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Return of the Wild Son
Cynthia Thomason








“What are you doing here, Nate?

Why have you come back?”


He stared at her with those blue eyes that used to make her adolescent knees weak. “I heard about the old lighthouse being for sale. I’m thinking about making an offer.”

Jenna’s heart tripped. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at his handsome face, so like his father’s.

The son of the man who had killed her father was planning to buy the lighthouse.




Dear Reader,

This book is about a special place that reconnects two people with their past. In life, a location can evoke powerful emotions, both good and bad. For Nate Shelton, coming home to Finnegan Cove after twenty years, the lighthouse on the shore of Lake Michigan brings back memories of peace in his troubled youth and a hope for his family’s future. But to Jenna Malloy, who never left the small town, the station has been a constant haunting memory of a tragedy from years ago that changed both characters’ lives forever. Now the decaying building houses secrets as dark as its abandoned beacon—secrets that could keep Jenna and Nate from forgiving past mistakes.

I hope you enjoy this story. And I hope you can tell that I love lighthouses. Proud structures with dozens of winding steps or small tokens that sit on a shelf, all kinds and sizes of lighthouses never fail to weave a spell of romance and mystery over me. And if, in your busy travels, you are lucky enough to pass a lighthouse, pull over, put on your comfortable shoes and circle your way to the top. The view is always worth the trip, just like the happy ending in a romance.

I love to hear from readers. You can visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Happy reading,

Cynthia Thomason




Return of the Wild Son

Cynthia Thomason







TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances and dabbles in mysteries. When she’s not writing, she works as a licensed auctioneer in the auction business she and her husband own. In this capacity, she has come across scores of unusual items, many of which have found their way into her books. She loves traveling the U.S. and exploring out-of-the-way places. She has one son, an entertainment reporter, and an aging but still lovable Jack Russell terrier. Cynthia dreams of perching on a mountaintop in North Carolina every autumn to watch the leaves turn. You can learn more about her at www.cynthiathomason.com.


This book is dedicated to

my dearest climbing “Buddy,” who has held my

hand on all the journeys we’ve taken together.

We haven’t reached the top yet, and I believe

the last steps are the best.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE




CHAPTER ONE


Los Angeles, California

April

N ATE WALKED OUT OF Vincennti’s and slipped the claim check for his BMW through the window of the valet hut. Carlo, who’d been parking cars here for as long as Nate had been coming to the renowned bistro, grabbed his keys from among dozens hanging on the board behind him and joined Nate in the sunshine.

“How was your lunch, Mr. Shelton?” he asked.

Seeing no point in answering truthfully, Nate swallowed the first symptom of indigestion and said, “Just fine, Carlo.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the restaurant entrance. “I am kind of in a hurry, though.”

“Sure, I understand. Isn’t everybody in this town?” Carlo jogged across the circular drive, the keys jangling in his hand, and zigzagged through a maze of vehicles.

Nate needed Carlo to return with his car before Brendan Willis and his associate finished the last of their pricey merlot and came outside. It was bad enough that Nate had paid the hundred-and-fifty-dollar lunch tab. He didn’t need another helping of condescension.

And he’d been so confident this time. He’d chosen Willis’s Boneyard Films as the perfect production company for his latest screenplay after the big studios had turned him down. Boneyard’s innovative producer was getting his name in print in Variety and Entertainment Weekly .

Still, Boneyard was a small independent, which meant Willis should have jumped at the chance to sign a Nathaniel Shelton script.

Now, an hour-and-a-half lunch later, Nate was fairly certain that even though the producer had agreed to read the script, their collaboration was going nowhere.

“I’ll call you in a week or so,” Brendan had said.

A week or so? Nate was used to getting offers an hour after dropping off his work. Of course, that was before he’d produced three flops in a row. But he was an award-winning writer, for Pete’s sake, though most of the power brokers in this town seemed to have forgotten that accomplishment.

His steel-gray BMW pulled up to the curb and Carlo jumped out. “You have a good day, Mr. Shelton,” he said. Nate pressed a modest tip in the guy’s hand and drove off.

He headed toward his Beverly Hills condo. With the weekend ahead of him, he had to regroup, study the latest industry news journals and come up with another production company to pitch his latest project to. This was a big town, with countless possibilities, and Nate was a hell of a writer. No need to panic—yet.

The ringing of his cell phone jerked him back in his seat. He hit the speaker button and snapped, “Shelton.”

“Nathaniel?”

At the sound of the gravelly voice, his heart constricted. “Dad? Is everything okay?”

“It’s better than okay.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“I didn’t tell you before, son, because I didn’t know what the parole board would decide.”

“What are you talking about?” Nate’s father had been incarcerated twenty years of a twenty-four-year sentence. Was parole possible this soon for a second-degree murder conviction? Nate knew his father had only been before the board one other time.

“I didn’t get my hopes up,” Harley said. “Guys are almost always flopped the first few times around.”

Flopped. Prison talk for turned down. Nate had learned a lot of new meanings for old words since his father had been taken away. “Dad, what are you saying?”

“I’m going to be approved, Nate. Dr. Evanston told me a few minutes ago that I’m getting out May 23.”

Nate’s jaw dropped. He did a quick calculation. “For real, Dad? That’s only five weeks off.”

“It’s real enough. Assuming I don’t make anybody mad or break any rules in the meantime. There’s still some paperwork…” He paused. “Notification of victims, housing plans, probation details, that sort of thing. There’s also one more review before the parole board processes my release. But the doctor wouldn’t have told me if he wasn’t sure of the outcome. We’ve been through too much together.”

Nate’s mind raced. He’d have to make arrangements for Harley to come to L.A. His father would have to find a place to live, a way to earn a living. But all that could wait. “Congratulations,” he said. “This is great news.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Harley said. “To go from having no thoughts about tomorrow to all of a sudden having a future, to having to make decisions. I’m just getting used to the idea.”

Nate hadn’t had that luxury yet. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll work it out. I’ll take care of plans to bring you to Los Angeles, and we’ll—”

“No, Nate. I’m not coming to California. That’s about all I’m certain of at this moment.”

“But where will you go?”

“I’m moving back to Finnegan Cove.”

Nate swerved, nearly hit the curb. “What? You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“But, Dad, you won’t be welcomed there. Hell, I wouldn’t even go back to Finnegan Cove.”

“It’s the only place I know, Nate,” Harley said. “All I’ve ever known. It’s home.”

Nate refrained from pointing out that Finnegan Cove hadn’t been kind to the Sheltons and chances were, wouldn’t be now. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

His father lowered his voice soothingly. “It’ll be okay, Nate. I know what I’m doing.”

The hell? In the past twenty years maybe a few people had come and gone from the small town on Michigan’s western shore, but Nate figured the population would have stayed pretty much the same. Two thousand folks, give or take, lived in comfortable bungalows, and a few fancy Victorian houses from the town’s lumber boom days. The same mom-and-pop businesses probably still lined Main Street.

And no doubt the same attitudes prevailed. And memories for certain details had probably only grown sharper. Like Harley Shelton’s face on the front page of the Finnegan Cove Sentinel. Like the face of his eighteen-year-old son as he’d left the courthouse after the verdict was read. Like the absence of Harley’s older son, who hadn’t shown up for the trial at all. It baffled Nate why Harley had decided to go back where he wasn’t wanted.

“Where will you live, Dad? You think you’re going to just put down a welcome mat at your door and neighbors will drop by?”

“No, Nate, I don’t. I’m not naive.”

“Frankly, I’m beginning to think you are.”

“I’ve found a place to live. A place where nobody’ll bother me, and I’ll be able to stay pretty much to myself.”

“In Finnegan Cove?”

“The outskirts, yes. But I need a little help. It might take a couple of bucks to get this place in shape.”

“I don’t mind helping you. I’ve always told you I would, but you’ve got to be reasonable. Going back to Finnegan Cove is not a good idea. Why don’t you consider L.A.? You can start over, make a new life for yourself.”

“Believe it or not, son, there are aspects of my old life I remember fondly. It wasn’t all bad.”

Nate pulled into his underground parking garage, grateful he didn’t have to drive anymore. Paying attention to the busy Los Angeles thoroughfare while having this unexpected conversation with his father would tax anybody’s ability to concentrate. He parked in his assigned spot. “Where is this place you found, and how did you find it?”

“I read about it in the Sentinel about six months ago.”

His father read the local newspaper? This man was surprising him more and more. Nate wanted nothing to do with the town, yet his dad maintained his ties. Maybe prison life did that to a person. Made you appreciate what you had before, even if it was less than ideal. “Okay, where is it?” he said.

“It’s right on Lake Michigan,” Harley told him. “In fact, you know it well.” He paused. When Nate didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s the Cove Lighthouse, Nate. It’s for sale.”

“The lighthouse?” Nate’s voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched in his own ears.

“Yep. It’s perfect.”

How could a lighthouse be for sale? Weren’t they public domain? Nate pictured the wooden structure. Nearly everyone in Finnegan Cove was connected to the lighthouse, some in a good way, some in a bad, and in the case of two families, connected tragically.

But for Nate, the building had been a refuge, one he’d eventually come to think of as his personal space. Almost as if the abandoned structure had needed him as much as he needed it.

Until that night in 1988.

Harley cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Nate tried to keep his voice calm. “The lighthouse is absolutely the worst place you could go. I can’t believe you’re even considering it.”

Harley hesitated. “You have to trust me on this, Nate.”

“But it doesn’t make sense, Dad.”

“I checked into it. The price is right. Eighty thousand dollars.”

As if price was the only concern. But Nate followed this thread of thought. “That’s all? There can’t be much value to the building if that’s what they’re asking. Who’s selling it, anyway?”

“The town council. They’ve owned it since the Coast Guard deeded it to them in the sixties.”

All at once time stood still for Nate. He pictured the six-story beacon tower protruding from the roof of the small cottage flanked by oak trees. He and his father had guided their commercial fishing boat into the channel by its light many times. The closer they got to the lighthouse, the closer they were to home. Those, at least, were good memories, because that was when they’d had a home.

The wheels began to turn in Nate’s head as he struggled to come up with a positive aspect to his father’s decision. Harley was right about one thing. The Finnegan Cove Lighthouse was remote, sheltered, private. As long as he was set on going back there, maybe this was the perfect spot for him.

Nate sat forward, rested his arms on the steering wheel. “Do you know what condition the place is in?” he asked. He wondered when the light station had been built, and seemed to recall a date from the late eighteen hundreds. “It could be falling down.”

“I suppose,” Harley conceded. “But I saw a picture of it. Doesn’t look too bad. And I could fix it up. I’d enjoy doing that.”

“We should have somebody look at it, someone who knows about architectural structure,” Nate said, hoping this logical step would put an end to his father’s irrational plan.

“Fine.” He paused. “Maybe I should try to call—”

Sensing what his father was about to say, and knowing how his brother would react to a call from Harley, Nate stopped him. “Let me handle it,” he said. He had been gone for two decades, only traveling to Michigan once or twice a year to visit his father at the Foggy Creek Correctional Facility. And he’d never been back to Finnegan Cove. But he did know that Mike, a contractor who lived in Sutter’s Point about twenty miles away, was a stranger to both of them now. That was how Mike wanted it. “Let me make the phone call,” he said, and then realized, because of his current schedule, there was nothing to keep him in Los Angeles. “Maybe I’ll fly out and take a look at the place myself.”

“That’d be great, son,” his father said, clearly pleased. “I might be seeing you soon, eh?”

“Maybe. I’ll talk to you.”

He disconnected, shook his head and got out of his car. This was a crazy idea. If that lighthouse hadn’t washed into Lake Michigan, it had to be pretty damn close. But all at once the thought of buying that old place, fixing it up…well, maybe his father had hit on an interesting idea. A project like that, both of them working with their hands, as they had in the old days, when they used to pull in nets loaded with the catch of the day, might be exactly what he and Harley needed.

Of course, the first step in evaluating the practicality of this plan wasn’t going to be easy. Nate hadn’t spoken to his brother in years.

He took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, went inside his condo and got his address book from the desk. He poured himself a gin and tonic and sat at the bar. Then he punched in the phone number of Mike Shelton. Maybe his brother wouldn’t be too busy on a Friday evening to talk to him. If he’d talk to him at all.

A kid answered the phone. Nate’s nephew. He’d be ten now. “Is Mike there?” Nate asked.

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

The boy didn’t react to hearing Nate’s name, just said he’d get his dad. A few seconds later, his brother came on the line. “Nate?” He didn’t even try to hide his surprise. Or the mistrust.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“What do you want?”

He pictured his older brother, brawny, muscles bulging from hard work, eyes tired from reading blueprints. The perpetual scowl on his face that Nate hadn’t seen in years, but figured was still there. “I have news.” Nate waited for a reaction, received none. “Dad’s being paroled.”

He heard Mike grunt. “They’re letting him out?”

“It’s been twenty years, Mike. He was due to have a parole hearing.”

“Whoopee. And this affects me how?”

Nate thought about suggesting that Mike make an effort to see their father, but he knew the futility of that. Mike lived only two hours away from the penitentiary. He’d never once made the trip to Foggy Creek. He’d never even put a stamp on a Christmas card.

“I could use your help,” Nate said.

“Hey, if this involves Harley, count me out. You know how I feel.”

“Yes, I do, but I’m asking for me.”

Nate held his breath, knowing a favor between two estranged brothers wasn’t likely to get a more favorable reaction than one between an estranged father and son.

Surprisingly, Mike said, “What do you need me to do?”

“Dad’s moving back to Finnegan Cove when he gets out in a few weeks.”

“He’s what?” The question was a bark of disbelief.

“I know. I thought it was a bad idea, too. But he’s determined.”

“He’s a mental case, Nathaniel.”

Nate shook his head, not bothering to argue. The Harley Shelton Nate knew today was as calm and rational as anyone he’d ever met. At least that’s what Nate had believed until Harley said he was moving back to the Cove.

“Nevertheless,” Nate continued, “he’s decided to buy the old lighthouse. That’s where he wants to live.”

“Now I know he’s gone off the deep end,” Mike said. “Have you seen that place?”

“No. You have?”

“I’ve been to the Cove a time or two on projects. Drove by it.”

“Oh.” Nate calmly explained the situation, giving Mike time to criticize between sentences.

“I don’t want anything to do with this,” Mike said when he’d finished.

“Just look at the place for me,” Nate said. “I need a professional opinion on how bad the building is, what it would take to fix it up. Can’t you at least meet me down there? You won’t have to see Dad.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched into long seconds. “All right,” Mike finally said. “When are you getting here?”

“I have to take care of some things, but I’ll be flying out on Tuesday. Can you meet me in Finnegan Cove on Wednesday morning?”

“I’ll meet you at the light station at ten o’clock,” Mike said. “Before then, I’ll make a couple of calls, see what I can find out about the old place.” He paused. “And Nate?”

“Yeah?”

“This is it. Don’t ask me to get involved any more than this one visit.”

“Okay. Deal.”




CHAPTER TWO


Finnegan Cove, Michigan

April

J ENNA RACED DOWN the narrow coast route. She didn’t have to worry about cars approaching on the other side of the road. Few drivers were out at six o’clock on a Wednesday morning. If she hurried, she’d just make it to the bakery in time to help with the first tray of doughnuts.

She stretched her back muscles and stuck her arm out her open window. Maybe staying at the college library until eleven and then grabbing a few hours sleep at a friend’s place near campus hadn’t been such a good idea. She wasn’t exactly the fresh young age of a college kid, who could jump up from an air bed and jog into the start of her day. At thirty-three, she found her muscles were protesting.

She rounded a bend and kept her eyes straight ahead, determined not to look at the lighthouse. But as always, she couldn’t resist the haunting pull it had over her. In fact, she slowed her Jeep to a crawl.

The abandoned building rose like a specter in the dawn. Even through the grove of great oak trees, Jenna could see the peeling paint on the tower’s exterior walls, the crumbling stairs to the front door of the keeper’s cottage. The Fresnel lens at the top of the tower had been removed years before, after some kids had destroyed it with buckshot.

Jenna’s grandmother hated to see the building this way. She’d been raised in the small cottage, where her father had been the last light keeper of the Finnegan Cove Station. Hester had fond memories of her childhood along the lake, and the man who’d protected the shoreline. Jenna used to feel the same, but that was before the murder.

The For Sale sign that had been sitting in the yard in front of the lighthouse for over six months creaked in the early morning breeze. To Jenna’s knowledge, no one had made an offer or even looked at the place. But that would change if she had her way.

She stepped on the accelerator and sped by. Ten minutes later she swept through the louvered doors that separated the public area of Cove Bakery from the kitchen. Her mother had left the front door unlocked, probably unwise so early in the morning. Everyone, and especially Marion Malloy, knew that crime visited even this normally peaceful town.

Her mother was stacking loaves of fresh-baked bread onto the chrome rack. “Sorry I’m late,” Jenna said.

“It’s okay. I’ve got the croissants baking, and three dozen pastries are ready.” Marion wiped her hands on her apron. “Have you heard the news?”

News? Jenna had only been gone since yesterday, when she’d left for night class. “Guess not. Something going on?”

“I’ll say. Bill Hastings called last night to tell me someone had inquired about buying the lighthouse.”

Jenna froze, her hands wrapped around a stainless-steel bowl of dough. “What? Who?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just told me that a guy asked the Realtor a lot of questions about the building’s condition.”

Jenna grabbed a rolling pin and began pushing it furiously over the mound of dough she’d just slapped onto a floured cutting board. “What time is it?”

Marion glanced at her watch. “Twenty minutes after six. Why?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be at eight-thirty when Shirley gets here.”

“Where?”

“Just out.”

Marion frowned. “I know what you’re doing. You’re going to the mayor’s office to see what Bill knows about the potential buyer.”

Three Bronx cheers for a mother’s radar. “Maybe I can get him to tell me who’s interested.”

“Let it go, Jenna. That old building isn’t worth your time or worry.”

“I know that, Mom. Nobody knows that better than you and me. But I have plans for that place.”

Jenna had to strain to hear her what her mother said next, but she thought she could make out “obsession.”

“I’m aware of your plans, honey,” Marion said, “but I just don’t want you drawing attention to our family by pressuring Bill Hastings. People will talk.”

Jenna couldn’t believe her mother’s bland reaction to this possible sale. “I want them to talk, Mom. It will take more money and more people on my side before I can buy that place and tear it down.” She stopped rolling out the dough, and stared at her mother. “That lighthouse represents a very sad period of this town’s history, not just our own past.”

“And how close are you to having a down payment on that eighty thousand?”

Jenna frowned, picked up a cookie cutter and layered perfectly round biscuit dough on a baking sheet. “I just need a few more months, maybe a year.”

“I wish you’d forget about this, Jenna,” Marion said. “A young woman like you should be looking to the future, thinking about marriage, a family.”

“I am thinking about those things. All the time.”

Marion sprinkled a row of crullers with cinnamon sugar. “If you’re talking about George, then I have to point out that you’ve been planning this so-called future with him for the past three years, and there’s still no ring on your finger.”

Jenna gave her a sharp glance. “Do you really want to go there, Mom? Because if we discuss the subject of who’s living in the past, I’ll point out that you haven’t had a date since Daddy died twenty years ago.” She immediately regretted she’d said it when she saw the familiar veil of sadness creep over her mother’s eyes. Jenna stopped working and reached for her hand. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Marion shrugged. “Don’t apologize. You’re right. I just don’t want to see you follow the path I’ve taken. You’re only thirty-three. You can still make a life outside of this bakery. You’ve made a good start by taking nursing classes at the college, but you’ve got to get over this… thing you have about the lighthouse.”

Jenna stepped back. “I won’t rest until it’s torn down and something positive stands in its place. Something that serves Daddy’s memory.”

Jenna shoved a baking sheet into the oven. “And I am making a life, Mom. I’m going to graduate soon. I’ll have my nursing degree. And I have George. Once I see a beautiful green park in place of that lighthouse, my life will be just about perfect!”

Marion sighed. Jenna walked by her, picked up a waxed bag and stuffed a half-dozen chocolate-covered doughnuts into it.

“Who are those for?” her mother asked.

“Who else? Bill Hastings.” Jenna rattled the bag in the air. “If I can’t reach him with gentle persuasion, I know he’ll accept a bribe.”

“What are you going to do if he does tell you who the interested party is? Are you going to accost the guy?”

Jenna closed the sack and set it aside. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll make a friend of him. I’ll tell him if he tears down the lighthouse, I’ll suggest my plan for something in its place and he can name it the Joseph Malloy—John Doe Park.”



T WO HOURS LATER , Jenna entered the reception area of the mayor’s office and nodded to Bill Hastings’s secretary.

“Morning, Jenna,” Lucinda said.

“Hi. Is he in?”

The secretary gave a furtive look over her shoulder. “Well, yeah, I think so. But maybe I should check.”

Jenna caught a glimpse of Bill skirting his desk. He’d just grabbed the bottom of the blind on his office door window and started to yank it down when Jenna said, “Never mind. I see him.”

She strode into his office. “Hello, Bill.”

“Did Marion tell you? I wanted her to break the news, smooth over the situation.”

“She told me. No smoothing it over, though.”

He raised a hand. “Now, Jenna, don’t fly off the handle.”

“Who’s the buyer, Bill?”

He shook his nearly bald head. “I don’t know. The Realtor called to tell me someone was looking at the place. That’s all I heard.”

“Don’t sell it to him. You know I’m planning to buy it.”

Bill walked around his desk and squeezed his plump frame between the arms of his chair. “Be reasonable, Jenna. What are you going to do? Have bake sales and car washes to come up with the down payment?”

“I’ve got a committee behind me. We’re slowly getting the money together. We’ve only had a little over six months. We need more time.”

Bill had the decency to look repentant. “I’m not waiting on your committee. But if it makes you feel any better, I didn’t think we’d get any other interest. Don’t jump to conclusions, however. This is just a first step. The guy will probably back out.”

“I don’t like the way this whole listing has been handled,” Jenna said. “You never called a meeting of citizens to discuss putting the lighthouse up for sale.”

“No, but I didn’t have to. It’s up to my discretion if I feel the entire town needs to be consulted on an issue. And I believed we could handle this decision among council members.” He stared at her. “Check the town’s policies manual, Jenna.”

“The lighthouse belongs to everybody, Bill. You had no right—”

He held up one finger. “Correction. The U.S. Coast Guard sold the station to the town council in 1969. The five council members at the time were listed as co-owners. They were given a legal deed and power of attorney to maintain or sell the property as long as it’s in the best interest of the citizens of Finnegan Cove. And each time an election was held and new council members took over, the deed was passed down.”

He clasped his hands on top of his desk. “As town leaders, we can decide the future of the light station, Jenna, and that’s what we’re doing, with the best interest of the town in mind.”

She set the bag of doughnuts on his desk and saw his gaze connect with Cove Bakery’s trademark steaming cup of coffee. “I’ve brought doughnuts.”

“That was mighty nice of you, Jenna.”

“You stop the sale of the lighthouse and I’ll bring you a half dozen every morning for the next six months.”

He stared longingly at the sack. “As much as I’d like the doughnuts, and you know I’m a big fan of your mama’s baking, the matter’s out of my hands. The council has voted.” He gave her a placating smile. “Besides, all you and your rabble-rousers want to do is tear the place down. The Michigan Beacon Society would be all over my butt if I let you do that. They want every lighthouse in the state saved if possible.”

Jenna fumed. He was so missing the point. “It’s a decaying old building, Bill. It’s unsafe. No one’s allowed inside. I want to tear it down and reopen Lighthouse Park. Put in a playground, picnic areas, make it even better than it was before…”

“Jenna, we both know why you want that building gone,” Bill said sympathetically, “and I can understand. I liked Joe.”

“Forget about my father. That’s my issue, but the Lighthouse Park Committee has a broader goal than just eliminating a tragic eyesore from our shoreline.”

Bill shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t know why you didn’t just set a match to the lighthouse long ago.”

“Great idea, Bill. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But everyone would know exactly who torched the place, and I’d end up rotting away in prison just like Harley Shelton. The difference is, he deserves what he got!” She snatched up the bag of pastries. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You’re not taking the doughnuts, are you?”

She stared down at the bag. “You didn’t give me any information.”

“There isn’t any to give yet. The potential buyer probably won’t even show up. And if he does…”

Lucinda stuck her head in the office. “Excuse me. Bill?”

“What is it, Lucinda?”

“Mark Blayne is on the phone from Sutter’s Point Realty.” She cast a sideways look at Jenna. “The fella who’s interested in the lighthouse is coming to town this morning.”

Jenna leaned over the desk. “Won’t even show up, huh?”

Lucinda backed up a few steps. “Believe it or not, the original call came from somebody in Sutter’s Point.”

Bill beamed. “Hot diggety. This guy lives close. He’s got to know about the shape that building’s in. This is starting out to be a great day.” He glanced at Jenna and affected an expression of chagrin. “Sorry, Jenna. But it’s the wheels of progress, you know. If there’s a chance to get the lighthouse off this town’s back, I’m going to take it.”

She wanted to strangle him. Instead, she slammed the bag of doughnuts back onto his desk. It made her feel somewhat better to picture his arteries clogged with hundreds of grams of fat. And she decided to find out just exactly who from Sutter’s Point was buying the lighthouse out from under her.



J ENNA WAS BACK AT THE bakery by nine o’clock, mechanically refilling coffee cups. “Who could this buyer be?” she asked her mother.

Marion gave her a long-suffering look and began arranging clean mugs behind the counter. “He’s just looking, Jenna. We don’t know that he’s going to buy it. So why is it so important that you know his name?”

“Because maybe he’s a nice old man who just wants to do something for the community. Maybe I can talk him into donating the lighthouse back to us.”

Marion stared at her. “That wouldn’t make any sense. No one spends eighty thousand dollars on a lark—at least no one from around here. It’s more likely this guy bought it as an investment, and turning it over to you and your committee would be a ridiculous decision.”

“Then maybe he’s a developer interested in putting something new on that property. He might even like my idea for beautification.”

“Jenna, you have to stop concocting these ideas. If you really want to tackle a tough problem, think about what will happen if the place sells and we have to tell your grandmother.” Marion sighed. “I’m not sure this town is equipped to handle a rebellion at the seniors home.”

“She’ll be devastated,” Jenna agreed. “But no more than if she discovered my plans for the building.”

Marion nodded toward the front window of the shop. “Who’s that man across the street? He’s just standing there…Maybe he’s lost?”



N ATE STOPPED on the sidewalk and looked across at the grassy area that separated the two sides of Main Street. New businesses had popped up, but much about Finnegan Cove was familiar. The park benches were freshly painted. The flowers were just beginning to bloom. The brick buildings were solid and clean, their roofs in good repair. It wasn’t the sun-washed glitz of Southern California; here there was a sense of reverence for what had come before. For permanence.

Nate didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t thought about returning to this place since he’d headed his old pickup out of town two weeks after his father’s trial and pointed west. Even when he came to Michigan to visit his father, he never considered stopping in Finnegan Cove. There’d been no reason to. Those who’d once befriended the Sheltons had ended up condemning them, along with the ones who’d paid little regard to a struggling fisherman and his two sons.

Before the cancer took her, his mother had had friends. Everyone liked Cheryl Shelton. She’d been sweet and friendly and always offered a helping hand to anyone who needed it. When she died, each of the three Shelton men felt the loss deeply.

Nate looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. He had a half hour before he had to meet Mike at the lighthouse. He headed toward the red-and-white-striped awning over a wooden sign advertising a bakery across the street where there’d once been a dentist’s office. He was nervous about seeing Mike again. Even before their mother died, Nate and Mike hadn’t seen eye to eye on much. Probably caffeine was the last thing Nate needed before facing his brother, but what the heck.



T HE TALL MAN IN JEANS and a light jacket Marion had pointed out was approaching the shop. The sun glinted off his dark-blond hair. His bronzed complexion told Jenna he wasn’t from around Finnegan Cove. No one on Lake Michigan had the hint of a tan in April. This guy had to be a transplant from someplace exotic and sunny. Cool and confident—that’s what he was, with the emphasis on cool. Residents of Finnegan Cove were solid, dependable, but definitely not cool.

He came inside and looked around. The last customers had left several minutes ago. The sandwich crowd wouldn’t be in for lunch for some time.

“Are you open?” the man asked, coming up to the counter.

“Until two,” Marion said.

He sat on a bar stool. Something about the man’s voice seemed familiar. Jenna studied him closely. He looked familiar, too, as if he was someone she ought to know. But that was impossible. How would she know a guy whose jeans even looked expensive—as if custom-made to fit his long, lean legs? He wore a shirt with a button-down collar. Guys in Finnegan Cove wore Wranglers from Wal-Mart, and T-shirts advertising the local bait-and-tackle hut. She couldn’t look away. The stranger was intriguing, and not just because they didn’t see many strangers before tourist season.

“I’ll have a cup of coffee,” he said, and pointed to the chrome cake tray covered with a plastic dome. “And that raspberry Danish.”

Marion slid the pastry onto a plate and set it in front of him. She stood a moment, her eyes intent on his face. Then she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.

Jenna rushed over from the coffee machine. “Mom, are you all right?”

Marion’s eyes widened. Her lips twitched, as if she didn’t know whether to smile or frown. “After all these years…”

The man stared hard at her mother, then sat back on the stool. “My God. Marion Malloy?”

She exhaled a long breath and said simply, “Nate.”

Jenna dropped the cup she’d been about to fill with coffee. It broke into a dozen pieces. He tore his gaze from Marion’s face to look at her, and the past came back in a nightmarish rush. He was Nate Shelton—older, more filled out, without the wiry toughness of youth, and with a few wrinkles around his unforgettable blue eyes.

Marion cleared her throat, hurried to help Jenna clean up the mess. After throwing the shards in the trash can, she broke the awful silence. “You remember my daughter, Jenna, don’t you, Nate?”

He gave her an intense appraisal, as if trying to find her in his memory bank. “Sure,” he said after several uncomfortable moments. “You were just a kid when I…left.”

You mean when you ran away rather than face what your father had done. “I was thirteen,” she said. “Not so much a kid. Old enough.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He picked up his fork, cut into the pastry and then let it sit there. After a moment he looked at Marion and said, “So have you stayed in Finnegan Cove all this time?”

“I never thought of leaving,” she replied. “This is my home. And I bought this shop with the money…” She paused, looked down at the counter. “With the money I got after Joe died. Anyway, this is a nice business. My daughter helps out. We get along just fine.”

He nodded, acknowledged the full cup of coffee Jenna placed in front of him. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.” He took a sip. “You know, I think about what happened a lot. I’m sorry for what you went through.”

“Forget it, Nate,” Marion said. “It’s in the past.”

Forget it? Jenna rested her hip against the counter and said, “What are you doing here, Nate? I heard you were on the West Coast somewhere. Why have you come back?”

He stared up at her with those blue eyes that used to make her adolescent knees weak. “It’s kind of strange, I guess, me being here again. And my reason for being here will seem even stranger.”

She waited, raised her eyebrows in question.

“The old lighthouse,” he said. “I’m thinking about making an offer on it.”

Jenna’s heart tripped. She clutched the lapels of her blouse with trembling fingers.

He spoke matter-of-factly, as if his admission wouldn’t cut her to her core. “I’m taking a look at it this morning.”

“But you don’t live in Sutter’s Point,” she said, her voice harsh and defensive. “The man who’s interested in the lighthouse is from Sutter’s Point.”

“Oh. You must be talking about my brother, Mike. I think he’s made some inquiries about the lighthouse in the past few days.” Nate gave a half smile. “I see word still travels fast around here.”

Jenna closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at the handsome face she used to dream about years ago. The face so like his father’s.

The son of the man who had killed her dad was planning to buy the lighthouse.




CHAPTER THREE


N OW THAT HE’D HAD time to really look at Marion, Nate decided she’d hardly aged. Her hair, shorter than he remembered, was still a mass of chestnut-brown curls. Her figure was fuller, but obviously not altered drastically by working in a bakery. And her doe-brown eyes, which he remembered from across a crowded courtroom, still sent regret coursing through him. Almost as much as her daughter’s did.

He never would have recognized Jenna. He’d barely paid the slightest attention to the shy young teenager until tragedy had brought them together for a few weeks of judicial agony. She looked nothing like she had as a girl. Jenna Malloy stood at least four inches taller than her mother, with wavy auburn hair to her shoulders. And her eyes, a deep soul-searching green, bored into him with a fierce defiance he couldn’t ignore, or blame her for.

In Hollywood, beauty was often measured by degrees of voluptuousness. Jenna was striking because of her prominent cheekbones and straight, slightly upturned nose. He sensed she had an appealing combination of her father’s determination and her mother’s gentleness.

But it was that defiance he most noticed now. She glared at him and said, “You won’t be welcomed back here.”

“Jenna!” Marion gasped.

Nate had to consciously stop himself from squirming. He stared directly at Jenna and said, “No problem. I’m not staying.”

“Then why are you interested in the lighthouse?”

No evasive tactics from this woman. But Nate was certain this was not the time to bring up his father’s future living arrangements. “I have my reasons,” he said.

She placed both palms flat on the counter in front of him. “That lighthouse is in terrible shape,” she said. “If you’re thinking of buying it out of some romantic impulse, you should know it will probably fall down around your feet.”

Nate reached for his wallet. “Believe me, romance has nothing to do with this.”

Marion wrapped her hand around her daughter’s arm. “Jenna, that’s enough. Nate has every right to buy the station.”

Jenna’s eyes clouded. He thought she might be close to tears. “He has no rights,” she said. “That station is a reminder of one of the worst moments in my life.”

Nate pushed the uneaten raspberry Danish and full coffee mug across the counter. “I’m sorry I bothered you,” he said, sliding a few bills under his plate. “I didn’t know when I came in here that you would be…”

“You thought we would have run years ago, like you did?”

Marion picked up the dishes. “Jenna, please, don’t say anything else. Nate doesn’t deserve this.”

He held up a hand. “It’s all right, Mrs. Malloy. I understand where she’s coming from.” He risked another look at Jenna and discovered her expression had softened, some of the antagonism obviously draining away at her mother’s distress. “I would have hoped that the bitterness could have lessened by now,” he said to her. “I feel sorry that it hasn’t.”

He turned away from the counter and headed toward the door. “I have to meet my brother.”

Marion came from around the counter and followed him. “How is Mike?” she asked. “I haven’t heard anything about him in years.”

Nate shrugged. “I don’t know much more about him than you probably do,” he said. “Mike never contacted us after he left. But I know he’s a contractor and he agreed to meet me to evaluate the light station.” He glanced at Jenna, whose face was now devoid of emotion. She couldn’t care less about Mike or Nate. And he could understand that.

“That’s good, anyway,” Marion said, as if that detail comforted her.

“Yes, I suppose, but some things never really change.”

Nate walked out of the bakery and over to the truck he’d rented. He sat in the driver’s seat for several moments before turning on the engine. He still had to face Mike, and this last encounter had left him shaken. He should have thought about the reaction his announcement could have on the Malloys. But he’d been gone for so long.



N ATE ARRIVED at the lighthouse five minutes early. He parked his black truck next to the burgundy one with Shelton Contracting Services painted on the driver’s door. Mike was doing okay for himself. He was licensed, bonded and considered “no job too big or small.” Nate turned off his engine, took a deep breath and got out.

Since Mike was nowhere in sight, Nate leaned against his hood and stared. He’d seen the lighthouse from this angle as often as he had from the lake. The building was as familiar to him as the small two-bedroom cottage his dad had rented on the outskirts of Finnegan Cove, the house where Nate and Mike had grown up. Nate didn’t care if he ever saw the house again. He’d believed he’d feel the same way about the light station, but he wasn’t so sure now.

When he was young and Lighthouse Park had been meticulously kept, he’d come here on picnics. He came to the woods beside the light when he was a young teenager to do what the older kids did—drink, make out, raise a little hell away from the watchful eyes of parents. And he came to be alone during the difficult period after his mother died, and Mike left, when Harley was becoming the man who would eventually murder someone.

Nate escaped to this very property, ironically—within the hallowed walls of a building originally intended to guide seamen along the coast, and save lives. After Harley was taken away in handcuffs, Nate had never been back. Now, standing in front of the lighthouse that had shaped their lives, looking up at the peeling walls of the tower, he felt only a familiar peace.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came around the side of the building. Nate found himself having to squint to bring the face of his brother into focus. Mike’s back was stiff, as if he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. About ten feet away, he ran his hand over his thick hair, which was a few shades darker than Nate’s.

Nate pushed off the truck’s hood, waiting—for what he didn’t know—his hands in his jeans pockets.

Mike crossed his arms over his chest. “How you doing?” he said.

“Good. You been here long?”

“About ten minutes.” His brother glanced at the tower. “Guess you can tell she’s not in the best of shape.”

So they were getting right down to business. “The keeper’s cottage doesn’t look too horrible,” Nate said. “What about the lighthouse itself? How bad is it?”

“It’s still standing,” Mike stated. “The lock was broken on the back door, so I was able to go inside. At first glance I’d say it’s sound. But cosmetically it’s pretty much a mess. You won’t be able to reach the beacon room without major restoration to the stairs. The entire place needs new windows and doors. The floors are shot. The heating system—forget it. Electrical, well…”

Mike’s litany of problems should have discouraged Nate. Oddly, it didn’t. He was intrigued. “So how much would it take to make it livable?” he asked.

“Just livable? Without fixing everything that needs attention?”

He nodded. “Dad wants to move in a few weeks from now. He can do a lot of the work himself.”

Mike frowned. “Still can’t believe it. But anyway, maybe between five and ten grand, if you’re not picky and you hire cheap help, or do it yourself.” His mouth lifted at the corners, something between a sneer and a grin. Nate couldn’t tell. He didn’t know this man anymore.

“Did you ever learn how to swing a hammer?” Mike asked.

“I guess you forgot. Dad taught me the same carpentry skills he taught you.” Nate extended his left arm, flexed his muscles. No atrophy there. What brawn he had might come from a gym membership, but he was still capable of manual labor.

Mike scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Yeah, but I never thought it took with you. You seemed to prefer a pen to a drill.”

Nate smiled. “Still do.”

“To really modernize, make the place comfortable and restore some charm, you’ve got to be looking at twenty thousand.”

Nate nodded. The project was doable, if their dad wanted to tackle it. “I don’t see any Condemned signs.”

“No. There’s access to all the rooms except the tower. But I’d say the only things living here for a lot of years have been birds and insects.”

Friday night, after he’d had time to contemplate his father’s phone call, Nate had done an Internet search on the Finnegan Cove, Michigan, lighthouse and been rewarded with a picture of the place. The photo had been taken ten years ago, and even then it was showing signs of significant decay. That had been the point of the photograph. A concerned lighthouse enthusiast had chosen the Finnegan Cove Light to illustrate the desperate need to restore the old buildings.

“So, you think the old man’s off his rocker?”

Nate scrubbed his hand over his nape. If he was, then Nate wasn’t too far behind him. “I gotta admit,” he said, “I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to come back here.” For some reason, certainly not because he thought his brother was interested, Nate added, “I just had a sample of the way folks feel about us coming back to this town.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked.

“There’s a bakery on Main Street. I stopped there to get a cup of coffee, and you won’t believe who’s running the place.”

Mike waited.

“Marion Malloy and her daughter, Jenna,” Nate told him.

“That’s an interesting bit of news,” Mike said. “I figured rather than relive that night over and over every time they passed the lighthouse those two would get out.”

“I know. After I gave Marion the twelve grand, I thought she might start over somewhere else. The trial was hard on both of them, especially Jenna. She was so young to go through something so terrible.”

“Getting out is more our style, don’t you think?” Mike spat in the dirt, then rubbed his fingers down his jawline. “I have to say, though, dividing up the proceeds from the sale of that fishing boat was the best thing the old man ever did for us.”

They remained silent, each lost in his own thoughts, until Mike suddenly said, “So, did you see the daughter?”

“Yeah, she was there this morning.”

“She married?”

“I don’t know. But I didn’t see a ring.” He wondered why he’d noticed that detail.

“And I guess she didn’t treat you like her favorite person?”

“Person. Creature. Primate.” Nate managed a smile. “I’m not high on her list of living beings.”

“Was she openly hostile?”

“Oh, yeah. Looking into her eyes, I felt the past twenty years slip away. I was suddenly bad boy Nathaniel Shelton again, only Jenna’s contempt was worse than any aimed at me before.”

“Hell, Nate, you didn’t kill her father.”

That simple truth should have put the tragedy in perspective. Sadly, it didn’t for Nate.

And he resented his brother’s attitude. He always had. Two years older, Mike had taken the brunt of punishment for Harley’s erratic behavior after their mom died. It had been Mike who’d bailed Harley out of jail, Mike who’d taken criticism from neighbors and Mike who’d stood up to Harley and argued back when it only pushed the two men further apart. But then Mike left, and at sixteen, Nate had taken over the job of managing the drunken, abusive man his father had become. And Nate couldn’t look at his brother today without feeling that Mike had let him down.

Ironically, before the murder, Nate had begun to see a change in their father. Harley had started to resemble the calm, rational, even loving man he used to be. So once Harley went to prison, Nate made strides in reconnecting with him, in time forging a fragile but reassuring bond.

He glanced at Mike, saw him focus on the lighthouse. As in the past, it was impossible to know what was going on in his brother’s mind. The only contact Nate had had with Mike over the years was a few notes from his wife, a woman Nate had never met. They’d just shared what Nate told himself was a companionable moment. Could this meeting be the start of a reconnection for them?

Mike turned to him and said, “I haven’t got all day, Nate. You want my opinions on this building or not?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” he replied. They started walking toward the lighthouse.

“Just out of curiosity,” Mike said. “Did Harley give you a good reason for wanting this place?”

“He gave me a reason. I don’t know how good it is. He said Finnegan Cove is the only home he’s ever known.”

Mike frowned. “Not true. He’s spent the past two decades in Foggy Creek.”

Nate reminded himself that Mike didn’t know Harley was a different man now. “He blended in at prison,” Nate said. “I suppose he feels if he can make it there, he can make it in Finnegan Cove again. At least he wants to try. And after spending all those years paying his debt, I guess he’s earned the right to live where he wants to.”

“Just count me out,” Mike said. “I left here twenty-two years ago and I don’t intend to come back, even to hang a few new windows. I can’t be around the old man.”

“You’ve made that clear,” Nate said. “For the past two decades.”

“Good. Because I’m doing this for you, little brother. For the years we had together, before it all turned sour.” He held up one finger. “No other reason.”

They reached the back door and Mike opened it. “I don’t imagine he has any competition in trying to buy this place,” he said. “If you make an offer, it’ll probably be accepted.”

“I suppose I will then.”

“Then you going back to L.A.?”

“Sure. Once Dad’s settled, I’ll head back. But as I’ve done all these years, I’ll continue to check how he’s getting along.” He cut off his words.

Mike’s eyes sparked with long-held resentment. “I don’t suppose you’d take any advice from me?”

“Not unless it’s about fixing up old stairs.”

Mike almost smiled. “Okay, then. Let’s look her over. You might as well go into this deal with both eyes open.”

For the next hour, the brothers examined every inch of the Finnegan Cove light station. And their conversation was all about construction.



I N THE HOURS THAT HAD passed since Nate’s unexpected visit to the bakery, Jenna’s anger hadn’t abated. Now, at closing time, she feverishly scrubbed the countertop that her mother had just wiped and vented her frustration aloud. “Did you hear what he said, Mom? Nate Shelton feels sorry for me! What does Harley Shelton’s son know about anything? And how does he have the nerve to come back to this town and say that he pities me! How sorry did he feel when his father hit Daddy with that two-by-four?”

Marion looked away, pretending to stuff napkins into an already bulging chrome holder. Jenna saw her cringe. “I did it again, Mom, opened my big mouth. Forgive me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, and I seem to do it too often by bringing up Daddy’s death.”

“That’s not why I’m upset, Jenna,” Marion said. “It’s your reaction to Nate this morning. I remember how it was for him. Nate felt terrible about what happened.”

“Fine. So Nate felt terrible,” Jenna said. “He and his friends were always getting into trouble with the police long before Harley…” Her voice caught, and she took a deep breath. “I’m surprised he didn’t end up in a cell before his fifteenth birthday.”

Marion stopped fidgeting and looked at her daughter. “I realize Nate did things you never would have done at his age. But he wasn’t so bad as a kid. He just grew up too fast. When his mother was alive, he was a sweet boy. And then later, after she died, I seem to remember a few times I caught you staring at him when he was bagging at the supermarket. And I recall picking you up at Lighthouse Park a time or two when you and your girlfriends had gone there to watch the older boys, including Nate, play baseball.”

Marion gave one of those knowing smiles that mothers seem to perfect. “You didn’t always have such a low opinion of Nate. Besides, the police never charged him with anything. They picked him up twice—and that was only to scare him. Now all of a sudden, he’s interested in the lighthouse, and you’re dredging up all these reasons why you should hate him.”

Jenna had to admit there was some accuracy in her mother’s interpretation of history. Five years younger than Nate, and with an overactive imagination, Jenna had often fantasized about him. But after he’d become old enough to drive, Jenna heard more about Nate from the police scanner her father had hooked up in their living room than she did from the few ladies in town he’d managed to fool with his smile.

She knew Nate and his friends hung out at Lighthouse Park, showing little regard for the property, littering the grounds with beer cans and fogging up their car windows with whichever girl in town was eager to take a drive.

Jenna always believed Nate and his friends were the main reason the park got a bad reputation. But even then, while Lighthouse Park deteriorated and the station began its sad decline into disrepair, Marion had defended Nate to Jenna, saying he was just acting out his frustrations. Joseph Malloy, on the other hand, saw Nate for what he was—a bad seed who would end up like his father, quarrelsome, mean, and not to be trusted.

“You know,” Marion said now, “you might try being nice to Nate. We don’t know what’s going to happen with the lighthouse.”

She headed into the kitchen and Jenna followed her, saying, “I’ve been thinking about this all day, and I can’t come up with any reason Nate would want to buy the place. But he mentioned Mike, and I’m wondering if he’s the one who’s interested. Though why Mike would come back is an even greater mystery. He left before Nate did.”

Marion organized cans on a shelf. “My daughter the detective,” she said fondly.

“Certainly Mike’s motive for buying the station can’t be better than mine.”

“We’re finished here,” her mom said. She snapped the dead bolt on the back door and turned around. “But one last thing, Jenna. Your motive for wanting to buy the light is as personal and subjective as any could be.”

“What? The building is a mess. I want to tear it down and put something beautiful and lasting in its place.”

Marion walked over, wrapped her hands around Jenna’s arms. “What you really want is to get rid of a horrible memory.”

When Jenna started to protest, her mother wouldn’t let her. “And I understand.” She smoothed her hand over Jenna’s shoulder. “I wish you could have been spared what you saw that night. If I could change anything about the past, it would be that, and your grief. The grief you still feel.”

Jenna looked at the floor, unable to bear the pain in her mother’s expression. They had been through so much, the two of them. Heartache, therapy, starting over. But still, after all this time, Marion didn’t really understand.

Her mother leaned down to peer into Jenna’s downcast eyes. “It’s just a building, honey. Something terrible happened there, but twenty years have passed. You’ve got to let it go.”

“I have, Mom,” she protested. “At least I’m trying. I try every day. But the best way, the surest way to put the past to rest is to wipe it off the face of the earth.” She hoped her mother could see the sense of what she was saying. “And when that station came up for sale, it was a sign I can’t ignore. I was meant to buy that place.”

Marion turned and got her purse out of the locker. “You haven’t told your grandmother your idea.”

“No.” That admission plagued Jenna’s conscience. She didn’t like hiding anything from Hester.

“She’ll find out eventually,” Marion said. “Are you still going to see her tonight?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to argue. I’m bringing her a turkey dinner from the Boston Market. She always likes that.”

“Yes, she does.”

Jenna watched her mother close up shop and, once outside, get into her dependable Ford and drive away. And then her thoughts turned to Nate. She couldn’t help wondering what he had done with his life since leaving Finnegan Cove.

He must have found success on the West Coast. He apparently had enough money to buy the lighthouse. And he looked, well…good. Very good. Successful, assured, as handsome as she remembered. Yes, physically Nate still lived up to her fantasies. She swallowed. Looks could be deceiving.




CHAPTER FOUR


A T FIVE O’CLOCK , Jenna headed to Sunshine House with two turkey dinners. She parked and went into the well-kept colonial building where Hester had been living for four years. She saw her grandmother across the lounge.

She must have been to the beauty shop, for her soft silver hair had been clipped and curled. And she’d applied rouge to her cheeks. From the familiar theme song coming from the TV, an episode of Green Acres was just ending.

Jenna set her package on a coffee table and went to help Hester with her walker. “Hey, Grandma, how are you tonight?”

Hester turned off the TV. “I’m fine, sweetheart. It’s good to see you.”

“I got macaroni tonight instead of mashed potatoes. I figured we could use the change.”

Hester moved carefully across the wood floor. “Always nice to have change,” she said. “Keeps a body young.”

Hester seemed deceptively calm, which usually meant something was up. Jenna set their meal out on the table. “How was your day?”

“Like every other for the most part,” Hester said, “which at my age is a good thing.” She opened a napkin, placed it on her lap and delicately cleared her throat. “Except for hearing that Nathaniel Shelton is in town.”

So that was it. “How’d you find out?” Jenna asked.

“Oh, sweetheart, this is Finnegan Cove. If someone sneezes on one side of town, we say God bless on the other.” She stared longingly at the small salt packets on the table. “Wish I could have some of that.”

Jenna slid them out of reach. “So, what else did you hear?”

Hester stopped a passing aide. “Susan, would you mind getting me real silverware? I don’t like to use the plastic stuff.”

“Sure, Hester. Hi, Jenna,” the woman said as she went into the dining room.

Jenna opened her bag and pulled out the plastic utensils. “Gran?” Jenna said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, right. Well, the grapevine tells me that Nathaniel is looking to buy our lighthouse.” She peered across the table, her eyes as clear as they’d been when Jenna was a child and Hester a young sixty-five. “Is it true?”

“Nate came into the bakery this morning,” she replied. “He admitted that he was looking into it.”

Hester swallowed a bite of turkey and washed it down with tea. “What for? He lives in California, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He said he has his reasons.”

“I knew nothing good would come of this plan to sell the lighthouse. I called Bill myself and told him. The light station should belong to all of us, not the council, and certainly not Nate Shelton.”

Jenna chewed slowly, trying to appear thoughtful. “Well, you have to admit, Gran, that the building is in terrible shape. It would cost a small fortune to fix it up. And now it just sits there, abandoned.”

Hester pointed her silver fork at Jenna. “You don’t give up on something just because it’s old or discarded. I remember when people set their watches by its bell, and boats set their courses by its beacon.”

“I know, Grandma,” Jenna said. She’d once had a similar appreciation for the building. But not anymore. Not since her dad’s blood had stained the floors. “But I don’t think it’s worth saving. It’s too far gone. And I’m sorry to say this, but I don’t think too many people really care any longer.”

“Don’t say that to the Michigan Beacon Society,” Hester said. “They care about all the lighthouses.”

Jenna didn’t believe that was true. She couldn’t remember anyone from that organization ever visiting the Finnegan Cove Light. But she made a mental note to call the society tomorrow to see if the organization was even aware of their small station.

Hester dabbed her lips with her napkin. “The building does need a lot of work. I don’t know who should take over responsibility for the place, but I can’t imagine that it should be Nathaniel Shelton.”

Jenna could always count on her grandmother to see the logic of things. “Exactly, Gran. That’s just what I think—”

“We need to get to the bottom of this,” Hester said. “Send that boy over here to see me.”

Jenna dropped her fork. “What? You want to see Nate?”

“Absolutely. I want to know what he’s doing here, what his intentions are.”

Jenna wasn’t sure how she felt about contacting Nate, but she’d always found it impossible to deny her grandmother anything. “If I see him, I’ll tell him,” she said.

“Not if, sweetheart, when. I understand if you have reservations about Nate, but get over them. I want to see him.”

Jenna sat back and stared at Hester. Her answer was automatic. This was Gran. “Well, okay. When I see him, I’ll tell him.”



B Y THE NEXT AFTERNOON Jenna’s eyes were tired from intensive research on the Internet. She’d hoped to find a legal precedent that would enable her to challenge the sale of the lighthouse to an individual. Maybe somewhere in the annals of Michigan lighthouse history there was a statute that said decommissioned stations could only be sold to conservancy groups. If that was so, then Jenna’s committee might qualify. True, their ultimate goal was not to conserve, but they could get around that detail later by establishing their goals for Lighthouse Park. Unfortunately, her searches had proved futile. In fact, she’d discovered that several of Michigan’s one hundred twenty lighthouses were privately owned. Her only hope was that a purchaser must meet some rigid standards.

Just before five o’clock, she placed a call to Lansing. A pleasant-sounding woman answered, “Michigan Beacon Society. We love our lighthouses.”

You’d have a hard time loving this one if you were me, Jenna thought. She gave her name and location and explained the reason for her call. “So you see, the Finnegan Cove Lighthouse is now being investigated by a private investor who is seeking to buy it.”

“Oh, my, isn’t that wonderful?”

Jenna’s hope deflated. “Wonderful? Don’t you want to know about him, what his intentions are for the light station?”

“Well, yes, ideally,” the woman said. “But in fact, it doesn’t really matter. Most of these little-known light stations fare much better when they’re taken over by private citizens, whether individuals or groups. If this man does any renovation at all, the building will only benefit.”

But I don’t want it to benefit. I want it torn down. And I especially don’t want it in the hands of a Shelton!

There was a pause, during which Jenna heard the shuffling of paper. “Where did you say this is?” the woman asked.

“Finnegan Cove on Lake Michigan.”

“Let me see if I can find files on that building.” After a moment, she said, “Yes, here it is. The Finnegan Cove Light Station located at the juncture of Lake Michigan and Big Bear Channel. Is that right?”

“Yes. The light used to guide barges heading through the channel to Big Bear Lake, where there was a sawmill until the middle of the century.”

“It says here that when shipping dried up, an electric navigational device was put in, making the lighthouse unnecessary.”

“Well, of course. Once lumber was no longer sent across Lake Michigan, the light was decommissioned. It stood for a while as the focal point of a park, but now even that’s gone. No one paid any attention to the lighthouse for years.”

“Oh, my, that is sad,” the woman said. “At least sixty of our stations are in danger of being destroyed, or are disintegrating on their own.”

Especially this one. Jenna figured she was doing the town a favour by tearing down the station rather than watching it slowly and painfully wash into the lake, even if her motives were linked to a personal tragedy. Besides, she wasn’t responsible for the property’s current condition. If anything, Nate and his friends were by abusing the area for years. And Harley. His actions kept all but the most ghoulish sightseers away.

“We consider private purchase the last chance for some of them,” the woman said, “since we don’t get nearly what we need from the National Park Service.”

“So there’s nothing I can do to prevent this private sale?”

The woman seemed astounded at the question. “Why would you want to? Be thankful someone is buying it.”

Jenna knew the conversation had come to an end when the woman added, “We simply have too many lighthouses to save them all. But we’re doing our best.”

“I’m sure you are,” Jenna said.

“E-mail us pictures. We love seeing before and after shots. I’m amazed what some people do with our stations.”

Jenna disconnected. She rested her chin in her hand and stared out the window of her living room. “You’d be amazed at what happened in this light station, too,” she said.

Jenna hurried to get ready for her night class. Tomorrow was Friday, her day off from the bakery. She’d have to implement plan B.



“W HAT ARE YOU DOING here?” Shirley asked when Jenna came into the bakery the next morning at eight o’clock.

“I just need to pick something up,” she said, smiling at the dozen customers having coffee at the counter as she passed into the kitchen. After surprising her mother with a kiss on the cheek, she helped herself to fresh-from-the-oven raspberry pastries.

“Where are you going with those?” Marion asked.

“Isn’t it obvious, Mom? Who, recently returned to this town, likes raspberry Danish?”

Marion watched as she dropped the goodies into a bag. “You’re taking those to Nate?”

Jenna smiled. “Absolutely. I can be nice.”

Marion pulled a loaf of bread from the oven and poked it, testing its doneness. “I think he’ll be as hard to influence as Bill Hastings.”

Jenna folded the top of the bag. “Yeah, I remember how well that worked.” She headed for the exit. “Wish me luck.”

Marion didn’t glance up from her baking. “Somehow I think I should be wishing Nate luck. Don’t be too hard on him.”

Jenna left the bakery and headed two blocks down Main Street before turning onto Sparrow Court. Word had traveled quickly around town that Nate Shelton was back and had taken up temporary residence at Cove Country House, owned by long-time residents Jubal and Bonnie Payne.

Jenna walked three blocks under budding maple and oak trees to the charming three-story home. Like most of the houses on the narrow lanes off Main, it had been built in the early 1900s, at the height of Finnegan Cove’s lumber boom. Jenna was thankful she’d been able to buy a carriage house next to one of the Victorians two blocks over on Hummingbird Street.

She opened the gate in the picket fence and proceeded up the brick walkway to the blue-and-white gingerbread house. Jubal greeted her from a rocker on the porch, where he was having coffee and reading the Sutter’s Point newspaper. “’Morning, Jenna. Did you come to see Bonnie?” He retreated behind his newspaper. “If you came to see me, I don’t know anything about the lighthouse.”




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