Page 28 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“I never said it was the Ritz.”
“No, but for the price, you could’ve rented something nicer, more up to date. Something that has an electric stove.”
The man didn’t miss much when it came to functionality. For him, it was the practical that was important. Ambience was wasteful, even annoying to him.
“I’m here for the atmosphere and the history,” Shea mumbled. She wasn’t even going to try to explain it further. If Pete ever comprehended the importance of mood and sentiment and beauty, then she’d dye her hair green. It was a safe bet to make with herself. So safe that she didn’t bother to imagine what it’d be like if Pete appreciated the ambiance.
Another knock on the door. Shea groaned. She knew who itwas before she opened it. Holt. It had to be. This place was turning into Grand Central Station for the collection of men who did things to her nerves. One who she’d slept with, and another who, well... Reining in her thoughts, Shea eyed her husband and then, for the first time since she’d arrived, mentally jotted off a prayer.
Save me from myself.
At least from the men in my life.
And this was why, for all the terrifying and creepy elements they brought with them, Shea much preferred the company of ghosts.
Shea was exhausted. She could see the dark circles under her eyes too, and that did nothing to boost her self-confidence.
Holt had stopped by last night, shortly after Pete arrived, having heard of the events of the day and wanting to check in and make sure she was okay.
After an awkward exchange between the men, Holt had wisely taken his leave, yet Shea couldn’t help but wish she could have followed him. She noticed Holt move a bottle of wine to the back seat of his truck before pulling away. Instead, she’d closed the door and shown Pete to one of the claustrophobic spare rooms in the attic just off the spiraling lighthouse stairs. Then she’d gone to bed, ignoring further research on Jonathan Marks, opting instead to toss and turn.
Giving up on sleep, she patted on some cooling aloe eye gel and tugged her uncooperative dark curls into a thick braid that had pieces springing out of it within seconds. She threw on jeans and was just buttoning a blouse when Pete entered the keeper’s bedroom.
Shea yelped and clutched her shirt closed. “Warn a person, Pete!” She’d forgotten that getting to the main floor requiredtraipsing through the lightkeeper’s bedroom, where she was dressing.
He shot her a perplexed look. “Sure.” Pete kept moving and left the room, unaffected by her annoyance and the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her in her bra.
Husbands were the worst. She could dress in nothing but plastic wrap and Pete would be completely oblivious.
Shea sank onto the edge of the bed and drew a deep breath. This trip wasn’t going the way she’d imagined it. Now she had her husband to contend with. She’d exhausted prayers for her marriage months ago. She’d exhausted prayers for herself a few weeks ago. What was the use when they didn’t change anything anyway? All she could see as the next best move was to center herself on her own needs, evaluate the toxicity in her life, and then make the necessary changes.
A pang of regret warred with a twinge of anger. She’d been raised to believe that marriage was forever, that vows were sacred, that faith was the fabric of one’s life. Now she was realizing that her dreams were tired of being ignored, her vows had become a prison, and faith was nice but only when it worked.
It left Shea feeling lost at sea ... or lost at lake might be more appropriate. A bit like her research.
She sucked in a determined breath. Enough was enough. If Pete was going to hang around like a lost puppy, then fine. She would manage. She had for the last decade. And in some ways, it was nice to have Pete around. He was reliable at least. Yet it was all so difficult for her to sort out in her head, let alone try to talk to Pete about it. And the image of Holt and the bottle of wine in his truck? Why was romance always just out of reach? Why was happiness and feeling cherished as elusive as Annabel’s ghost?
13
“JONATHAN MARKS?”The historian nudged his glasses up his nose.
Shea watched the balding man from behind the counter. She’d left the lighthouse that morning in the guise of taking a walk, and she’d ended up three miles away in the small remnants of the once promising Silvertown. In the 1870s, the city had been expected to become the epicenter of a silver boom. In the end, silver had become a short-lived dream.
The historian unwrapped a piece of chewing gum, and the minty smell permeated the otherwise musty smell in the small house that doubled as the Silvertown Historical Museum. Two rooms really, with the main attractions being a wall filled with cheaply framed black-and-white photos and a taxidermic black bear in the far corner, along with a sign that boasted it was the largest bear taken in the twentieth century on the shores of Lake Superior.
“Jonathan Marks,” the historian repeated. He clucked his tongue as he chewed the gum. “I knew him back in the day. It’s been a while since I heard the name.”
Shea glanced at the name tag on the man in front of her. “Chuck, I’d love to hear about Mr. Marks.”
Chuck eased his short frame onto a stool and adjusted his position until he found a comfortable spot. It seemed every man she met of late was testing her patience. Shea looked around for her own chair or stool, but since there was none, she leaned forward on the counter.
“Yep.” Chuck nodded, oblivious to Shea’s search for a place to sit. “I went to high school with Jonathan. Then he left for the university and didn’t come back to this area until about 2000 or so.” Chuck’s mustache stretched as he smiled. His cheeks were ruddy, and the mustache made the middle-aged man appear like a mash-up of youthful pubescence and a man whose age had snuck up on him and caught him unaware. He laughed. “Jonathan wasallabout Y2K. Remember that? The computer chips weren’t set for the millennium change, and the world was going to experience a crash. He said he moved back here where he could live off the land. He bought the lighthouse, which at that time hadn’t been made into a historical landmark.”
“When was the lighthouse put out of commission?” Shea interrupted.
“The sixties,” Chuck answered. “There wasn’t any need for it. I’m surprised the government ran it that long since Silvertown never was a port. They kept it lit mostly for the potential of shipwrecks on some of the outcroppings and rocks. But now? There’s no need with all the navigational equipment on ships these days.”
“What do you know about Jonathan’s death?” Shea didn’t bother to tiptoe around her intentions.
