| Romance Fiction posted October 7, 2025 | Chapters: |
...37 38 -39- 40... 
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Claire Goes Into Town
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
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 —
 Recognized |
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