Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) (11 page)

As she stood there, gazing down the pathway, a stray thought struck her that if she fell, there was no one left with any personal connection to her to suffer. Rather than depress her, the realization filled her with an odd, but surprisingly invigorating sense of . . . well, of freedom.

She understood, intimately, the risks that went with loving someone, of being so tied to a person that you couldn’t imagine your life without them. Her father had been her lifelong hero, her rock-solid support, the person she knew, without doubt, was always in her corner, always had her back. But he’d been her father. He’d had her heart from her first breath. She hadn’t chosen to love him. She simply always had.

Now, however . . . now she had total control over who she gave her heart to. And whose heart she took responsibility for.

As long as the answer to both of those remained no one, then she was as invincible as she could possibly be. If anything happened to her . . . the only one who would truly suffer was her. If she never allowed anyone in, then she couldn’t be touched by anything unthinkable happening to someone she cared for, ever again.

She turned with a very specific destination in mind, cutting across the back of the property behind the house, going toward the cottage, until she could look at the lighthouse directly. From her location on the north side of the point, she could view it in all its glory. She imagined the view from the water was stunning. The lighthouse was both traditional and unique, with its windows and beveled corners, while still being majestic and proud. Now that she was closer, she could also see just how direly it was in need of some tender loving care to restore it to its full former glory.

And finally—
finally
—she felt that familiar tingle in her fingertips. The thump in her chest, the buzz that danced along her spine, and tickled her curiosity. It made her feel almost dizzy. And only partly in relief. She’d be lying if she said all those things weren’t still accompanied by that queasy knot in her gut. But, oh boy, it was a lot easier to take that part in stride when those more familiar feelings were there, too, to help balance it out.

She continued walking until she was well out into the open, away from the trees and the shadow of the cottage and the main house. There, feeling the tower standing guard at the periphery of her vision, she tipped her head back and looked heavenward.
It took me a while to figure it out, Dad. I’m sure it’s been hard for you, watching me flounder. I know that’s not what you’d have wanted, that you expect better from me
. “But I think I understand now,” she said out loud. “I think I know where to begin. And that’s all it takes, right?”

She tucked her chin as the wind picked up and froze the tip of her nose. But while there were tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, there was a smile on her face. And it felt good. So damn good.

She palmed the set of keys she’d stuck in her pocket and set off for the exterior side door that led to the keeper’s cottage before she lost her nerve. The cottage and the main house were done in traditional New England white, although the house had a pitched roof with inset dormers and the cottage had a flat roof top, with pitched sides and dormers. It was a bit of an odd little thing, stuck as it was between sprawling house and majestic tower. As she neared, she saw that it was in far greater disrepair, more weathered than the house, being out in the open as it was, and not entirely even-framed any longer. Clearly, time hadn’t been any kinder than the elements, as the foundation wasn’t level and the roof, at least the part that she could see, had an odd slant to one side.

Her heart sank a little as she acknowledged that it was quite probably not even close to habitable, and possibly only remained upright at all due to a well-built frame. Even that was possibly suspect. “Poor baby,” she murmured, running her hand along one window frame, seeing the rot and disintegration of the exterior casement. Two hundred years was an admirable life span, especially under some of the harshest conditions. With the size and constant input of time and money required by the main house, it was no wonder that the cottage had been left to fend for itself. But it didn’t make it any less sad. “Well, if we can save you, we will.”

She remembered Logan saying the side door was boarded from the inside and went around to the front, then took a second to recall which key he had said went with what door. She slid the largest key into the lock, but it wouldn’t even go in all the way, much less turn the knob. She pulled it out and bent down to peer into the key slot. No obvious blockage. She took out a small wire tool with a pick on one end and a tiny brush on the other and worked first one, then the other into the slot. A little rust and a lot of corrosion. Salt air and steady wind was brutal on pretty much any surface; wood, stone, metal, any alloy.

She tried the key again, and though she was able to get it in all the way, the tumblers weren’t going to budge. She’d have to take off the knob entirely, possibly take the door off the hinges. She sighed, knowing seeing the inside was not a priority at the moment; Logan had made it clear the cottage and the tower were low on his priority list. That only increased her determination to get in there and check the place out. One way or the other, she was going to get inside the cottage.

She turned and looked at the lighthouse again, from the closest to it she’d been. She swallowed, flexed her fingers, heart still thumping.
And I’m going to get inside that tower, too.
She wanted to test herself now, find out what her limitations were going to be, how big the mental obstacles. She had no doubt they’d be many and none of them small, but she was ready to at least find out what it was going to be like, instead of just imagining what kind of demons she was going to face.

She made herself another vow: if there was any way possible to make it happen, to make him see her potential, her value, she was going to be the one to get this job. Not a year from now, or five years from now. “But one week from now.” She swallowed. Hard. It might have been more of a gulp. “Yeah, so we might have to work on that deadline a little.”

Tomorrow, she’d start early. With her camera, ladder, and a handful of other necessary tools, she’d begin the slow process of documenting and running tests, along with all the general poking and prodding.

At the moment, she had a different to-do list. With her clipboard under her arm, she headed back around the house, intent on going straight to her truck and heading into Blueberry Cove to find the county offices so she could look up the various drawings and plans that had to have been made and filed over the years. If she was lucky, they’d have records in some form or other dating back to the initial plans for the lighthouse, cottage, and house. She could probably save herself some time and ask Logan for them, but she preferred to handle it on her own. Then she’d head over to Delia’s for some lunch and free Wi-Fi and start the due diligence on the property she should have done before ever leaving Thunder Bay, as well as her initial reach-out to her contacts.

She knew she should call rather than reestablish contacts via e-mail, but it was an easier start, and for most steps in this project, easier wouldn’t be an option. She wasn’t going to beat herself up too much for taking the easy route first. She’d be making calls and talking to people directly, soon enough. Hell, she’d talked to more people in the twenty-four hours since she’d been in Blueberry Cove than she had since the conclusion of her court case.

She’d also hit the library and see what old publications they had on New England architecture. Sometimes libraries were the best resource around, along with used bookstores. Maybe the Cove had one of those, too. She’d make a stop by Brodie’s boathouse and start the punch-out list, then another stop by the hardware store for the chat with Owen, who probably knew a specific thing or ten about the McCrae property and lighthouse. Then the grocery and back to the Point by dinner. Big day.

Logan had said she was on her own for the evening meal, but she thought maybe she’d get the fixings for her grandfather’s chili and some cornbread. If she was going to try to wrangle a few extra days out of him, she wasn’t above working it so the house smelled delicious and there was a hot meal bubbling on the stove whenever he got in.

Feeling lighter of mood than she had in so very, very long, she changed direction and opted to head inside first for a quick change of clothes. She’d never been one to dress for anything except comfort and practicality, but the Bunyan remark was still floating around the back of her mind, so perhaps something a little less lumberjack might not be a bad thing for her trip to town.

Rather than go all the way around to the mudroom entry, she tried the side door to the north addition and smiled when it opened with little more than a shove. Warped wood was a continual issue on coastal properties, with the constant damp, the salt spray, and the wind. There were short-term fixes, but over the long haul, wooden things like doors and window frames needed regular replacement. Most folks had long since shifted to synthetic products to avoid such costly repairs, but despite Pelican Point being privately owned and therefore not restricted by any National Historic Registry limitations, the McCrae family had clearly wanted to preserve it as close to its original state as possible.

She had other ideas on some cost-saving compromises Logan might be willing to make as she tugged the door closed behind her. Then she turned toward the wall of windows that lined the exterior wall of the addition. “Oh . . . wow.”

She’d been so very right. The view of the lighthouse, the expanse of bay that spread out beyond it, and the curve of the little harbor town of Blueberry Cove nestled in and around Half Moon Harbor was breathtaking. So much so, she hardly paid any attention to the drooping ceiling, the watermarks below every window, the rotting frames, and the cracked and loose panes of glass that were rattling constantly with the wind. All of that was fixable. And all worth any price for the sheltered viewpoint this room provided.

Though she’d only lived there for short periods of time between jobs, the MacFarland home base had always been on the shores of magnificent Lake Huron, specifically in Thunder Bay. In addition, she’d spent most of her adolescent years and all of her adult ones working on lighthouse sites all over the United States and Canada, and even a few in the islands and in Europe. By their very nature, all the sites were coastal, and had afforded her a lifetime of some of the most beautiful views ever to be seen. “And this one is right up there,” she murmured, already imagining how much more impressive it would be from the top of the tower. The shudder of unease that accompanied that thought wasn’t unexpected, but it also wasn’t as crippling as it had been before.

Before she’d felt the familiar tingle again. Before she’d wanted it again.

So what if her fingers were trembling as they gripped the clipboard, and sure, her knees might even be a bit shaky . . . okay, more than a bit. But she was smiling as she made her way through the long windowed room, then worked her way through a rabbit warren of smaller rooms toward the main section of the house.
I
can
do this,
she thought.
More important, I want to do this.

She opened another door and found herself at the landing leading up to the second story in the main part of the house where Logan’s bedroom was, and where she’d showered what now felt like a lifetime ago. She opened her clipboard and quickly sketched out the overall shape of the house perimeter, then blocked off rooms as she saw them in her mind’s eye. It would be good to have the record of how it was now, to match up to whatever plans were on file with the county. She thought about grabbing her camera, but her sketch was detailed enough for the time being.

She glanced up the stairs. She knew Logan’s bedroom was up on the right, with one of the three full baths as the master, but she had no idea what the rest of the layout was.

What the hell, why not?
It would only take a quick walk-through to get the basic lay of the land. She put her clipboard down long enough to take off coat, hat, and gloves. She checked her boots. No mud or dirt clumps.
Okay, then
. Clipboard open and at the ready once again, pencil poised, she headed upstairs, intent only on doing a rough sketch of the second floor. The real examination would start the next day.

The previous time she’d come through here, she’d just wanted to grab her stuff and get the hell out, but even then, she’d noticed his bedroom.

The door was open, so she stepped in, made a quick sketch of the layout, the two recessed dormer windows that faced the front of the house, thinking she’d have done something with them, utilized them better. Logan’s height and the slant of the roof angling toward the dormers was probably why he’d left them empty of any furnishings. He’d have to all but fold himself in half to tuck in there. Even custom shelving wouldn’t have been all that practical for someone so tall.

He might have put a small desk on the short wall between the dormers—though, privately, for herself, she’d have put an antique dressing table there. Then, in the alcoves themselves, there could be custom-built shelves for books or knickknacks. “Or both,” she mused. A bench seat built in under the windows, storage underneath for quilts and throws, topped with a thick, cushy pad and a few comfy throw pillows.

Smiling at that visual, she took a quick look around the rest of the room. He was a big man, long-legged, broad-shouldered, and his bed reflected that. King size with a whole-log frame, it was clearly a custom piece, and worth every penny. “Now who’s Paul Bunyan?” she murmured dryly, but sighed as she ran her hand along the heavy beam footboard and stared at the virtual sea of thick mattress, the tangle of white linens with a heavy, marine blue down comforter piled on top, as if he’d spent a restless night. Her mind went to other, far more pleasurable ways the bed linens could end up in that kind of tangled heap and she found herself pressing her thighs together against the rather insistent ache that started between them.