| Romance Fiction posted October 12, 2025 | Chapters: |
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The Storm
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
The Lighthouse Chap 7
by Begin Again
Wind came hard off the water, snapping branches and driving rain sideways. Pines along the shoulder bent and shook. Spray blew up from the rocks like cold grit.
"Call rescue and let them handle it," one of the men yelled, coat plastered to his back. "We've got to get out of here before this bank lets go."
"Call rescue and let them handle it," one of the men yelled, coat plastered to his back. "We've got to get out of here before this bank lets go."
"I'm not leaving her," Tanner said. He had one hand wedged into the crumpled door seam, the other shielding his eyes. "Radio it in, but I'm not walking away."
A gust shoved across the road, lifting loose gravel. The hazard lights on the wrecked sedan winked weakly and steadied. From the rim of the cut above, a young voice shouted, "Tanner! You good down there?"
"Lenny," Tanner called back, "watch the edge. If the bank gives, you yell before it takes us with it."
"I'm on it!" Lenny's headlamp swung, catching trees whipping and water running across the asphalt. He grabbed the work-truck radio. "Reed job — channel eight?" He thumbed the button. "Calling the Lighthouse base, this is Lenny Phelps. We're David Reed's Monday crew. We've got a car off the south road. One female — license says Ruth Crandon — conscious but hurt. The bridge to Cornwall is washed out. We need hands."
Static cracked. Then David's voice came back, flat and clear: "Reed here. Say again."
"Her ID says Ruth Crandon," Lenny answered. "She keeps saying she has to get to her daughter."
"Hold position," David said. "I'm coming."
*****
Lightning lit the ditch white for a heartbeat. The sedan was nosed into mud, the passenger side scraped along the rail, steam mixing with rain.
Tanner leaned to the crack in the glass. "Ma'am? Stay still. Help's on the way."
"Lucy," she whispered. "I need Lucy."
"We'll get you to her soon," Tanner said. "Don't move."
Lenny slid down the bank with a rough plank and a loose door panel from the truck bed. "If we have to carry, we'll carry."
"We wait for Reed," Tanner said, watching the slope. "We do it slow."
Headlights swung through the rain and stopped short. David took the grade at a run, a tow strap over his shoulder, and two wool blankets under his arm.
"Talk to me," he yelled against the wind.
"Belt's cut. She's with us. Bank's soft," Tanner said.
David looked once at the face behind the cracked glass. "We're not leaving her in this," he said. "Plank and strap. On my count."
Rain hammered the hood. Thunder rolled close. Three determined men went to work.
*****
David and the two men shouldered through the door, mud to the knees, carrying Ruth on the plank like a stretcher. Claire had cleared the table. Lucy, with terror written on her face, stood ready with towels and the first-aid kit.
"Set her here," Claire said.
They eased the plank to the table. Ruth's eyes tracked, unfocused and stubborn. "Lucy?"
"I'm here, Mom," Lucy said, voice tight. "I'm right here."
"Bridge is out," David said. "Ambulance is staging at the cannery. We shelter here until they can cross."
Claire clicked a penlight. "Follow the light." Pupils reacted. She counted breaths and snugged a belt wrap across Ruth's ribs. "Concussion signs, maybe a cracked rib. Small sips. Keep her awake."
Ruth stared at Lucy. "I told him no," she murmured. "Andrew said to tell her. I said wait."
"Shh," Lucy said, taking her hand. "None of that matters right now, Mom. We'll sort it out later. Stay with me."
The lights browned, steadied, browned again. Wind shouldered the windows.
The shelf radio spat static. Gideon's voice cut through, thin and worried. "Harbor to lighthouse, copy?"
Claire grabbed the handset. "Come in, Gideon."
"Two boats inbound," Gideon said. "Cora May and The Mayweather. Fog thick. Wind twenty-five. Visibility near zero. No lens up there. I need light on the south slip and something down the channel. Can you cover?"
Claire looked at David, then at Lucy and Ruth. "There's no lens in the tower. Got any ideas for light, David?"
David nodded. "I'll pull the generator and work lights from my shed."
Claire sighed. "It's a start, but I doubt that it's enough."
"I'll put a call out to my men. If any of them are nearby, they'll come."
Claire keyed the radio again. "Harbor, lighthouse. No lens in the tower. We'll rig work lights and trucks."
"Copy," Gideon said. "First horn from Cora May in three minutes. Mayweather is trailing."
David was already thumbing his phone. He shot a group text and a quick call to Harper at the store. "Spread the word — lights needed at the point. Bring whatever you've got."
"Lucy, stay with Ruth," Claire said. "If anything changes, shout."
"I've got her," Lucy said.
David grabbed the shed keys. "Generator, tripods, cords. I'll start the line down the channel."
"Good," Claire said. "I'll set the porch rail for mounts and clear the slip."
Outside, the wind carried the sound of engines climbing the grade. Headlights swung through the rain. Neighbors rolled in — Harper with a coil of rope, the Avery boys in slickers, Mrs. Benton's grandson with two floodlamps, Mr. Pike with a toolbox and tripod.
"What do you need?" Harper called.
"Light and hands," David said. "Let's move."
Mr. Pike yelled, "Back of the trucks got several large work lights."
Claire fell into the rhythm, just like when she worked side by side with her Dad.
"Angle one at the slip ladder and braces," Claire said. "Chain two to the porch rail for the channel line. I'll run cord along the fence."
David followed with more directions. "Tripods on the porch rail. Clear the slip. Keep the drainage open."
They spread out without fuss. Ropes ran, sandbags slid into place, floodlamps went up on fence posts, truck beds turned into light towers. Someone started the small pump by the sheds to pull water off the planks. Voices cut clean through the wind.
For the first time in years, the point wasn't empty, and they were pulling together.
Outside, rain hit like gravel. David fought the shed lock, hauled the generator onto a little wagon, stacked two tripods and headlamps, looped three extension cords over his shoulder, and muscled the load to the slip. Claire ran the fence line with cord, clipping it up off the ground, then bolted two lamps to the porch rail and aimed them down the cut toward the channel. The beams threw pale lanes across the black water.
At the slip, David filled the generator and pulled the cord. It coughed, caught, and settled into a steady thrum. He planted one floodlight at the ladder and braces, the second out to the cross-ties, set both to a wide cone, and tightened every knob until his knuckles hurt.
"Good," Claire said, coming down with the last coil. "Hold those. If the wind swings them, catch it fast."
"Copy," David said.
In the kitchen, Lucy sponged rain from Ruth's hairline and watched her pupils again. "Look at me," she said. "Name?"
"Ruth Crandon."
"Where are you?"
"The lighthouse," Ruth said. She blinked. "I hate this place." She shut her eyes, then opened them. "No. I hate what I did here."
Lucy swallowed. "Mom, whatever it is, we'll figure it out later. Stay with me."
The radio crackled. Gideon: "First horn south of the bell in thirty seconds. Hold any beam you've got on white water."
They heard it — the first blast, low and lost in the fog.
On the porch, Claire swung the beam to the sound and held it steady. David climbed the yard wall and pointed his headlamp down the line of light. Harper pulled his pickup onto the knoll and threw the high beams along the fence. The Avery boys lashed a third lamp to the porch post and braced it with a broom handle and hope.
"Don't chase it," David called. "Hold the lane. Let them come to it."
Power dipped to a dim brown. The generator deepened its note. One porch lamp wobbled; Claire tightened the clamp and kept her hands on the tripod.
The horn called again. Closer.
Wind slammed the south face. Lamps jittered and held. Rain ran off David's jacket in sheets.
The radio snapped: "Second horn — north of the mark," Gideon said, voice tighter. "That'll be The Mayweather. She's drifting high. If anyone can throw light on the north rock, do it now."
Harper angled his truck farther north. Another neighbor swung his SUV next to it, high beams throwing a pale wedge along the rock line.
"Go," Claire told David. "I'll hold the slip." He ran to help line the trucks and signal the drivers.
Inside, Lucy tipped a little water to Ruth's mouth. "Small sip."
Ruth swallowed, winced, and kept her eyes on Lucy. "Don't tell the reporter," she said. "Don't let them make Lily a headline."
"I won't," Lucy said. "I promise."
"Tell Claire not to hate me," Ruth added, her voice a mere whisper.
"She doesn't," Lucy said. "She's mad. That's different."
Outside, the horn sounded again — closer now. A swell rolled hard under it. A darker shape shouldered into the pale lane and dropped back into the fog.
"Hold steady!" David called from the knoll. "You're on the line!"
The shape answered with a blast.
The lamps buzzed. The generator held.
Gideon's voice came sharp: "I've got one bow light — bearing in. That's Cora May. Hold that slip beam. North drivers, hold trucks steady."
"Trucks steady," Harper answered on his handheld.
"If we catch Cora May, we turn to the Mayweather," Gideon said. "She's on the wrong side of the bell."
Claire kept her hands on the tripod and her eyes on the white water. Rain stung her face. She could feel the beam shake in the gusts and fought it.
In the kitchen, Lucy asked, "What day is it?"
"Saturday," Ruth said, then frowned. "Don't be clever."
Lucy smiled a little through wet eyes. "Just checking."
Ruth glanced toward the door. "He'd be proud of her," she said. "Andrew taught her well." Her voice quivered, and her eyes closed.
Lucy held her hand tighter. "Stay with me, Mom."
A wave hit the cross-ties and sent spray up across the light. Claire kept the beam where the water ran white along the edge. The dark shape came back, clearer this time, bow lifting, sound of a hull and swell in the wind.
"Easy," David called. "Another ten feet —easy."
The horn answered short and close. The shape eased to the outside post — lines were tossed. Hands caught. Metal rang. For a second, relief cut through the noise.
Then the second horn wailed — higher, wrong, farther north.
Claire glanced toward the truck beams and then back to the slip. She didn't move her light.
The radio snapped hard. "Mayweather is north and drifting," Gideon said. "If she keeps that line, she'll hit the rocks. I need more light north, or I need someone to swing south when Cora May is tied."
David looked to Claire. Rain ran off his jaw. "Pick it," he said. "Slip or north. What do you want?"
Claire tightened her grip on the tripod. Lamps hummed. The generator growled. Trucks threw that thin road where no road was.
She didn't look away from the water. She drew a breath, knowing the wrong decision could cost the lives of the Mayweather crew. Her thoughts whirled as she whispered, "Dad, what do I do?"
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