| Romance Fiction posted October 10, 2025 | Chapters: |
...40 41 -42- 43... 
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A Telephone Call
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
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?"
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