Lighthouse Cove

1

This was the last place on earth Jacqueline Murphy wanted to be. She brushed back wisps of caramel-colored hair that had pulled loose from her no-nonsense ponytail. Eyes so intense and crystal blue they didn’t seem real swept over the scenery surrounding her. She homed in on a perfect shot, snapped it from every angle with her camera, then let the familiar weight of her battered Leica swing down and hang from its strap around her neck.

Waves crashed, white-capped, against the shore, clusters of children squealing in delight as they darted through showers of silvery spray, their parents joining their frolics in the bright summer sun. Raw bundles of hormones disguised as teenage boys bodysurfed to show off for blanketsful of bikini-clad girls. Old women and men strolled along the beach hand in hand, age unable to diminish the softness a lifetime of love had left in their eyes.

Beautiful, most people would call the scene. No trained eye needed to appreciate the jeweled colors, the gleam of salt spray, the glorious sight of the edge of the world, washed clean by waves and sunshine. But the beauty didn’t fool Jack for an instant. She saw the warning in the distance—the solitary white spire of the lighthouse pointing skyward from its narrow isthmus of land, a single, shadowy eye staring out across the shipwreck marooned on the shoals beyond. Jack could almost hear it whisper they once thought this place beautiful, too.

She shivered in spite of the warmth of the sun, and stared at the retired lighthouse/bed-and-breakfast that had been her home this past week. What had the crusty former keeper and owner of the place said when she’d ushered Jack through the green painted door of the stone house attached to that soaring round tower?

Two hundred fifty years this old girl has watched the sea play cat’s paw with the ships that sailed here. One minute, skies so bright blue it seemed storms would never come again. Next minute a gale so fierce it could blow the beard right off a man’s face. Two hundred ships ran aground on those shoals, wrecked in spite of Mermaid Lost’s warning. Almost every old family on this stretch of coast lost someone they loved. We had the ship’s names carved on the face of that boulder near the telescope on the cliff’s edge. Just so we never forget.

But Jack doubted anyone really needed a reminder etched in stone far out on some deserted cliff. She’d found that loss carved itself where you couldn’t hide from it. In your memory. In your heart.

Something for everyone on this stretch of coast, proprietor China Pepperell had boasted, her windburned face more lined than a map of New York City above her yellow nor’easter.

Not for me, Jack had hedged. I’m just here to do a favor for an old friend. I plan to be on my way as soon as possible.

But the older woman had just chuckled. "That’s what my great-great-grandfather Captain Rake Ramsey said when he sailed in. No pirate born would want a home port like this. But God laughs when people make bold claims like that. The notorious pirate fell in love, and, well—I’m here, so you can guess the rest. His ship was the first one to wreck on those shoals. My great-great-grandmother was birthing their second baby, and she’d nearly died the first time around. The midwife claimed the only thing that held her tight to life was the clasp of her husband’s hand.

"The authorities hereabouts were hungry to bring Rake to justice, and the whole coast knew of his love of his wife. Though Emily begged her captain to stay away, and promised she’d find him in Jamaica soon as she had the baby she was carrying and it was strong enough to travel, the captain wouldn’t listen. The instant the midwife was called to the lighthouse, the soldiers laid their trap.

"Terrified that they would capture her husband and hang him, Emily did the only thing she could to warn him. In spite of the birth pains tearing at her, she climbed up the stairs to the top of the tower. Doused the light. Prayed he’d stay away. She could have been hanged herself for giving him warning. But her sacrifice was all in vain.

"She should have guessed that nothing would keep him from her side. Onward he sailed, blinded by the dark. He ran his ship into the reef, every soul aboard lost.

When Emily heard the terrible sounds of the ship breaking apart, she let go of life. Some people claim they can still hear her voice at night, calling her captain’s name.

She should have drowned the idiot herself, Jack muttered. She risked her life to save him and he had to fling himself into the fire anyway. What use is nobility and honor and that wild, passionate love stuff if you still end up dead?

Or alone.

The image of a face flashed into her mind—chocolate-dark eyes blazing with heat, rugged features taut with desire, passion so hot she still felt the imprint of his hands on her skin. She’d been so eager to grow up, show the world what a bold adventurer she was, she’d flung herself headlong into that summer romance with all the passion in her twenty-year-old heart. She’d shown the world all right—that she was just one more gullible kid.

She’d gotten burned. So badly she’d never been tempted to put her hand back in that particular brand of fire again. She’d deep-sixed the painful memory the way she had so many others. So why hadn’t it stayed buried?

What in the world had made her think of the affair after years of barely remembering the man had ever existed? China Pepperell’s mad, romantic tale of love and loss? Absurd. Love had nothing to do with those crazy two weeks she’d spent in that wide, quilt-covered bed. She’d just fallen victim to a bad case of hormones like so many other young kids did. Then she’d grown up.

Jack grimaced, shoving away the dark mood she could ill afford. Legends like the pirate captain’s were highly overrated. She had little patience for grand, heroic gestures. They didn’t inspire her or make her misty-eyed. They made her mad as hell. But then, she was definitely in the minority when it came to that. Take Ziggy, for instance.

Trust Ziggy Bartolli, photojournalistic ace and mentor extraordinaire to love this strip of Maine coast, she mused. Pirate ghosts wailing in the night to give him his daily jolt of adrenaline. Tales of love that lasted beyond the grave for his ridiculously romantic soul and a pub a mile away where he could dazzle people with his war stories. In the eight years since Ziggy had taken her under his wing, a heartbroken kid so desperate to earn her stripes she was going to charge into a hot spot without the backing of a press agency or the protection of a press pass, little about the man had changed. Ziggy had always adored Mermaid Lost’s kind of ambience. Jack shunned it the way she had the sheik in Tambiza who had offered Ziggy a thousand camels if he could convince Jack to be his sixth wife.

Yes, Jack thought in resignation. If there was a heaven, Ziggy Bartolli was looking down at her right now with that smug satisfaction her partner had always showed on those rare times he’d gotten the better of her. She should have told him to go to hell instead of caving in and swearing to come here to Mermaid Lost. She would have told him to go to hell, except, as usual, Ziggy hadn’t played fair.

But this time the wily photojournalist had outdone even his scheming, manipulative, brilliant self. Jack had always claimed he’d do anything to get his own way. But even she hadn’t expected him to go this far. She’d never thought Ziggy would die.

She closed her eyes, the peaceful Maine coastline shifting into the suffocating heat of the Congo, the blaze of orange from two dozen gun barrels stark against the night. Heart pounding, breath-stealing adrenaline rushed through veins, sensations familiar as bedtime stories for Jack and Ziggy as they bolted away from the latest batch of revolutionaries, toward the helicopter that would fly them out of the bush. Precious rolls of film jammed the pockets of their khaki photographers’ vests. Pictures the latest regime would go to any lengths to be certain the rest of the world would never see.

Helluva story, princess, Ziggy gasped, ducking down to clear the rotary blades. Did it again, didn’t we?

She’d always hated it when he’d started gloating before they were out of the woods. Figured he was tempting fate. This time, fate had bitten back. Hard. When a bullet slammed into Ziggy’s chest.

Want you to promise me something, Ziggy whispered, his voice weak, blood oozing from beneath Jack’s hand. Book…wanted to have it finished for…anniversary. Present for Shaara.

It was all Ziggy had talked about when they were in the jungle—the publishing contract he’d gotten for a book full of photos depicting his favorite place in the world. The place where he and Shaara had honeymooned, vacationed, renewed the special relationship they’d forged when he’d stumbled across his future wife in the deserts of Egypt trying to save her young sister from being stoned to death for loving the wrong man. An honor killing, the men of the country called it. Jack had never been able to think of anything less honorable than murdering a seventeen-year-old girl for daring to fall in love.

Go to…lighthouse, Ziggy had pleaded. Summer pictures only ones I still need. Have to…finish the book. Spent so much time…away from her. Chasing wars with this damn camera. Need her to know…always thought there would be time for us to…spend there together. Wish I hadn’t…

Spent a lifetime racing around the world, struggling to capture other people’s lives on film, other people’s joys, other people’s tragedies, other people’s loves and losses instead of building a real life of his own?

Shaara knew what kind of life you lived before she married you. She knows you love her.

Knew I’d never quit work no matter how many times I promised. Always got this…wistful look in her eyes when I talked about…retiring. Going to live near Mermaid Lost. Jack, need you to catch the lighthouse on film, show her what I dreamed for…for both of us. Promise me.

I promise.

Been trying to get you to go there for years. Never expected it to happen this way. But…it’ll do you good, Jack. You’re always going…the ugliest places in the world. Never take…a break. When you do what we see in this business you have to…wash your eyes clean sometimes or you’ll go mad.

She would have preferred the oblivion of madness to the excruciating reality that filled the weeks after Ziggy’s death. Reality from which there was no escape, no blessed distraction of work or physical danger to dull the pain. It was pure nightmare telling Shaara that she’d never see her husband alive again, seeing her at the funeral, her exotic face so full of quiet dignity. But then, Ziggy’s wife was no stranger to the harsh edges of life.

During that hellish week Jack had spent helping settle Ziggy’s affairs, a barrage of stories had been splashed across every television, every newspaper, courtesy of the pilot’s point of view. Editorials about the grim cost Ziggy Bartolli had paid for working with a woman partner in countries where women were mere chattels to be crushed at will beneath men’s feet. Maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much if Jack’s own father hadn’t written the most scathing editorial of all.

Jack closed her eyes, trying to blot out the picture of Frank Murphy’s florid face at the funeral, his crumpled suit dusted with cigar ash, his bushy white brows lowered over eyes that burned like zealots she’d faced down in deserts half a world away.

I told you this would happen, didn’t I, Jacqueline? the memory of her father’s voice pounded in her head. But you wouldn’t listen! And now a good man is dead! Was it worth it just to take a few mediocre pictures?

Miss? A strange voice jolted Jack back into the present. She shook herself, in an effort to clear her head, and found herself back on the coast of Maine staring into the features of a fresh-faced young woman and the blond man beside her, their faces both creased with concern. Are you all right?

I’m fine, Jack said sharply.

We were just walking by and we saw you taking pictures. You looked like you knew what you were doing, and we thought…well, we’re on our honeymoon, and we wondered if you might take our picture. The girl held out a disposable camera, hopeful.

Jack wanted to shove it back at her and get the blazes out of there, but she’d learned early to stand her ground in front of a charging elephant—whether the elephant was a bull with sharp, gleaming tusks or memories that hammered her from the inside out.

She took the camera, pointed to a cluster of rocks. Stand over there. That should make a good shot. They each slipped their arms around the other’s waist and gazed into each other’s eyes, the lighthouse in the distance a perfect backdrop except for the wreck that edged the frame. How many couples who honeymooned here had ended up like that old ship on the rocks? Jack wondered, as she squeezed off the shot.

When had she gotten so cynical? Shaara and Ziggy had stayed together. They would be together still if she hadn’t…

Jack thrust the camera back at the couple, brushing aside their thanks. She turned, trudging through the crowd. Maybe that was why she felt so edgy in this place. In the world of Mermaid Lost everybody had somebody—families with flocks of children, old couples, still dancing to the tune of their old romance. Even the lifeguards clustered in pairs, laughing.

Jack had no patience for the uncharacteristically wistful sensation tugging in her chest. And she would have died of embarrassment if anyone in this crowd of strangers suspected that something more vulnerable lay hidden beneath the hard-driven journalist she’d worked her whole lifetime to be. Jacqueline Murphy—unflinching under the threat of bomb blasts and machine-gun fire, able to leap tall buildings and capture the most dangerous of stories in a single bound.

Jack grimaced. How many times in the past few years had Ziggy teased that she was becoming a legend on her own. So cool under fire it seemed impossible that she could be so detached and yet capture the pulsing heart of any situation she photographed. The ice queen who never let herself be swept up into the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to destroy the sanity of any combat vet—whether they wielded an M16 or a camera. If only those determined to lionize her knew the truth, Jack thought. She’d just been burying her emotions, storing them up until Ziggy’s death yanked them to the surface. From the night she’d first marched into the smoky press bar half a world away in Paris to the day she’d arrived here at Mermaid Lost, Ziggy could have attested to the fact that the force that had driven her was the same as many a man joining the French Foreign Legion. One badly bruised heart.

Good lord, was she insane? Thinking about a two-week affair after nine years had passed? Or was it inevitable after Ziggy’s death, to remember the force that had brought them together? She didn’t know. But two insignificant weeks still had the power to unnerve her. How strange. Unexpected. She winced, hating to admit even to herself that she’d found a crack in her emotional armor.

Time to go back to the lighthouse, she resolved, far away from crowds and laughter and sunshine. It felt so awkward to her, so strange out here among people safe and laughing. When had peace and leisure become her enemy, more dangerous than the strafing of machine-gun fire?

Somewhere, somehow, her world had turned upside down. Quiet was the enemy now. Because with the quiet came remembering.

2

The staircase spiraled up into the light tower, patches of late afternoon sun streaming through the closely webbed vine pattern transforming the wrought iron into an exquisite, immovable circle of lace. Flat on her back on the stone base at the foot of the stairs, Jack shoved with her feet, trying to squeeze her body into a smaller space as she searched for the perfect camera angle to capture the strength and beauty and unexpected bit of whimsy that led to the light far above.

She stopped short, her head banging into one of the posts anchoring the staircase to the floor. Muttering low, she wriggled one hand up to rub at the bump on her head. It would be just my luck to get stuck and have to be cut out of here with a blowtorch, she grumbled. Wouldn’t the guys at the press club just love that. I can just hear it—‘Knew her head was getting too big. Not only does she manage to get herself into a spot she can’t get out of, but she destroys a historical treasure in the process.’

It was China Pepperell who had talked her into taking shots of the lighthouse interior, painting images of the place as a home as well as a landmark. And Jack had acquiesced figuring that even if the pictures weren’t much use for Ziggy’s book, she could hand them off to the older woman as a sort of payment for kindnesses lavished on Jack no matter how many times Jack argued against them.

A burning ache tightened the muscles in Jack’s neck. She grimaced, muttering aloud. "China will be pleased. If I end up in traction, she can come to the hospital to visit and there’ll be no escape for me. There I’d be, trapped like a rat in one of those hospital gowns that leave your backside bare, and she’d be bound and determined to keep me compan—whoa!"

Jack grappled with her camera as sunlight suddenly streaked just the way she’d wanted, lighting up the cylinder of the tower, making it mystical, an unexpected work of art.

Her heart fluttered as she lowered the camera back onto her chest. She lay still for a moment, just enjoying the sensation of a mission accomplished. She’d have to remember this feeling late tonight when her bumps and bruises were clamoring for attention, and every muscle in her body ached from lying so long on the cold stone. She was just trying to wedge herself back out through the opening between the stairs’ iron supports when she heard a knock on the lighthouse door.

She grimaced, knowing full well who it would be. The thing she liked best about staying at Mermaid Lost was its isolation. The worst challenge was the fleet of Pepperells that made their way up to their old homestead whenever the mood struck them.

They always came bearing gifts. Chocolate cake, casseroles to put into the freezer, books and articles about points of interest that might help her with her project or bundles of candles when it looked like a storm might knock out the electricity. She’d spent a third of her life in places where people had barely heard of electricity, but she hadn’t had the heart to tell them that. Not when she’d figured out their motives a long time ago. They were afraid she’d be lonely.

Wanting to be alone—now, that was a concept the Pepperells couldn’t begin to understand. Packed into the lighthouse tight as pickles in a jar, China’s six surviving sons quarreling madly, hosting a constant stream of in-laws and children and friends the family had known for generations, they probably couldn’t fathom the charm in solitude. Couldn’t understand how Jack craved it. But alone was the one place she could let her guard down, allow her restless mind to empty itself of the blur of violence and greed and courage she’d seen. The one place no one could ask anything of her—not a scrap of food, not a forbidden book, not secret, safe passage out of a hellhole somewhere in a country with a name most people couldn’t pronounce.

Or worst of all, her own mother, asking her to come home and pretend that the disaster of her childhood had never happened, that they’d really been that picture-perfect family that had smiled out of the photos in the engraved Christmas cards they’d always sent.

Jack would have loved to lie still on the cold stone floor, ignore the insistent knocking at the door and wait until her visitor went away like any normal person would. Unfortunately, she knew China Pepperell wouldn’t give up that easily. The woman had a key and the irrefutable innkeeper’s excuse that she was bringing fresh towels and sheets and would be checking supplies to see whatever else her guest needed.

No, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Jack would just have to get rid of her as quickly as possible. She managed to shinny out from under the base of the stairs and scramble to her feet. Shoving her hair out of her eyes, she went to open the door.

She should have been irritated, but it was hard to hold on to that emotion when you came face-to-face with China Pepperell. The woman was sixty years old, but it seemed nobody had bothered to tell her. She was twice as spry as any twenty-year-old Jack had ever met. She’d faced the loss of her husband, buried two of her children, and scraped out a hardscrabble life on this weather-beaten stretch of coast. But she bustled around with boundless enthusiasm, mothering anyone who crossed her path, laughing and teasing, enjoying the fun with as much gusto as any of her six remaining sons.

And so, my girl, how are you on this lovely day? she asked, grinning over her stack of thick, fluffy towels.

Fine.

Fine? What kind of a poor excuse for a word is that? It tells me nothing useful, except that you’ve no intention of telling me how you really are.

Jack stifled a sigh. The woman had unerring accuracy in judging other people’s moods, maybe an ability she’d honed in a lifetime of trying to judge the weather. Jack figured her best move would be to change the subject.

I’ve been following your suggestion. Taking pictures inside the house, here.

Most important thing of all, to my way of thinking. Show that this place was someone’s home. A family lived here, laughed here, loved here. And some were buried from here, she added wistfully. People see this place like a picture postcard, frozen, empty. Just a pretty shell. Never forget how alive it was, Jack, when the light still burned and the ships sheared off, afraid of the shoals.

China’s storm-gray eyes grew distant, dreamy, and Jack sensed she was remembering her own boys racketing up and down those iron stairs, or their beds, all six of them crowded into the single room they’d shared. Even Jack could almost hear China’s hotheaded brood of boys squabbling, chasing each other, horsing around until China blew the sea captain’s whistle she still wore around her neck, a gift from her father to keep order among her own mutinous band of little sailors. Jack felt a twinge of guilt that she was only trying to humor China by taking a few shots inside the place and had no intention of using the images in Ziggy’s book.

Can I see what you’ve got so far? China asked. Jack rarely showed people her works in progress—felt almost rabidly protective of the pictures before she felt ready to have them displayed—doubtless a result of years of her father’s constant criticism. Ziggy had done his best to drive back what he’d affectionately dubbed her paranoia. But Jack had never been able to get past the sick sensation she’d felt as a child when Frank Murphy dug through her drawers or her coat pockets, coming up with the little packages of pictures she’d gotten developed at the nearby five-and-dime.

Her stomach still felt hollow at the memory of how his lip would curl in disdain. Play with your Brownie camera all you want, little girl. You might be able to take pictures at your own kids’ birthday parties without cutting off anybody’s heads, but you’ll never be good enough to photograph anything else.

Once she’d gotten old enough, she’d found the perfect place to hide her work—inside the boxes of Kotex pads in the closet of her bathroom. That was one place she was certain the mighty Frank Murphy would never have the guts to look.

She couldn’t help smiling even now at what a resourceful little cuss she’d been.

Jack? China’s voice broke in. I promise, I won’t say a word. I just want to see—

I’m sorry, China. Really, Jack said. But I never show my work until I think it’s ready. Once I do, I promise you’ll be the first to get a glimpse of it.

China didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to be a little patient. I’ve waited out hurricanes, Jack Murphy, she said with a wink. I can sure as hell wait out you.

Jack chuckled.

Thought I’d make up your bed and so forth, China said, trying to look official. It might have worked if it hadn’t been for the twinkle in her eye.

You know as well as I do you’re just making up an excuse, Jack teased. I should make you do up the bed just out of spite, but I’m feeling particularly gracious today, so I’m letting you off the hook. Just leave the stuff on the table. I’m a big girl. I can even make my own bed now.

Maybe you should let someone else do for you once in a while. Maybe it would do you some good to be mothered just a little, even by an old salt like me.

We’ve been over this before, Mrs. P., Jack said, suddenly wanting to get the woman out of the house. China had touched a nerve. But then, the woman knew it. Family was China Pepperell’s life, always had been. She couldn’t conceive of anyone wanting to live alone.

The boys pulled up a fine catch in their nets today, China said, deftly changing the subject. And their babies, well, they dug up a whole mess of clams. Thought we’d have a clambake down on the beach. Will you come?

Jack sighed. You have to be the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.

Besides you, you mean?

China, I don’t want to offend you or hurt your feelings, but I’ve told you as plainly as I can that the whole family outing thing—it’s just not my scene.

It’s not an outing, it’s a clambake. You could come when you want, and leave when you choose. It would do you good to actually talk to a living human being besides me.

And whichever of your boys and their children you send up in an effort to charm me?

China didn’t even have the grace to blush. A handsome lot they are, aren’t they? If only you were a bit younger, Asia isn’t spoken for yet.

Asia is seventeen! Jack exclaimed.

A pity. You’d make fine children, handsome as you both are.

Children—back to that subject again. Another one of China’s favorites—the glory of motherhood. We’ve covered this before, Jack said slowly, deliberately, as if talking to a very slow child. Slow—that was something China Pepperell definitely was not.I don’t want children. I’ve never wanted children.

Except for one brief, sweet space of madness when she’d wondered what it would be like to hold a baby with chocolate-dark eyes and a crooked grin, a voice inside her whispered. But she wasn’t about to let China home in on that old chink in her armor.

I’m no good with children even when I can’t avoid interacting with them, Jack insisted.

Interacting? My lord, what a word! You just play with them. Plunk your behind down on the sand next to ’em and ask what kind of castle they’re building. China must have noticed the tightness around Jack’s mouth. This time it was Mrs. P. who sighed.

My boys, they keep telling me I shouldn’t pry into your private life, darlin’. It’s not usually my way.

Jack almost had to laugh in spite of herself at the sudden, prim light in China’s eyes. Not China’s way to pry into people’s lives? Jack thought wryly. It was practically the woman’s full-time occupation. Not only was China Pepperell sure she knew what was best for herself. She knew what was best for everyone else as well.

It’s just—there’s something about you. China’s voice gentled. You remind me of myself, I guess. Hardheaded. So determined to prove you can stand up to any storm. There’s anger in you. That’s what you’d like everyone to see. You’re as ready to jump into any fight as any one of my boys, God bless ’em. But you use your words instead of your fists.

Actually, I do kickboxing to keep myself in shape. Jack tried to joke. Nothing like whacking a giant punching bag to get your frustrations out.

Strike out all you want, Jack, my girl, but it won’t work. Maybe it gets out anger, but it will never get you free of the hurt. That’s what’s really inside you. Pain. You and I both know it’s true. And Ziggy. He knew it, too.