the room and hugged her. Not long, not dramatic — just welcoming. When they stepped back, Claire's eyes looked older and familiar at the same time. "It's been so long. I didn't think —" Claire stopped. "Doesn't matter. I'm happy you're here."

"I had to come. I heard a message on Mom's machine. A reporter from the Gazette asked about the lighthouse and Lily Wheaton. It put a knot in my stomach. I thought if this touches you, I should come."

"I'm glad you did." Claire nodded toward a chair. "Sit."

Lucy glanced at the storm logs. "If this is a bad time, I'll wait."

"It's fine," Claire said. "A storm's blowing in, but I'm afraid another has already arrived." She poured coffee and slid a mug over.

"What's happening, Claire? Does it have to do with Uncle Andrew and the lighthouse?" She looked around the familiar room. "I've never heard of Lily Wheaton."

"Neither had I until I came to scatter Dad's ashes," Claire said. "He left me a message — something he thought needed fixing."

Lucy wrapped both hands around the mug. "Tell me what you can."

"It started with a baby left at the lighthouse," Claire said.

Lucy's breath caught. "A baby? Here? I never heard a word."

"I hadn't either," Claire said. "My dad left directions. Gideon and I found a jar he'd hidden under the pier with a letter and a few other things. That same year, Mrs. Avery says, there was a death at the cliffs. It was called an accident."

"How dreadful." Lucy stared. "So, this isn't a rumor?"

"No," Claire said. "It's a well-kept secret."

Lucy listened without interrupting. The reporter in her filed each piece in order; the rest of her kept tripping over the picture those pieces made. "So now a Gazette reporter is sniffing around."

They sat a moment with the clock ticking — the same clock from the Saturday they burned pancakes and lied about it. The room felt easier for a second.

"I always wondered why Mom slammed the door on this place," Lucy said. "She called it a relic after Andrew died, and that was that. I wonder if this had anything to do with it."

Bootsteps crossed the porch — a short knock. "It's me," David called.

Claire opened the door and let him in. "David, this is my cousin Lucy. It's been a long time, and we were just catching up."

"I didn't mean to interrupt. I can come back."

"No, it's all right," Claire said. "Lucy says she never heard of Lily Wheaton either."

"I brought something," David said. He held up a clear folder. Inside was an old envelope stamped RETURN TO SENDER in dull purple.

Claire stood. "Where did you get that?"

"My parents," David said. "I asked about my grandfather. My mom went through some boxes and found a handful of old letters." He glanced between them. "This one's addressed to Miss Lily Wheaton, Harbor Road."

Claire studied the envelope, feeling mixed emotions. She swallowed. "So he wrote."

"He did," David said. "There was more in the box — a small framed photo — my grandfather with a young woman. On the back, it said Douglas & Lily — April 1979. And an old Army enlistment brochure. My dad remembered that Grandfather enlisted that spring and left town. Nobody knew why."

Claire's jaw tightened. "He waited at the ferry, she didn't come, and he thought she'd changed her mind."

"That's what it looks like," David said. "By the time he wrote, the letter bounced back. By the time the truth could have reached him, it was too late."

Lucy stared at the envelope. "So everyone missed each other."

"No one said the right thing at the right time," David said. "That was my grandfather — quiet when talking would've helped."

Claire set her palm near the envelope, not on it. "We'll open it. But not alone." She looked at Lucy. "Your mother will want her say."

 

*****
An easterly gale was ramping up, and rain was spitting on the windows when Ruth got home at dusk. After a shopping run with a friend —and commiserating over their adult children — she was ready to share a glass of wine with Lucy and make amends.

The house was dark. She set her shopping bags and the groceries on the counter, already wondering where Lucy was. A red light blinked on the answering machine.

"Ah, dear daughter, you've left a message for your mama," she said, and hit Play.

A stranger's voice came through instead, grating like fingernails on a chalkboard: "with the Gazette — Lily Wheaton — the lighthouse."

She stabbed Stop, then Play again, as if the words might change on a second pass. They didn't. Pain needled behind her eyes, and she gripped the cabinet to steady herself.

"Andrew," she hissed. "This is your doing."

A note lay by the machine in Lucy's quick hand:

 

Mom — Heard Claire was at the lighthouse. I'm going to see if I can catch up with her. Love, Lucy

"God, have mercy." Her hands shook. She fought for breath. "Please — don't let this happen."

She grabbed her phone and dialed — voicemail. She redialed — voicemail. Next, she tried Claire — voicemail. The wind battered the glass. A cupboard door shivered in its frame.

"Andrew," she cried, the name breaking, "you couldn't leave it buried."

She fumbled her keys, dropped them, swore, and scooped them up with shaking fingers. The grocery bag slumped, and oranges rolled against the baseboard. She left them.

"Please, God," she said, already moving. "Let me get there first."

She yanked the door. The wind tore it from her hand and slammed it behind her.

*****
The rain came down in sheets the second Ruth hit the highway. Wipers beat hard and still couldn't keep up. She gripped the wheel at ten and two and leaned forward, as if an inch closer would help her see.

"Damn you, Andrew," she said out loud. "You couldn't leave it be, could you? Had to set your little trail and drag Claire into it." She stabbed the call button. Voicemail again. "Pick up, Lucy. Please."

She tried Claire next, straight to voicemail.

A truck blasted by in the oncoming lane, throwing a wall of water across her windshield. For a heartbeat, she saw nothing — just gray — and her stomach dropped before the wipers cleared. "Trudy Lansbury," she said, biting off the name. "Of course, you'd sniff around a church like a fox at a henhouse."

She flicked the defroster higher. The dash clock glowed later than she wanted. The wind shoved at the little sedan, and the tires hissed on the slick road.
"You keep out of this," she said to no one and to everyone. "It's a secret that needs to stay hidden."

A memory hit without warning — Andrew at the sink with his hands braced on the edge, telling her, 'Secrets rot what they touch, Ruth.' She'd told him he didn't know a thing about raising a child under the stare of this town. He said, 'We'll do it together.' Still, he'd kept that jar, that letter, waiting for Douglas Reed to ask.

Ruth swallowed. "It should have been buried with you."

The road twisted toward the headland. Gusts came off the water in hard punches. A branch skittered across the asphalt, and she flinched. The phone in the cup holder buzzed with a weather alert, then died again with no bars.

"Please, God," she said. "Let me get there before anybody says a word they can't take back."

Her headlights found the curve sign, then lost it in the rain. The car hit a shallow wash across the road — just a fan of water rolling down from the ridge and the tires lifted for a breath. The back end drifted inches. She corrected too sharply, felt the rear slide the other way, and had that one, terrible, slow thought, "Noooo!" before the car fishtailed. She eased off the brake, tried to steer into it like Andrew had taught her on gravel, but the wind caught her broadside and pushed the small car toward the soft shoulder. The right wheels dropped into muck with a wet thud. The guardrail scraped along the door with a shriek. A white bag exploded in her face, and everything went bright and then full of dust and chemicals. 

Silence took one long second.

Then noise: the rain again, the tick of cooling metal, the horn bleating in a steady panic because her arm lay across it. She shoved back against the airbag and felt for the seatbelt. Her fingers fumbled the buckle twice before it let go. Her chest burned where the strap had grabbed her.

A pair of headlights slowed and stopped behind her. A door slammed. A man's voice, close now. "Ma'am? You okay? Stay put!"

Another car rolled to a stop. Someone yelled over the wind, "Call it in!"

"No service — drive up to the bend!"

"I can't move," Ruth said, her voice came out small and not like herself at all.

"Don't," the man said. He peered through the spidered glass. "We're here. Ambulance is coming."

"Please," Ruth said, breath shivering. "I need to get to the lighthouse."

"We'll get you help first. That lighthouse is going to have to wait."

"No — my daughter." Ruth gasped, and everything went black.

Chapter 44
The Lighthouse Chap 9

By Begin Again

Note: My apologies for the length of this one, but it felt necessary. I hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

The VHF radio on Andrew's old desk came to life before Ruth could finish.

"Reed, you there?" Tanner's voice broke through the static. "We're seeing a white light moving in the channel. It might be a skiff loose. Can you switch on the tower lights and check it out?"

David was already grabbing his jacket. "We'll take a look." He turned to Claire. "Five minutes."

Ruth waved them on. "Go. I'm fine."

"I'll stay with her," Lucy said, tightening her grip on Ruth's hand.

David and Claire took the stairs. Rain tapped the windows. The wind had eased, but it hadn't finished showing its might.

In the lantern room, the rescue's portable searchlight was still on its tripod, with a cord running to the wall outlet. David threw the breaker for the tower work lights and flipped the searchlight back on. Claire steadied the head and swept the channel — left of the buoy, across the eelgrass, past the reef.

"There," she said. "Small white skiff. Bow up. Nobody aboard. The tow line is in the water."

David keyed the mic. "Tanner, it's a loose skiff. No one on board. It's drifting toward the eelgrass. You can grab it from the east path."

"Copy," Tanner said. "We'll get it. Thanks."

David dimmed the lights and set the mic down. Rain ticked on the glass. The room went still. He stayed with her at the window. "You okay?" he asked.

"I am now." She leaned in; they kissed once, and then stood shoulder to shoulder. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I'm glad you were here."

"Me too." David placed his arm around her shoulder and didn't say anything else.

"David," Claire said after a moment, eyes on the water, "what do you think about what Ruth said — about Lily and the baby, and your grandfather's letter? Do you think it really happened that way?"

He took a second. "I do. Your aunt had no reason to change the story. And the letter proves my grandfather didn't desert Lily or a baby. It was pressure and bad timing — people making the wrong calls. A tragic set of circumstances."

Claire nodded. "I know Ruth's my aunt, but it's hard to think of Lucy as a Reed. She's always been my cousin — a Crandon. I love them both, but I want the truth to come out — no gossip, no half-truths."

"Then we'll make sure that's what happens," David said. "When Ruth's ready to tell it, we'll back her up."

She managed a small smile. "I'd like that."

They watched the channel a minute longer.

"Let's head down," he said.

They took the stairs.

The house had gone still. One of David's crew had stopped by to check the generator, then left. After that, it was just them.

Ruth drifted in and out, her breathing uneven. Lucy had fallen asleep in the chair beside her, blanket pulled to her chin. Claire and David shared the small couch, shoulders touching, watching the last bit of light move across the wall.

A little after midnight, Ruth stirred. Her hand shifted against the quilt. "Lily's diary —" she murmured, voice thin. "I'm sorry."

The room grew quiet again, as if resting, waiting for something more. Finally, a soft whimper escaped Ruth's lips. "Lucy, my baby," and then, "an answer to my prayers."

Claire sat forward, listening, but Ruth had already slipped back under. "David, she's struggling with her thoughts. It must be frightening to let go."

"I'm sure, but it's time. Lucy should know the truth."

"I know. She said there's a diary. Something in Lily's own words."

David reached over and turned the radio down to a whisper. "Let her rest," he said.

Claire nodded. "You're right. The truth has waited this long — it can wait a little longer. We'll ask her in the morning."

Dawn came with off-and-on showers. The road looked passable if you took it slowly. Coffee perked on the stove. David poured mugs. Claire brought Ruth tea and set it on the table within reach, then returned with a tray of leftover pastries, croissants, and jam.

"Aunt Ruth, last night you were restless. You spoke in your sleep."

Ruth closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to remember or maybe searching for strength. "What did I say?"

"You said, 'Lily's diary — I'm sorry.' What did you mean?"

Ruth blinked and then sighed, as if finally letting go of the past. "It's there. In the pantry," she said. "Third board in from the wall. You'll see."

Lucy gasped. "There's a diary?"

"Yes. Your mother left it on the wall near the cliffs. I found it and tucked it away. Foolishly, I thought I was closing the chapter. You were mine, and I kept it that way."

A tear spilled from Lucy's eye and ran down her cheek. She reached for her mother's hand. "I was placed in your arms, and you loved me as any mother would. I've never doubted your love."

Ruth squeezed Lucy's hand. "It's time to know the whole truth. Go — get the diary."

Claire looked at Lucy. "Come with us?"

Lucy nodded. "Yes."

They waited until Ruth settled back with the tea, then crossed to the pantry. It smelled like dry wood and old spice jars.

"Third board," Claire said. "Here."

The edge was a shade darker — wear, not shadow. She worked her fingers under it. It gave with a small sigh. David helped lift. Underneath, a tin-lined cavity sat dry and clean. Inside lay a bundle wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine.

David slid a butter knife under the knot, then stopped and looked to Lucy. "You should open it."

Lucy pressed her palms on her thighs until they stopped shaking. "Give it to Claire," she said, then added, "We'll do it together with Mom."

In the kitchen, Claire laid it on the table and loosened the twine. She folded back the oilcloth. A canvas-backed ledger lay inside, corners rounded by use. A careful hand wrote the name Lily Wheaton on the first page.

Under it, in smaller letters: If I can't be brave enough to speak, let this speak for me.

Lucy covered her mouth, then let her hand drop. "I thought her voice would feel far away," she said. "It doesn't."

"She's been close the whole time," Ruth said.

"Before we read," Claire said, "I want one thing said out loud. We're family. Nothing here changes that."

"Agreed," Lucy said.

Ruth nodded. "Love will keep us together."

Claire pulled the ledger closer and opened it to the first page.

Lucy cleared her throat and said, "Start at the beginning."

Claire read.

February 3 — Dear Diary… this is a first for me, but I've got to share my thoughts somewhere. My heart was stolen today. So foolish of me, but I can't help myself.

I met a man at the hardware store. Douglas Reed. I felt butterflies from the moment he looked at me.

He asked if I needed help with the lantern oil, and I said no, even though I did. Father saw us talking and hurried me away. I stole one last glance, and he was watching, smiling. I thought about his smile all afternoon.

Claire glanced up. Lucy kept her eyes on the page. Ruth's hands were still. She continued, 

 

February 8 — Dear Diary… I was beginning to believe it had been a dream, but today I saw him again on Main Street. I wanted to speak to him — to hear his voice — but Father pulled me away. He mumbled something about the lower class. I didn't understand.
Tonight, I will dream of him and hope that he dreams of me."

Ruth nodded. "That sounds like Harry Wheaton. He always felt he was better than most."

Lucy bit her lip. "It's like she was alone, with nothing but her dreams and a diary to share her thoughts."

Claire waited for Lucy's emotions to settle and then asked, "Do you want me to go on?"

Lucy nodded. "Yes. I think she'd want to know that we cared, we listened, even if we couldn't change a thing."

Claire began—

February 14—Valentine's Day. I saw Douglas at the pier. Our eyes met, and my body grew warm beneath his look. He didn't wave—too many eyes. But the quick lift of his chin felt like a promise. When he smiled, it felt like a kiss.

Lucy swallowed hard. "I can't imagine that kind of love. Unspoken, yet felt so deeply." She ran her fingers across the page as if to touch the woman speaking. "Please, read some more, Claire."

"Are you sure you wouldn't read it yourself?"

"No. I want all of us to feel her love —and, I imagine, her pain. She shouldn't have been alone, but she was—maybe somehow, she can feel us and know we care."

Claire picked up the diary and read again—

February 17—Dear Diary
We stood two people apart in the picture house line. He bought a ticket for the same matinee. We sat with an empty row between us. When the lights came up, we left by the side door. Our hands brushed. I'm still tingling with the thought.

February 22—Dear Diary
I went to the library today, and he was there, almost as if he planned it. He slipped a note into the coastal almanac: Wednesday, three o'clock, south steps. I nodded without looking up. The librarian stamped the due date, and my hands shook. He smiled and then walked away.
The room lost its warmth as he left, but then I remembered the note, and it felt like a hug. I've not shared a moment alone with him, but I know without a doubt, I am in love.

February 25—Dear Diary
Today, time stood still. I thought three o'clock would never arrive. I hurried to the back of the library. My heart sank because he wasn't there.
Seconds later, he appeared. He said he didn't want to cause trouble. I said trouble had already found us. He held my hands in his for a moment. He said, "Tomorrow. The pier."

February 26—Dear Diary
We walked the pier in opposite directions and met in the middle like strangers. He said my name very quietly. I said his. Father was farther down, talking to Mr. Crandon. We didn't touch, yet I felt like we did.

March 1—Dear Diary
Post office line. He stood behind me and said he hoped the rain would hold. I said I hoped for the same. The clerk asked if I needed stamps. I said yes just to keep standing there.

March 5—Dear Diary
Today, Father sent me to Wexington to pick up some letters from a lawyer. I climbed on the bus and chose a seat in the back. As the doors were closing, he climbed aboard.
I thought I would faint on the spot. He smiled and sat beside me. To others, we were strangers talking, but to me, it was so much more.
His stop was one town before mine. The bus felt empty when he was gone. He said he'd be at the pier tomorrow.

March 6—Dear Diary
Fate played a hand today. Father was busy with some businessmen and handed me a ticket to take the afternoon tourist cruise — a luncheon and scenic sights. It was his way of keeping me in one spot, I suppose.
Since the cruise was empty, I took a table at the top. As we left the pier, a voice asked if he could join me. It was Douglas. He'd seen me board and quickly bought a ticket.
Father would have been furious had he known. But I was in heaven. An hour alone and plans to meet again.

Claire turned the next page and stopped. The paper was wrinkled and stuck at the corner, watermarked across the dates. Several entries were smeared beyond reading; half a line survived: "Father is taking a business trip."

Lucy's hand found Ruth's on the table and stayed there.

Claire turned the page.

April 3—Dear Diary
Father leaves tomorrow night. Douglas and I will finally be together for an entire day. We planned it during prayers at church, whispering like schoolchildren. He's borrowed a car.

April 5—Dear Diary
It rained all day, but it didn't matter. Douglas found a little beach motel along the highway. We ate chow mein from paper boxes and laughed into the pillows so no one would hear. He said someday we'd eat in the open. I told him that as long as I was with him, it didn't matter.

Lucy blinked hard but didn't look away. "What a love affair," she said.

More pages were water-damaged and stuck together. Claire turned till she found one she was able to read. She traced the date, then drew back a fraction. "Oh… I didn't expect that."

Lucy leaned in. "What is it?"

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon ó A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father's death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed ó Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandon ó Claire's cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon ó Claire's aunt and Lucy's adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon ó Claire's late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton ó A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed ó David's grandfather and Lily's lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. Gideon Pike ó The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton ó Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery ó The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury ó A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 45
The Lighthouse Chap 7

By Begin Again

Wind came hard off the water, snapping branches and driving rain sideways. Pines along the shoulder bent and shook. Spray blew up from the rocks like cold grit.
"Call rescue and let them handle it," one of the men yelled, coat plastered to his back. "We've got to get out of here before this bank lets go."

"I'm not leaving her," Tanner said. He had one hand wedged into the crumpled door seam, the other shielding his eyes. "Radio it in, but I'm not walking away."

A gust shoved across the road, lifting loose gravel. The hazard lights on the wrecked sedan winked weakly and steadied. From the rim of the cut above, a young voice shouted, "Tanner! You good down there?"

"Lenny," Tanner called back, "watch the edge. If the bank gives, you yell before it takes us with it."

"I'm on it!" Lenny's headlamp swung, catching trees whipping and water running across the asphalt. He grabbed the work-truck radio. "Reed job — channel eight?" He thumbed the button. "Calling the Lighthouse base, this is Lenny Phelps. We're David Reed's Monday crew. We've got a car off the south road. One female — license says Ruth Crandon — conscious but hurt. The bridge to Cornwall is washed out. We need hands."

Static cracked. Then David's voice came back, flat and clear: "Reed here. Say again."

"Her ID says Ruth Crandon," Lenny answered. "She keeps saying she has to get to her daughter."

"Hold position," David said. "I'm coming."

*****
Lightning lit the ditch white for a heartbeat. The sedan was nosed into mud, the passenger side scraped along the rail, steam mixing with rain.

Tanner leaned to the crack in the glass. "Ma'am? Stay still. Help's on the way."

"Lucy," she whispered. "I need Lucy."

"We'll get you to her soon," Tanner said. "Don't move."

Lenny slid down the bank with a rough plank and a loose door panel from the truck bed. "If we have to carry, we'll carry."

"We wait for Reed," Tanner said, watching the slope. "We do it slow."

 

Headlights swung through the rain and stopped short. David took the grade at a run, a tow strap over his shoulder, and two wool blankets under his arm.
"Talk to me," he yelled against the wind.

"Belt's cut. She's with us. Bank's soft," Tanner said.

David looked once at the face behind the cracked glass. "We're not leaving her in this," he said. "Plank and strap. On my count."

Rain hammered the hood. Thunder rolled close. Three determined men went to work.

*****
David and the two men shouldered through the door, mud to the knees, carrying Ruth on the plank like a stretcher. Claire had cleared the table. Lucy, with terror written on her face, stood ready with towels and the first-aid kit.

"Set her here," Claire said.

They eased the plank to the table. Ruth's eyes tracked, unfocused and stubborn. "Lucy?"

"I'm here, Mom," Lucy said, voice tight. "I'm right here."

"Bridge is out," David said. "Ambulance is staging at the cannery. We shelter here until they can cross."

Claire clicked a penlight. "Follow the light." Pupils reacted. She counted breaths and snugged a belt wrap across Ruth's ribs. "Concussion signs, maybe a cracked rib. Small sips. Keep her awake."

Ruth stared at Lucy. "I told him no," she murmured. "Andrew said to tell her. I said wait."

"Shh," Lucy said, taking her hand. "None of that matters right now, Mom. We'll sort it out later. Stay with me."

The lights browned, steadied, browned again. Wind shouldered the windows.
The shelf radio spat static. Gideon's voice cut through, thin and worried. "Harbor to lighthouse, copy?"

Claire grabbed the handset. "Come in, Gideon."

"Two boats inbound," Gideon said. "Cora May and The Mayweather. Fog thick. Wind twenty-five. Visibility near zero. No lens up there. I need light on the south slip and something down the channel. Can you cover?"

Claire looked at David, then at Lucy and Ruth. "There's no lens in the tower. Got any ideas for light, David?"

David nodded. "I'll pull the generator and work lights from my shed."

Claire sighed. "It's a start, but I doubt that it's enough."

"I'll put a call out to my men. If any of them are nearby, they'll come."

Claire keyed the radio again. "Harbor, lighthouse. No lens in the tower. We'll rig work lights and trucks."

"Copy," Gideon said. "First horn from Cora May in three minutes. Mayweather is trailing."

David was already thumbing his phone. He shot a group text and a quick call to Harper at the store. "Spread the word — lights needed at the point. Bring whatever you've got."

"Lucy, stay with Ruth," Claire said. "If anything changes, shout."

"I've got her," Lucy said.

David grabbed the shed keys. "Generator, tripods, cords. I'll start the line down the channel."

"Good," Claire said. "I'll set the porch rail for mounts and clear the slip."

Outside, the wind carried the sound of engines climbing the grade. Headlights swung through the rain. Neighbors rolled in — Harper with a coil of rope, the Avery boys in slickers, Mrs. Benton's grandson with two floodlamps, Mr. Pike with a toolbox and tripod.

"What do you need?" Harper called.

"Light and hands," David said. "Let's move."

Mr. Pike yelled, "Back of the trucks got several large work lights."

Claire fell into the rhythm, just like when she worked side by side with her Dad.
"Angle one at the slip ladder and braces," Claire said. "Chain two to the porch rail for the channel line. I'll run cord along the fence."

David followed with more directions. "Tripods on the porch rail. Clear the slip. Keep the drainage open."

They spread out without fuss. Ropes ran, sandbags slid into place, floodlamps went up on fence posts, truck beds turned into light towers. Someone started the small pump by the sheds to pull water off the planks. Voices cut clean through the wind.

For the first time in years, the point wasn't empty, and they were pulling together.

Outside, rain hit like gravel. David fought the shed lock, hauled the generator onto a little wagon, stacked two tripods and headlamps, looped three extension cords over his shoulder, and muscled the load to the slip. Claire ran the fence line with cord, clipping it up off the ground, then bolted two lamps to the porch rail and aimed them down the cut toward the channel. The beams threw pale lanes across the black water.

At the slip, David filled the generator and pulled the cord. It coughed, caught, and settled into a steady thrum. He planted one floodlight at the ladder and braces, the second out to the cross-ties, set both to a wide cone, and tightened every knob until his knuckles hurt.

"Good," Claire said, coming down with the last coil. "Hold those. If the wind swings them, catch it fast."

"Copy," David said.

In the kitchen, Lucy sponged rain from Ruth's hairline and watched her pupils again. "Look at me," she said. "Name?"

"Ruth Crandon."

"Where are you?"

"The lighthouse," Ruth said. She blinked. "I hate this place." She shut her eyes, then opened them. "No. I hate what I did here."

Lucy swallowed. "Mom, whatever it is, we'll figure it out later. Stay with me."

The radio crackled. Gideon: "First horn south of the bell in thirty seconds. Hold any beam you've got on white water."

They heard it — the first blast, low and lost in the fog.

On the porch, Claire swung the beam to the sound and held it steady. David climbed the yard wall and pointed his headlamp down the line of light. Harper pulled his pickup onto the knoll and threw the high beams along the fence. The Avery boys lashed a third lamp to the porch post and braced it with a broom handle and hope.

"Don't chase it," David called. "Hold the lane. Let them come to it."

Power dipped to a dim brown. The generator deepened its note. One porch lamp wobbled; Claire tightened the clamp and kept her hands on the tripod.

The horn called again. Closer.

Wind slammed the south face. Lamps jittered and held. Rain ran off David's jacket in sheets.

The radio snapped: "Second horn — north of the mark," Gideon said, voice tighter. "That'll be The Mayweather. She's drifting high. If anyone can throw light on the north rock, do it now."

Harper angled his truck farther north. Another neighbor swung his SUV next to it, high beams throwing a pale wedge along the rock line.

"Go," Claire told David. "I'll hold the slip." He ran to help line the trucks and signal the drivers.

 

Inside, Lucy tipped a little water to Ruth's mouth. "Small sip."

Ruth swallowed, winced, and kept her eyes on Lucy. "Don't tell the reporter," she said. "Don't let them make Lily a headline."

"I won't," Lucy said. "I promise."

"Tell Claire not to hate me," Ruth added, her voice a mere whisper.

"She doesn't," Lucy said. "She's mad. That's different."

Outside, the horn sounded again — closer now. A swell rolled hard under it. A darker shape shouldered into the pale lane and dropped back into the fog.
"Hold steady!" David called from the knoll. "You're on the line!"

The shape answered with a blast.

The lamps buzzed. The generator held.

Gideon's voice came sharp: "I've got one bow light — bearing in. That's Cora May. Hold that slip beam. North drivers, hold trucks steady."

"Trucks steady," Harper answered on his handheld.

"If we catch Cora May, we turn to the Mayweather," Gideon said. "She's on the wrong side of the bell."

Claire kept her hands on the tripod and her eyes on the white water. Rain stung her face. She could feel the beam shake in the gusts and fought it.

In the kitchen, Lucy asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday," Ruth said, then frowned. "Don't be clever."

Lucy smiled a little through wet eyes. "Just checking."

Ruth glanced toward the door. "He'd be proud of her," she said. "Andrew taught her well." Her voice quivered, and her eyes closed.

Lucy held her hand tighter. "Stay with me, Mom."

 

A wave hit the cross-ties and sent spray up across the light. Claire kept the beam where the water ran white along the edge. The dark shape came back, clearer this time, bow lifting, sound of a hull and swell in the wind.

"Easy," David called. "Another ten feet —easy."

The horn answered short and close. The shape eased to the outside post — lines were tossed. Hands caught. Metal rang. For a second, relief cut through the noise.

Then the second horn wailed — higher, wrong, farther north.

Claire glanced toward the truck beams and then back to the slip. She didn't move her light.

The radio snapped hard. "Mayweather is north and drifting," Gideon said. "If she keeps that line, she'll hit the rocks. I need more light north, or I need someone to swing south when Cora May is tied."

David looked to Claire. Rain ran off his jaw. "Pick it," he said. "Slip or north. What do you want?"

Claire tightened her grip on the tripod. Lamps hummed. The generator growled. Trucks threw that thin road where no road was.

She didn't look away from the water. She drew a breath, knowing the wrong decision could cost the lives of the Mayweather crew. Her thoughts whirled as she whispered, "Dad, what do I do?"

Chapter 46
The Lighthouse Chap 8

By Begin Again

The radio cracked loudly enough to make Claire flinch.

Gideon's voice burst through, gritty and loud. "It's a miracle! Listen up — Cora May is secured, and Mayweather is turning toward the docks. Hold your lights steady. Don't move. Bring her home."

A cheer went up along the point — short, rough, real. David swung one lamp a hair north. Claire kept both hands on the tripod. In the fog, the bulk of Mayweather came around, bow pointing at the pale lane they'd cut through the gray.

"Easy," David called. "Straight in. You've got it."

The horn answered twice, close now. Lines flew. Hands caught. Men scrambled to pull the boat into the dock.

Gideon again, softer. "Mayweather tied. All souls safe."

For a second, Claire just stared. Then the breath she'd been holding burst out in a half-laugh, half-cry. "We did it! We actually did it!"

Before she could think, she jumped toward David, adrenaline still racing, and threw her arms around his neck. He caught her and held tight, steady against the wind and rain. She laughed, breathless, the relief shaking out of her.

"Yes," he said, eyes locked on hers. "We did."

And without thinking twice, he kissed her — quick and certain, a spark in the storm. For a heartbeat, they both froze, surprised by how right it felt. Then she pulled back, cheeks warm, trying to catch her breath. "Sorry," she said softly.

"Don't be," he said. 

They turned back to the lights, both pretending they suddenly had work to do, hearts still racing.

Neighbors kept working like they'd rehearsed it. Harper thumped David's shoulder. "Nice lane. Haven't seen one that clean since Andrew ran this point."

"Wasn't just me," David said. He looked at Claire. "It was Claire. She made the right call."

Claire nodded and swallowed hard. The lamps buzzed. The generator settled into a steady hum.

Lucy stepped into the doorway, hair damp, towel around her shoulders. "They're in?"

"They're in," Claire said.

Lucy's shoulders sagged. "Thank God." She turned back into the kitchen. "You hear that?"

She told Ruth, voice low. "They're safe."

"Good," Ruth whispered. "A job well done."

"Kill the extra lights," Claire called. "Leave two on the slip and one on the porch. Watch the cords."

Trucks peeled away in twos and threes, drivers promising coffee and help at first light. Harper left a small cooler by the door —"sandwiches and a thermos" — and jogged back into the rain. The point felt like it had exhaled.

Inside, the kitchen seemed too small after all that noise. Lucy eased Ruth against folded towels. Claire checked pupils, breath, and the rib wrap. Color had come back to Ruth's face.
The radio popped. Gideon again: "Bridge still out. The county will send an EMT by skiff when the tide eases. We'll come up the slip."

"Copy," Claire said.

David came in from the porch, shaking water off his sleeves. "How is she?"

"Awake and cranky," Ruth muttered. "That means I'm alive."

"Stable," Lucy said. "We'll keep her talking."

David nodded. "Mayweather crew's sitting tight till daylight. Cora May's sending coffee up."

Claire poured hot water into three mugs and dropped tea bags out of habit. "Sit," she told David. "Two minutes."

They did. No one spoke for a bit. Rain tapped steadily on the glass. The wall clock ticked like it always had.

The skiff bumped the slip about an hour later.

 

An EMT in a slicker checked Ruth's vitals, shined a light, tightened the wrap, and left a small kit. "From what I've been told, she's improved quite a lot since the accident. But I suggest that as soon as the bridge opens, she gets a complete checkup at the hospital. If anything changes, call me on twelve."

He clattered back down the steps into the rain. The house settled again. The generator hummed. It was just the four of them — Ruth on the bench, Lucy beside her, Claire at the table, David a step back in Andrew's chair, hands folded.

Ruth cleared her throat. "I need to say this while my head is clear." She looked at Lucy, then at Claire. "It's going to hurt. I'm sorry for that."

Lucy nodded once. "Can't it wait, Mother?"

Ruth's eyes were glassy and brimming with tears. "No, Lucy. It's waited far too long as it is."

Claire got the kettle, refilled the mugs, and then settled into the chair next to David.

Ruth took a breath. "I'm not your birth mother, Lucy. Your real name is Pamela Lucille, and Lily Wheaton was your mother."

Lucy dropped to her knees beside Ruth. "What? No, that can't be. Why are you saying this?"

"I raised you. I loved you. But I didn't give birth to you." She glanced at the stove, then back. "You were brought here — the night you were born. To this kitchen."

Lucy's fingers tightened on the towel in her lap. "Here. To the Lighthouse." She choked on her words. "How long have you known?"

"From the start," Ruth said. "Andrew called me. He said a young woman needed help, and a baby needed a home. I came. Dr. Avery came. Lily's father — Mr. Wheaton — said there would be no talk, no notice. 'For the family's sake,' he said."

"And Lily?" Lucy asked. Her voice shook and then steadied. "What happened to her?"

"She meant to leave town with the man she loved," Ruth said. She looked once at David, then back at Lucy. "Douglas Reed. She fell ill the day they were to go. He thought she had changed her mind. He left. She had you a few months later. She was young, ashamed, and scared. And then —" Ruth's voice frayed. "She was distraught, overwhelmed by life, I suppose. One night she walked the headland and —" Ruth paused as she watched the wave of emotions cross her daughter's face. "The town was told it was an accident, a fall. It wasn't." 

Lucy stared at the table edge like she needed something solid to hold in her mind. "So, the woman who gave birth to me left me here, and then she —" The rest stuck. She pressed her lips together, nodded once, hard. "And you decided never to tell me."

"I begged Andrew to keep it quiet," Ruth said. "The town was cruel, and Mr. Wheaton had a long reach. I told myself I was protecting you. Maybe I was protecting myself. Every time you asked why I hated this place, I almost told you. I didn't. That's on me. It was wrong to wait this long."

Silence held. The clock ticked. Rain tapped.

Lucy said, very plain, "I had a right to know. You should have trusted me."

"I should have," Ruth said. "I'm sorry."

Claire spoke quietly. "Dad tried to set it right at the end. He left me a path. The jar. Mrs. Avery. The slip."

"I know," Ruth said. "He told me he was leaving you 'what was needed.' We argued. I lost that one." She managed a small, crooked smile. "He could be stubborn."

David finally spoke, voice low. "My grandfather didn't know," he said to Lucy. "We found a letter to Lily returned unopened. We found a photo — him and Lily in April '79. He enlisted after. He carried it alone."

Lucy looked at him, then back at Ruth. "Did he come back?"

"He did," Ruth said. "Not for years. He worked Sundays at the yard. He kept his head down, kept to himself."

Lucy's breath was shallow, as if the air were thicker than before. "So, who am I?"

Ruth reached for her hand. "You're Lucy," she said. "You always will be. And you're Lily's daughter. And Douglas's. None of that cancels the rest."

Lucy didn't pull away, but she didn't squeeze back. "I need time."

"You'll have it," Ruth said. "All you want."

Claire slid a clear sleeve across the table — the envelope with the dull purple stamp: RETURN TO SENDER. "We haven't opened this," she said. "It's from Douglas to Lily. It came back to him. We can read it together. Or not."

Lucy looked at it for a long time. "I want to hear what he tried to say," she said. "But not alone."

"We're here for you," Claire said.

Ruth nodded. "Me too, if you'll have me."

Lucy gave the slightest nod.

David shifted forward an inch. "Do you want me to step out?"

"No," Lucy said. She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "You're part of this."

Claire took a small pair of scissors from the drawer. Her hands were steady now. She slid the blade under the flap and cut. The paper gave with a dry whisper. She eased the letter free and unfolded it.

Ruth's breath hitched. Lucy's hands opened and closed on the towel. David kept his eyes on the table.

Claire read —

Lily,
I waited until the last horn, but you never came. I told myself it was the storm and that you would follow. I've written and heard nothing. My heart breaks, and I fear you've had a change of heart.

Claire stopped. No one spoke.

"Keep going," Lucy said.

Claire read the following lines.

If, by the grace of our Lord, it is not you but your father, we can face this together. Write to the yard or leave a note with Mrs. Harper or Andrew. He will find me. I'll come.
Whatever you choose, know that I will not love another. My heart remains with you.
Forever,
Douglas.

Claire lowered the page. The room was very quiet.

Ruth pressed a hand to her mouth. "He did try," she whispered. "He didn't leave her."

Lucy's shoulders sagged, not from defeat, but more like the size of the truth had finally shown itself. "So, everyone missed each other," she said. "And I lived a whole life in the space between."

Claire reached across and set her hand over Lucy's. David reached too, then stopped short, letting Lucy choose. She moved her hand a half inch and put it on his. He closed his fingers around hers and didn't say a word.

Ruth drew a breath. "There's one more thing I never told anyone."

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon – A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father’s death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed – Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandon – Claire’s cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon – Claire’s aunt and Lucy’s adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon – Claire’s late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton – A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed – David’s grandfather and Lily’s lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. Gideon Pike – The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton – Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery – The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury – A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 47
The Lighthouse Chap 10

By Begin Again

Claire steadied the page as she scanned the entry.

"What's it say, Claire?"

Claire's eyes met Lucy's and then David's before she read —

May 1 — Dear Diary. Can you believe it, because I can't! We're married. No lace, no bells—just a justice who never looked up. He called me Mrs. Reed, and I almost cried through the oath.

Douglas borrowed a car, and we slipped away to the neighboring village. They have a municipal building, and a judge holds ceremonies every Thursday — ten dollars for vows, five for the license, and five for a wedding picture. We celebrated with French fries and root beer floats at the outdoor stand across the street.

We drove home, and Douglas dropped me off behind the library. I walked home, or maybe I floated. I didn't want to say goodbye, but I knew we had to. I kept my ring in my pocket until I reached my room. I'll keep it close to my heart all night.

David looked down, quiet for a beat. "So, the picture my mom found—it must be their wedding photo."

Claire turned toward him, her hand resting on his.

He nodded. "They look happy. Not posing for anyone. Just — caught in a moment."

Lucy brushed at a tear she didn't mean to shed. "They were in love. You can see it."

Claire turned the page.

 

"May 17— Dear Diary. First time as husband and wife. We drove back with the windows down and the radio low. I snuck inside like a thief, floating on a cloud. I love him with all my heart.

Claire paused. "The following pages are stuck together."

"Keep going," Lucy said. "When does it start again?"

"Here it is." Claire smoothed the wrinkles from the page. "The ink is smudged but readable."

July 8 — Dear Diary. I've a secret. One I can't share with anyone. I'm sure I am with child — our child. Douglas is gone on a business trip for his father. I can't wait to tell him. For now, it's our secret — just the tiny life growing inside me. I whisper, I love you and pray that he or she knows, too.

July 12 — Dear Diary, I feel as if I might die. I'm running a fever, and my mother won't stop crying. Father called Dr. Avery.

It was horrible. I knew as he examined me, he'd discovered my secret. He held my hand, and my eyes pleaded for his silence. We didn't share a word, but when he squeezed my hand, somehow I knew my secret was safe.

July 14 — Dear Diary. Father found the ring. He said nothing and everything at once. Tomorrow, I go to Aunt Millie's for a season.' I have never felt so married and so alone."

August 23 — Dear Diary. Aunt Millie's smells like starch and judgment. The church ladies look at my shoes when they speak to me. I wrote Douglas on a scrap and stitched it into my hem so I can walk without falling.

Lucy rubbed her thumb along the table. "She must have felt all alone."

Claire slid to the corner of the next page.

February 7—Dear Diary. The storm began with the pains. Aunt Millie called Father. He ranted and raved until Aunt Millie said the neighbors would hear. So he took me to the Lighthouse. Wind pushed through every seam. Dr. Avery arrived soaked. He told me I was brave.

A quick sob cut from Ruth's throat. "Andrew cut the cord, and Dr. Avery handed you to me. I had no idea how my world was about to change."

Tears streamed down Claire's face. "What about Father and Mr. Wheaton?"

"Andrew was as emotional as I ever saw him — that is, until your birth years later. But Wheaton — he acted as if we were just taking out the trash. Never once looked at his daughter or the baby."

David handed Claire a tissue, and she wiped her eyes. "Do you want me to read more?"

Lucy's lip was trembling, but she nodded. So Claire started to read again.

February 8 — Dear Diary. My sweet baby girl is here. She's perfect. The midwife who came with Dr. Avery let me hold her long enough to kiss her cheek and hear her sweet breath —like a seashell pressed to the ear. Father wouldn't even look at her.

Lucy covered her mouth, then let her hand fall. Ruth kept hold of her.

February 9 — Dear Diary. Father left my sweet baby at the Lighthouse and took me home, banished me to my room, and in silence. First, I lost Douglas, and now Pamela Lucile. What purpose is there to my life? None that I can see.

February 25 — Dear Diary. I walked past the tower with the lady in charge of my care. I'm not allowed to speak to anyone, but Father felt I needed the fresh air. A woman stood in the doorway, rocking a tiny bundle. She smiled at me the way women do when they think the world is theirs. I smiled back because she deserves peace. My heart shattered into pieces. I came home and screamed into a pillow until the feathers made snow.

Silence took the room. The kettle ticked as it cooled. Ruth reached out, and Lucy leaned into her arms.

Claire slid a finger lower. "There's a torn line after that—half a sentence. If she ever asks who she is — that's all."

Lucy's jaw set. "I'm asking now."

Ruth met her eyes. "And we're answering." 

Claire turned the page. "A few here are watermarked. This one's clear."

March 9—Dear Diary. I left a note for Father saying I've gone to buy thread. I walked to the cliff with my keeper instead. She thought the air would help clear my mind. It didn't."

Lucy's fingers tightened.

Claire drew a breath and turned to the final leaf. "Last page. It's not dated." She read slowly so nothing slipped past them.

If anyone reads this, let the record be plain: Douglas Reed is Lucy's father. His love remains in my heart, but my grief is too much without him or our baby girl at my side. I leave our daughter in kinder arms. I pray that someday he will learn the truth. Tell him I was not ashamed. Tell him I loved him. Tell him our love remains in the Lighthouse's care."

Claire stopped. The room held still. "You were meant to be part of the Lighthouse, waiting for Douglas's ship to return. That's why Father kept the jar — a promise in the dark."

Ruth whispered, "Andrew always kept watch. Waiting for your father to ask while I held my breath."

Lucy shook her head once, not in denial, just bracing. "There has to be more," she said. "If her heart broke like that—she must have said something else."

Claire looked down. "There's one more line." Tears threatened to spill again as she whispered,

"I am going to the cliff now. The sea is calling. I'll leave my diary on the wall for the woman who holds you in her arms.

Nobody spoke. The clock ticked. The radio gave a slight hiss.

Lucy's mouth opened and closed. She pressed her fingertips to the table as if she needed the wood to hold her up. When her voice came, it was thin. "She chose the cliff," she said, barely louder than a breath.

Ruth slid her chair closer. "She was hurt and cornered," she said. "It doesn't make her love smaller. It means she couldn't find air." Ruth's voice shook. "She chose it because of her pain, not because you weren't enough."

Lucy nodded. "Then that's how we tell it."

David reached across and set his hand on the diary, not covering it, just there. "We have the page," he said. "We have her words. We won't let anyone bend them."

Lucy nodded, once. Tears came, quiet, like her body had decided for her. She didn't hide them. "She loved me," she said. "I need that to be the part people hear first."

"It will be," Claire said.

Ruth took Lucy's hand and held on. "We'll tell it that way," she said."

They sat with it. The radio gave a soft hiss. Rain moved across the glass and let up.

David said, "We'll handle the next steps when you're ready—paper, records, the town. Not this second."

"Not this second," Lucy said. She set both hands on the diary, then moved one to Ruth's. "Thank you for keeping me. For keeping her words."

"I was blessed to hold you in my arms," Ruth said. "I could never let you go."

Claire tied the twine loosely so the diary wouldn't fall open and left it on the towel—present, not hidden.

Lucy looked toward the window and the line of the cliff. "When the time is right, I want to go there. Not for drama. For respect."

"We'll go with you," David said.

"We will," Claire said.

Lucy nodded. "Okay."

Lucy set her palm flat on the cover. "No more secrets."

Ruth nodded. "No more secrets."

Tires crunched over the gravel outside.

David looked up from the window. "Visitor," he said. "I'll take care of it."

Claire rose, but Lucy caught her sleeve. "Let him handle it."

A woman in a raincoat came up the steps, heels clicking on wet boards. She knocked—steady, practiced, professional.

David opened the door just enough to speak. "Morning. Can I help you?"

"Trudy Lansbury with the Gazette," she said, showing her press badge. "May I come in?"

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon ó A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father's death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed ó Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandon ó Claire's cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon ó Claire's aunt and Lucy's adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon ó Claire's late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton ó A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed ó David's grandfather and Lily's lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. Gideon Pike ó The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton ó Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery ó The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury ó A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 48
The Lighthouse Chap 11

By Begin Again

"Trudy Lansbury with the Gazette," she said, showing her press badge. "Word in town is there was activity here last night. Lights in the tower, visitors coming and going. I figured I'd check the facts before folks make up their own."

David kept one hand on the door. "If it's about the boat rescues, see Gideon--the harbor master. He'll have the details. If it's something else, we have nothing for print today. It's family business."

Trudy tilted her head, curious but not rude. "Family business at the old lighthouse usually turns into town history. Sometimes the public deserves to know."

"Sometimes the public can wait," David said, starting to close the door.

Lucy stepped forward, laying her hand on the edge of the door. "It's all right."

"Lucy--" David warned.

She opened the door fully and faced the reporter. Her hair was still damp, but her voice was steady. "My name is Pamela Lucile Wheaton Crandon. I'm a reporter for the Chronicle, and I'm afraid you're too late for the scoop. It's my story--and I'll be the one to tell it."

Trudy blinked, caught off guard. "Pamela Lucile Wheaton — Crandon," she repeated, writing it down. "And the story?"

"A family one," Lucy said. "About things the town half remembered and half guessed. We'll make sure it's told right."

"So there is something to tell."

"There's always something to tell," Lucy said, "but not from anyone outside this house."

Trudy's expression softened. "You've got a backbone. If you decide to give a statement — or when your article runs — send me a note." She offered a card. "I'd rather quote the truth than the gossip."

Lucy accepted the card. "I'll remember that."

Trudy glanced past her toward the dim hall. "How's Mrs. Crandon?"

"Resting," Claire said.

The reporter nodded. "Then I'll leave you to it." She took one step down, then looked back. "When it prints, I hope it brings you peace."

"That's the plan," Lucy said.

Trudy lifted her chin in a small salute and walked to her car. The tires hissed on the wet gravel until the sound faded.

David closed the door gently. "You handled that better than I could've."

"She just wanted the truth," Lucy said. "So do I."

Ruth's eyes were watching her. "Say your name again, dear."

Lucy turned toward her and smiled. "Let me introduce all of you to Pamela Lucile Wheaton Crandon, but you can keep calling me Lucy."

Ruth nodded. "That's the girl I raised. The rest is just the past."

David smiled faintly, touching the ledger on the table. "Written words make things official."

"They do," Lucy agreed. She rested her hand on the diary, then on Ruth's. "From here on out, we tell it as it is."

Outside, gulls cut through the clearing sky, and the sea kept its rhythm--steady and sure.

"Claire, do you remember the rose soup urn with the broken handle?" Ruth asked.

"Of course. Dad complained every time he wanted soup. He wanted a new one, but you wouldn't let him toss the old one. It's on the top shelf of the closet."

"Can you get it down for me, please?"

"Sure—but you aren't planning on making soup, are you?"

Ruth chuckled. "No. One more thing to share while we're getting things out in the open."

David moved toward the closet. "I'll get it. Can't have you dropping things on your head."

Claire stepped aside. "It's the big pot with the roses on the very top shelf."

David lifted it down and groaned. "You sure this doesn't still have soup in it?

"
Claire peeked inside. "It has something in it, but it's not soup."

Ruth looked from Lucy to the urn. "It's another kind of journal."

"Lily's?" Lucy asked, voice rising.

"No. Mine." Ruth lifted a small packet tied with a blue ribbon and set it in front of her.
She loosened the ribbon, and the stack breathed — a finger-painted angel with a bent halo, a church program with a star next to "Lucy—Our Angel," a paper race number—12—edges curled, a ticket stub, a tiny envelope labeled "tooth," a bundle of clippings tied with thread. She smiled as she set each one on the table.

"Your first Christmas play," she said, tapping the program. "You forgot your one line and waved at me instead."

She lifted the race number. "Boat day with Andrew. I was sure it would sink. With you as captain, it came in second."

From the tiny envelope, she slid a white chip into her palm. "First tooth. You left it in a jam jar because you wanted to see the fairy's light."

Ruth smoothed the top card. "Okay," she said, finding her place in the pages. "Now the dates."

Her fingers untied the bow the rest of the way. The pages were mismatched—cards and torn paper. She didn't pass them off. She read, low enough that the room had to lean closer.

December 24, 1989. Lucy hung her handprint on the tree. Red paint, five crooked fingers. She asked where angels sleep. 'Anywhere they're needed,' I said, and thought of you."

She turned the next page and, with a slight smile, fanned two drawings--a lopsided cupcake and a dog with guilty eyes. "Evidence," she said, then read on.

"May 11, 1997. She investigated the missing cupcakes and wrote her first story, complete with a drawing of the dog as the culprit. We laughed until we cried, and then we laughed again."

Lucy's hand rose to her mouth, then fell. The room felt warmer by a degree — grief and joy learning to stand together.

Ruth continued.

"October 10, 2007. School essay contest--'Truth Is a Lighthouse.' Of all the metaphors, she chose the tower that saved her. I tucked the ribbon beside your name in my Bible."

Lucy's laugh broke in the middle. "I remember that ribbon. You told me it meant I tried twice."

"It meant more than that," Ruth said, and she set the blue ribbon beside the program. "It was our connection to Lily."

"June 2, 2016. Days at the café, nights at the library. Weekends, she chases little stories, and somehow they matter once she writes them down. She signs them 'Lucy Crandon.' I keep every clipping."

Ruth touched the thread-tied bundle of clippings. "Ink on my thumbs for weeks," she said. "I didn't mind."

Lucy looked down, a blush that wasn't shame. "You kept them."

"All of them," Ruth said. "I kept you for Lily, too."

The last page was dated this year; the ink held a slight tremor that wasn't the pen.

"March 8. Doctor says, 'rest.' I say 'not yet.' I dreamed of the lantern turning, light circling back to where it began. If Lucy ever finds these pages, tell her I loved her enough to hide her and enough, finally, to let the truth in."

Ruth lowered the page and met their eyes. "That was the day I fainted," she said. "Heart's been acting its age. My doctor says it's not an emergency if I behave myself, and I intend to--starting now."

Claire's hand was already on her shoulder. "You will."

Ruth nodded. "I wanted it written down in case I kept putting things off. That's all."

Lucy pushed her chair back a half inch, making room to breathe. She looked at Claire, at the ledger, at the blue ribbon, at Ruth. "It was love," she said. "All of it. It got messy in places, but love did what it could."

Ruth exhaled like someone putting down a sandbag. She smiled through wet eyes. "That it was. From your first breath—no, from the moment Lily conceived you—it was all about love."

Claire rewrapped the ledger. Lucy kissed the top edge of the bundle and set both on the tea towel.

"I need a minute," she said. "Air that isn't full of history."

Ruth caught her hand. "Don't go far."

"I won't," Lucy said, and to Claire, "Thank you."

Lucy put on her jacket and stepped outside. The path to the cliffs was damp and steady under her shoes. The storm was moving off; waves hit the rocks and rolled back. She stopped at the rise near the tower. The wind was sharp. She folded her arms and stood there a moment, getting her breath.

"I'm Lucy," she said to the air, letting the name hang, then added, "Wheaton." After a beat, she felt it settle in her bones: "Crandon."

The sea answered with one firm slap against the reef.

"It's time for the truth to be written," she told the water and the gull that wheeled once and moved on. "Not for the Chronicle. For me. For her. For everyone—for the mother and father I never knew, and for the woman who raised me with love." She exhaled; the air came back salty. "I am not a scandal. I am a story of love and survival."

"Lily--Mom," she said, the word not strange in her mouth. She set a hand to her chest, feeling the rhythm there. "I feel your pain and sadness, but more importantly, I feel your love."

She let the wind press her jacket tighter and leaned into it, like a friend taking some of the weight. "Ruth—Mom," she added, because love is only itself when it's honest. "I feel more than I can put into words. I was placed in your arms, and you loved me from that moment on."

A door inside the house creaked and settled--someone checking, then letting her be. Lucy looked at her hands and flexed them, testing that they still knew how to hold a pen.

"I'm going to tell my story," she said to the edge of the world. She lifted her chin. "Like it or not, it's time the town knew the truth--not a cover-up."

 

A few sun rays broke through the clouds, lighting the footpath back to the kitchen.

"Okay," she said to wind and wave and to the little girl who always liked answers. "We start."
She turned toward the lighthouse.

The old light, stubborn and faithful, seemed to lean with her.

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon ó A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father's death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed ó Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandon ó Claire's cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon ó Claire's aunt and Lucy's adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon ó Claire's late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton ó A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed ó David's grandfather and Lily's lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. Gideon Pike ó The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton ó Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery ó The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury ó A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 49
The Lighthouse Chap 12

By Begin Again

The screen door thumped behind Lucy as she stepped into the keeper's kitchen. The wall phone was already ringing.

Claire grabbed it. "Hello--yes?" She listened, eyes going to Ruth. "This is Claire. She's with me."

A pause as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Ten a.m. is fine. We'll be there." She hung up. "That was Jenna -- the EMT from the other night. She coordinated with Dr. Patel. He wants to see you tomorrow at ten, just to be cautious."

Ruth buttoned her cardigan. "Ten it is. I like a doctor who follows through." She chuckled and added, "It's nice to have someone boss me around besides you two."

Lucy pulled out a chair. "You feeling okay, Mom?"

"I am," Ruth said. "But we'll let the doctor say it so you two will stop hovering like storm gulls."

They finished what was left in the fridge -- half a casserole, rolls, and a salad. Claire washed the dishes and left them to dry on a towel the way her father used to. The Lighthouse clicked and settled around them, the comfortable sounds of a house breathing.

"Tomorrow," Claire said, drying her hands. "Doctor first. Then you can start to set the story straight."

Lucy met her mother's eyes and nodded once.

*****
Morning came clear and blue over the point. Claire drove down from the Lighthouse, Ruth riding shotgun with her purse neatly clasped, Lucy in back with a warm thermos between her hands. The harbor slid past—stacks of traps, a gull claiming a piling, cottages with flower boxes, the small shops, the ravine where Ruth's accident occurred — then across the newly replaced bridge to Dr. Patel's office.

The visit went quickly—vitals, a blood draw, and a careful talk. "You appear to be recovering well," Dr. Patel said to Ruth. "Still, it won't hurt to be cautious for a few days." He printed a follow-up and handed the card to Claire, then squeezed Lucy's shoulder like he knew more than he said.

Outside, the wind carried the aroma of fresh bread and something sweet. Claire tucked the appointment card into her wallet.

"Soup," Ruth declared, satisfied that she'd passed the doctor's inspection. "And then lemon cookies. They are the best medicine for whatever ails you. The doctor didn't say cookies, but he meant them."

"The doctor's orders were to eat lots of soup," Claire said.

"And I revised them to include the cookies."

Lucy lagged half a step behind and took out her phone. "I'll text Jenna a thank-you." She typed, then, with her back to the others, called David. He picked up on the first ring.
"She's okay," Lucy whispered. "Cantankerous, and definitely not fragile."

"That's good news," David said, relief in his voice. "The crew's nearly done setting up.. Don't tell Claire. I want her to see the town coming together -- Lighthouse and all."

"She'll see," Lucy promised.

*****
The Harbor Street diner smelled like coffee and home cooking. The sun slid across the checkerboard floor, lighting the chrome napkin holders like tiny beacons. They took the booth by the window -- Ruth at the aisle, Claire beside her, Lucy opposite.

"Chicken soup," Ruth told the server. "With lots of chicken. Don't want to be eating plain broth."

The waitress scribbled on her order pad and hurried away.

"Doctor also said you're doing fine," Claire said.

 Ruth's eyebrow climbed. "I heard stubborn."

Lucy grinned. "If you did, he wasn't wrong."

The clink of flatware and the hiss from the grill settled around them. Claire smoothed her napkin. "I should get back to the lighthouse this afternoon," she said. "David's family will want to start their plans. If I begin tonight, I can have my things boxed by Monday."

"You don't have to rush," Lucy said -- too fast.

Claire kept her tone even. "It was my father's, and he's gone. The Reeds have the means. It's their turn. I don't want to hold anything up."

 Ruth reached across and covered Claire's hand. Claire saw her eyes soften. "You're no one's delay, honey. You kept that place's heart beating. Andrew is probably still smiling after what you and the town pulled off the other night."

Claire let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "If he's watching, I want him to know that the staircase complains louder than I do."

"The third and the seventh step," Ruth said. "Your father always skipped the seventh -- bad luck, he claimed."

"And he tapped the banister twice," Claire added. "Telling the sea he was coming."

Lucy's eyes brightened. "Once he let me watch the lens turn. I wasn't supposed to be there that late. He pretended not to see me and said, 'If you're going to sneak, at least learn something. He showed me the stars and I remembered."

Their bowls arrived in a drift of steam. They ate for a while, accepting the quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

"I found his field journal," Claire said at last. "Sketches of the lamp room, notes about the motor. I could hear him in the margins." She swallowed. "It'll be good seeing the place alive again -- even if I'm not there for the next part."

You will be, Lucy told herself, pressing her fork into a pickle spear to keep the words behind her teeth--just a few more hours.

"After soup," Ruth said, "Cookies. Then home."

"Home," Claire echoed.

They paid — Ruth exact with her coins — and drove back up the road toward the point, windows cracked toward the sea. The keeper's house rose ahead, the tower shouldering the sky beside it.

From the gate, Claire saw it before she understood it -- a lift by the oil shed; pennant strings tugging in the wind and cars angled along the fence. Gideon's broad back moved through a scattering of volunteers.

Claire braked. "What is happening?"

"You went to town," someone called from a ladder, "and the town came here."

"I don't understand. The renovation doesn't start until Monday."

 Ruth patted Claire's hand. "Don't fuss."

Lucy helped her mom out, closing the car door.

Gideon grinned when he saw her. "Good timing," he called to Claire. "We needed a boss to tell us we did it wrong."

"What are you doing?" Claire asked, half angry, half breathless.

"Getting ready," he said, as if it were apparent. "Town wants a night worth remembering."

David stepped out of the keeper's house -- sleeves rolled, a smear of grease at his wrist. His smile tightened and eased when he saw her. "You made it."

"Apparently, to a construction site," Claire said, but her voice had gone soft at the edges. "You've started already?"

"Of course -- can't wait till the last minute if we are going to have a celebration."

"A celebration? What's this about? Are you having a grand opening before you even renovate?"

"Of course not, silly. We're celebrating how the town pulled together the other night, and it gives Lucy a platform to tell her story."

Claire turned to Lucy, who was grinning ear to ear. "You knew about this and didn't tell me?"

"I was taught that one never spoils a surprise." She laughed. "Besides, I think the grand lady deserves a big party. Don't you?"

"I'm not sure, but if you think it's what you want."

Lucy wrapped her arms around Claire and gave her a big squeeze. "It's what we all need -- a celebration of new beginnings."

Claire turned away and mumbled, "And an ending for me." She kept walking toward the house.

Neighbors kept arriving in twos and threes, setting down casserole dishes with names scrawled in tape, laying quilts over the backs of folding chairs. The breeze lifted the strings of bulbs into small arcs. Someone tuned a guitar; someone else fussed with the microphone on a crate-turned-podium until it squeaked and then behaved.

By the time the sun sloped toward gold, the bluff looked like a festival. Trudy from the Gazette stood off to the side, camera dangling, and caught Lucy's eye as if to ask for permission. Lucy gave a slight nod.

Lucy wiped her palms on her skirt and stepped up onto the little platform. She found her mother in the front row -- Ruth's chin lifted, eyes already bright--and then she looked out over the town that had carried a rumor for forty years.

"For a long time," Lucy said, voice steady, "I wondered who I was--and why this place wouldn't let me go. Maybe the sea remembers what it carries." She swallowed and turned back to Ruth. "I wouldn't be standing here if not for my mom. She opened her heart to a baby who didn't come with instructions, and she never once made love feel borrowed. Mom, thank you for choosing me every day."

As Lucy continued to tell her story — a story that deserved to be told from beginning to end — the town's residents whispered and nodded amongst themselves. At the end, applause rose like surf. Lucy stepped down and went straight into her mother's arms. People nearby reached, too — hands on shoulders, quick embraces, the soft hum of relief moving through the chairs.
Before the quiet could quite settle, an older man stood from the front row. He cleared his throat once, glanced at David, and then faced neighbors who'd known him since he was a boy.

"Before my son speaks," he said, voice steady but thick, "there's a truth I ought to tell. Douglas Reed -- the man we honor tonight--wasn't my father. He was my uncle."
A ripple of surprise moved the air.

"My father, Daniel, was Douglas's older brother," he went on. "He and my mother were killed overseas when I was small. Douglas came home from his own heartbreak and took me in. He raised me as his son and carried the rest in silence. Folks called him a bachelor, and he let them. Maybe it was easier than reliving what he couldn't change."

He turned to Lucy, eyes soft. "He never stopped loving your mother, or the baby she bore. You were never a forgotten child — only protected the best he knew how."

Lucy pressed her fingers to her mouth. Claire felt her own heart kick hard and then settle, as if something long skewed had clicked back into place.

John Reed looked at David and nodded once. "Now I turn the mic over to my son."

David reached him in two steps and gripped his shoulder. "Thank you, Dad." They stood that way for a heartbeat—two men touching the same past—and then David turned to the little microphone.

"This light has weathered storms, secrets, and these last months of grief," he said. "Tonight, it returns --" A gasp worked its way through the crowd. "It's been recommissioned as a working beacon and as a memorial to Douglas Reed and Andrew Crandon."

He lifted his chin toward the tower. Somewhere inside, a switch clicked; a motor hummed awake. The lantern room brightened, the first sweep of the beam sliding across the water and back over the crowd. The cheer that rose was ragged and honest. Gideon swiped at his eyes as if grit had flown up.

Tears streamed down Claire's face as she watched the light sweep across the water and then the grounds. She stumbled away from the platform, gasping for air. Waves of happiness to see the light washed over her, mixed with the anguish that her father wasn't here to see it.

She could hear David's voice continuing. "The Reed family will build a small bed-and-breakfast on the neighboring parcel. Visitors will have a place to stay, and they'll learn this story the right way. The Lighthouse stays what it's always been — a keeper of light, and now, of truth."

Applause shook the pennants. Music found its way into the gaps--guitar, a fiddle someone had smuggled in, a low hum of harmony from the back row. Trudy raised her camera, thought better of it, and let it hang again.

As talk and laughter rose, Claire drifted to the bottom of the tower steps and watched the beam turn. She whispered, "I wish you were here, Dad. Tonight she shines. And tomorrow I shall say goodbye to the grand lady. I don't know how I can let both of you go."

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow, Yesterday's Dreams and its fourth story, "The Lighthouse," come to an end. I hope you will enjoy the last chapter and the epilogue. Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. Smiles and hugs, Carol

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon ó A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father's death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed ó Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandonó Claire's cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon ó Claire's aunt and Lucy's adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon ó Claire's late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton ó A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed ó David's grandfather and Lily's lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. John Reed - David's father Gideon Pike ó The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton ó Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery ó The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury ó A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 50
The Lighthouse The End

By Begin Again

The applause from the bluff still carried faintly up the hill when Lucy's phone buzzed in her pocket. She stepped away from the music and answered, half-expecting it to be Claire. "Hello?"

"Is this Lucy? Ruth Crandon's daughter?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, this is Lucy. Who's calling?"

"Dr. Patel. I tried your mother earlier and thought it best not to wait. The new test results came in." Papers rustled faintly through the line.

"Tests? She didn't mention any tests."

"That's Ruth for you. Always carrying the weight on her shoulders."

"These tests -- what were they for?"

"Just routine checks on the breast cancer."

Lucy froze. "The -- what?"

"Her breast cancer," he repeated gently. "It's responding very well."

Her hand went to her chest. "Cancer? She never told me."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know she kept it a secret."

"I guess until recently, I hadn't seen her very much. I was working in the city and going to school."

"Well, the good news is she's in remission. You can tell her she's got every reason to be hopeful."

Lucy turned toward the lighthouse, its beam sweeping across the dark water. Her voice trembled with relief. "Thank you, Doctor. You have no idea what that means."

"I think I do," he said softly. "Tell her I said congratulations."

She ended the call and stood still, the phone warm in her hand. "Cancer," she whispered again, shaking her head. "Oh, Mom, and you never said a word."

 

Then she smiled through the tears that finally came. "But remission -- thank God." She shoved the phone into her pocket and searched the crowd, mumbling, "No more secrets, you said." She huffed and mumbled, "Wait till I find you."

She slid the phone into her pocket and found Ruth near the edge of the bluff, a blanket around her shoulders. She strode over, heart thudding.

"I'm furious," Lucy said, stopping in front of her, hands on her hips. "We agreed -- no more secrets."

Ruth's brow knit. "Lucy? What are you talking about?"

Before another word could rise, Lucy bent and hugged her tight -- so tight Ruth gave a small, surprised laugh. "We'll discuss the fact that you didn't tell me about the cancer later," Lucy whispered into her shoulder.

Ruth gasped. "How do you know?"

"Dr. Patel tried to reach you and couldn't, so he called my phone, assuming that I knew about it. He wanted you to know the cancer's in remission."

Ruth froze, then drew back just enough to see her daughter's face. "Remission?"

Lucy nodded, eyes bright. "You're going to be fine, Mom."

Ruth's hand trembled against her cheek, half laughing, half crying. "Looks like I've still got stories to finish."

"You'd better," Lucy said, smiling, "because I know I'm not done writing them with you."

Meanwhile, music on the bluff softened to a hum. Claire rested her palm on the tower door and pushed. The iron gave with a sigh, and cool air wrapped her as she stepped onto the spiral stair.

Light moved like a slow heartbeat through the shaft—one sweep, then dark, then another sweep. The stones smelled faintly of oil and salt. She climbed, pausing on the seventh step and, out of habit, skipping it the way her father always had.

Halfway up, she stopped, forearm to the rail. The beam skimmed the wall and slid away again. "I'm happy for you," she whispered to the room and everything it held. "I am."

Bootsteps came below--unhurried, careful. "Claire?" David's voice floated up, low and steady. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she called down, brushing at her cheeks. "Just -- saying goodnight."

He came into view on the landing below, sleeves still rolled. "You disappeared. I got worried."

"I didn't mean to cause a search party," she said, trying for lightness.

"No search party, just me, but I hope that's all you would need," he said, smiling, and climbed to her step. He didn't crowd her -- just stood with her, watching the light revolve.

"I don't have much left to clear out," she said at last, eyes on the glass. "A few boxes. I'll be gone in a couple of days so that you can get started."

"Gone?" He blinked. "Claire, you've got it backward."

"Do I?" She kept her voice even, braced for the correction.

"We're building next door," he said, gently. "The lighthouse—the tours, the stories, the stubborn history—should be yours. I don't want you boxed up and gone. I want you here." He tipped his head, a rueful smile edging in. "Stay. Keep the light."

The stairwell went very quiet. Far outside, a last chord from a guitar thinned into the night.

"You're serious," she said. "Keep the light? You mean work for you? I don't think --"

"Not work for me or my family. This lighthouse will always be a part of your father and you. You belong here."

"As the Lighthouse keeper?"

"I can't think of anyone better," he answered. "And I don't want to."

Something unknotted beneath her ribs. Breath left her in a laugh she hadn't planned. "Then I guess I'm not packing."

"Good," he said, relief bright in his eyes. "I like sharing the moonlight and stars with you."

She shook her head at him, smiling despite herself. The beam passed and gilded the rail and their hands where they almost touched.

They climbed together. At the lantern room, the night opened on all sides. The lamp turned with a sound like breathing. The sea stretched dark and certain, stitched by the steady sweep of light.

Claire unwrapped the cloth with the compass rose and took out the brass urn. She set her thumb to the warm metal and drew a small circle there, a habit she hadn't known she had. "I thought I'd do this at dawn," she said, voice low, "but he never liked waiting."

"Neither do you," David said softly.

She set the urn on the ledge beside the glass, compass facing the water. For a heartbeat, she let her fingers rest there, as if her father could feel the touch through time.

"You're home, Papa," she whispered. "Your light's safe."

They stood shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. Below them, the bluff had quieted to the clink of a folding chair, the faint roll of talk; above them, the lamp kept its patient turn — out and back, out and back.

"You know," David said after a while, "when I was little, I believed the light could see me. If I were anywhere near the water, I thought it knew where I was and approved."

"It did," she said. "At least when my father had a say."

He nodded toward the urn. "I'd like to think he approves of this."

"He does," she answered, sure as the tide. "He liked builders who fixed what storms took."

A smile tugged at his mouth. "I build better with a partner."

"Careful," she said, amused. "I make lists."

"I'll carry them," he said. "And you."

She turned. The kiss they found was quiet and sure, the kind that rises from the center and works outward until even your hands feel different. The beam drifted past and painted them gold for a breath before letting them fall back into shadow, as if the light had given its blessing and moved on.

When they parted, she rested her forehead lightly against his. "Tomorrow, I'll make it official. Keeper's notes, tour hours, the sign for the seventh step."

"Bad luck?" he teased.

"Tradition," she said. "And the good kind of stubborn."

They stood a moment longer, watching the stripe of light cross the water and return, cross and return--steady as breath, sure as belonging.

From below, a stray whoop of laughter lifted and then smoothed away. The night settled into its familiar shape — sea, sky, stone, light. Home.

"Stay here with me?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

She slipped her fingers into his. "Until the light goes out," she said, smiling. "Which is to say--always."

Together they faced the glass. The lamp turned — the tower kept its promise, and a new warmth settled into the heart of the Lighthouse.

 

 

THE END

 

Don't Miss the Epilogue to Follow......

 

 

 

 

Author Notes

Cast of Characters Claire Crandon ó A writer and historian returning to her hometown after her father's death. Determined to restore the lighthouse and uncover the truth behind the secrets her father left behind. David Reed ó Contractor overseeing the lighthouse restoration. Grandson of Douglas Reed, a man whose lost love and unanswered letter lie at the heart of the mystery. Steady, grounded, and quietly protective. Lucy Crandonó Claire's cousin, raised by Ruth. Outspoken and loyal, but shaken when she learns the truth about her birth and the secrets that bound her family for decades. Ruth Crandon ó Claire's aunt and Lucy's adoptive mother. Fiercely protective, burdened by the promise she made long ago to keep a secret that has cost her nearly everything. Andrew Crandon ó Claire's late father. The former lighthouse keeper who pieced together fragments of a long-buried truth and left a trail for his daughter to follow. Lily Wheaton ó A young woman from the past whose forbidden love with Douglas Reed and tragic fate shaped the lives of everyone on the point. Douglas Reed ó David's grandfather and Lily's lost love. A man of quiet honor who never knew the truth about the child he left behind. John Reed - David's father Gideon Pike ó The harbor master. Rugged, loyal to the sea, and always first to answer a distress call. Harper Benton ó Owner of the general store. A practical man with a good heart and a hand in every town effort. Dr. Avery ó The retired town physician who once delivered a baby at the lighthouse on a storm-tossed night forty years ago. Trudy Lansbury ó A persistent reporter from The Gazette, digging into local history and stirring up truths some would rather stay buried.

Chapter 51
The Lighthouse Epilogue

By Begin Again

EPILOGUE — One Year Later

Evening lay a soft gold across the point. On the bluff below, a small wedding gathered—white ribbons flickering, two neat rows of chairs facing the sea, a string quartet spilling tender notes into the wind.

From the lantern room, Claire watched through clear glass. The beam had been set to a gentler sweep so it wouldn't steal attention from the ceremony. "They did it," she said, smiling. "Trudy and Lucy actually built something together."

David leaned on the rail beside her, following her gaze. "Love's True Story," he said. "Some days Lucy writes while Trudy shoots. Some days they trade. They argue over commas and camera angles and somehow make magic."

"It suits them," Claire said. "Two storytellers, one story at a time."

Below, the bride's veil lifted with the breeze. The officiant's words carried faintly -promises caught between sea and sky. When the kiss came, the guests laughed and clapped, and the sound washed up the cliff like surf. Lucy raised a camera for the last frame, Trudy tucked a pen behind her ear, and they grinned at each other like conspirators of joy.

Claire pressed her fingers to the glass. "Someday," she murmured, almost to herself, "I'd want something like that. Simple. Here. Just the people who matter."

The beam came around, touched her hair, and moved on. David's reflection found hers in the window. "Then let's not leave it to someday," he said quietly.

She turned, surprised by the tremor in his voice. "David--?"

He reached into his pocket and brought out a ring — no box, just the small band itself, warm from being carried in his pocket. A tiny compass rose had been etched flush with the gold.

"Claire Crandon," he said, his voice filled with emotion, "marry me — and the someday is yours."

Her laugh broke into tears in the same breath. "You couldn't even let me finish my wish."

"Didn't need to," he said, smiling. "I've been wishing the same thing since the day you walked back into this tower."

She held out her hand. "Then stop waiting."

He slid the ring onto her finger. The beam swept past, painting their hands gold before gliding on toward the horizon.

Claire rose on her toes and kissed him — slow and sure, a promise set to the rhythm of the turning lamp. When they parted, her forehead rested against his.
"Some stories end where they began," she whispered, "only brighter."

"Then let's keep the light burning," he said.

Below them, the newlyweds started down the aisle while Lucy and Trudy--writer and photographer, photographer and writer — walked backward, laughing, catching the last candid smiles. Above, another story had already begun, needing no camera and almost no words — a tower, a keeper, and the one who chose to keep it with her.

David ran his fingers across her cheek. "Promise you will always be the keeper of my heart."

She smiled and brushed her lips against his, whispering, "I promise to keep the light burning and never let our love go dark."

The beacon turned once more--out and back, out and back — steady as breath, sure as love.

And beyond the glass, the sea carried their promise into forever.

 

Author Notes

Author's Note Thank you to each of you who stayed and shared the lives of each of my characters. With this chapter, we close the circle on Yesterday's Dreams ó The Forgotten Dress, By the Sea, An Untold Story, and The Lighthouse. I hope you'll join me for the next journey, After the Storm ó including Mending the Heart, Yesterday's Brushstrokes, High Water Mark, and The Reply. I can't wait to share what comes next.

One of thousands of stories, poems and books available online at FanStory.com You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author!

© Copyright 2015 Begin Again All rights reserved. Begin Again has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement