| Romance Fiction posted October 9, 2025 | Chapters: |
...39 40 -41- 42... 
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The Hidden Treasure
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
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."
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