Page 7 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
He maneuvered ahead through the trees and undergrowth. “You comin’?” he asked, his voice trailing behind him.
Rebecca started forward after him. She had little choice but to follow.
The forest opened into a clearing. Rebecca squinted at the sun’s boldness. She shielded her eyes, cupping her hand over them, grateful the old fisherman wasn’t fast on his feet.
To her right, the lake sparkled in its expanse, smooth with small waves pretending to be kind. Ahead of her stood a two-story brick house, and from its west side rose a tower—the lighthouse. They were one unit with two separate purposes. Shelter from the house, rescue from the light.
“You’re the lightkeeper?” Rebecca blurted out between chapped lips, trying to ignore the throbbing in her head and the way the world around her spun. She struggled to keep upright.
Edgar was oblivious to her malady as he pointed at the lake. “The lake, she’s a saucy woman. Someone needs to warn the ships of her devilry.”
Rebecca scanned the horizon, then returned her gaze to the lighthouse. She should remember this place if she had been here before. It was remote and unpopulated. Yet the only thing that looked familiar to her were the twin arched windows on the second story. Had she looked out from those windows before today, out toward the lake or...?
She squeezed her eyes shut against the brightness of the lake reflecting the sun. So many homes heralded arched windows. That was hardly a memory specific to this place. If she hailed from this region or somewhere else, Rebecca didn’t know. Her mind was an empty black slate, all words and letters erased, leaving behind not even a trace of chalk.
“Come into the house,” the lightkeeper said.
Rebecca followed Edgar up the path that led to the back door. It stood open, its wooden panels hanging solid on its hinges. There was a distinct and lingering smell of woodsmoke mixed with the pungent sweet of tobacco.
Rebecca paused. The aroma was eerily familiar. It should prompt a recollection, but it didn’t.
Edgar glanced at her as he shuffled through the small entryway into the kitchen beyond. He puttered about at the stove, the kettle scraping as he pulled it toward him. A few moments later, he returned, a tin cup of coffee in hand and an expectant look on his face.
Rebecca stood frozen in the doorway. If she was supposed to make herself at home, she hadn’t. Something inside—something innate—told her to remain where she was until invited in.
“Sit.” Edgar set the cup on the table, and coffee sloshed over the side.
Still aware of her lack of modesty due to her ripped chemise, Rebecca entered the kitchen with unease. She eyed the corners, the darkened room beyond. They were alone. She slipped onto a hard wooden chair, and the smell of the coffee awakened her senses. Her stomach rumbled, and her body, though aching from the battering from the night before, craved the warmth of the brew. “Thank you.”
Edgar gave a short nod. He waited until Rebecca lifted the coffee to her lips and took a sip. It was bitter and strong. Some coffee grounds made their way through her teeth into her mouth, but Rebecca swallowed them.
“Hungry?” Edgar huffed.
Rebecca gave a quick nod.
Soon Edgar had a plate of hard biscuits in front of her. “Don’t got any butter. Nothing fancy here.”
“That’s all right,” she replied. She felt unnerved, disconnected from who she was, where she’d come from, what had happened...
“So who are ya?” Edgar wanted to know as well.
“Rebecca” was all she could manage as a reply.
His brow furrowed. “Knew that. What’s your full name? Where’re you from?”
Rebecca labored to remember, to access the dark corners of her mind. There weren’t even images. No shadows. Just darkness. And fear. So much fear that another whimper escaped her without her permission.
Edgar held up a hand. “S’okay. We’ll deal with that later. Let me go get you somethin’ warm to wear.”
He shuffled his way from the kitchen into the innards of the keeper’s house. In his absence, Rebecca’s shoulders lowered and released a small bit of the immense tension that had coiled her neck and shoulder muscles into knots.
Edgar returned with a long piece of cloth draped over his arm. Rebecca eyed it as his large fingers rubbed the cotton between them. He dropped it in a pile in front of Rebecca.
“Try that,” he said and then continued on his way to the door they had entered through.
After he left, the silence in the house enveloped Rebecca. She set aside her coffee cup and reached for the garment. She held it up and saw it was a woman’s dress. It was small like Rebecca and looked compatible with her slight form. A serviceable gray, worn beneath the arms, without any frills or embroidery. The material appeared to be homespun, its style so simplistic it was impossible to put a date to it.
Rebecca stood and made the effort to slip into the dress. She was pleasantly surprised to find she was able to button the gown over her bosom. It was comforting to have something covering her body besides just her undergarments.
