| Romance Fiction posted October 11, 2025 | Chapters: |
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Things Are Revealed
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
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.
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.
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