| Romance Fiction posted October 8, 2025 | Chapters: |
...38 39 -40- 41... 
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Claire's Discoveries
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
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.
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