Swept Away (23 page)

“I like it.”

“Next?” This is fun. Today his idea of fun and mine are completely in synch.

There are a number of small items in the display case, but Oliver brings me over to a woman's battered shoe. It's obviously from the 1800s from the style, and judging from the large hole in the toe, the dirt, and the fraying fabric, had seen some tough times. “Don't read the label,” Oliver says, suddenly clamping his hands over my eyes.

“I wasn't!” I protest, laughing.

“Well . . . ?”

I pull his hands off my eyes. “Got one,” I say. “But I think it's going to have a tragic ending.”

Oliver holds up his hands in surrender. “So be it. Gotta go where the muse takes you.”

I'm tickled by the idea that he thinks I have a muse. “There was a young lighthouse keeper who saved a boatload of passengers after a wreck in a storm. Unfortunately, he lost his glasses during the rescue, but there was a girl he just knew was beautiful no matter how blurry her face. Her graciousness, her charm, her humor, her halo of hair, it all added up to perfection to him. All too soon, a party arrived on land to bring them the rest of the way to their destination.

“Only as they were leaving did he finally muster up the courage to try to speak to her. He ran after the group, realizing he couldn't call out her name because he didn't know it.

“But he was too late. As the driver of the carriage helped her up into her seat, her shoe fell off. Before she could try to retrieve it, the horses took off. He was left holding her shoe. After that, he
made inquiries and carried the shoe around, hoping to find the lovely young lady who fit into it.”

“Did he ever find her?”

I shake my head. “If he had, there'd be a pair here.”

Oliver nods approvingly. “Nice twist on Cinderella. Though a lot sadder . . .”

“So what's the real story?” I ask. “Some lighthouse keeper's wife had it in her sewing basket?”

“Nope. According to the label, it was found in the wall of the keeper's house.”

“Wow. If I had known that I would have come up with a murder mystery! That's so creepy!” I edge him out of the way to read the label.

My eyes widen as I read. I had no idea that there was a custom in the 1800s to place an old shoe worn by a loved one who had died into the walls of a house to protect the family from evil spirits. This shoe had been found during the renovations of the keeper's house. The hole in the toe was put there on purpose—it's supposed to allow the spirit of the original owner to flow out and keep the house and family safe.

I turn to smile at Oliver. “That's so cool. I didn't know that there were superstitions on display.”

“All part of history,” Oliver says. “So the point for this story goes to . . . ?”

“I think this point may go to you.”

“Then we need a tiebreaker.” Oliver's eyes narrow while he thinks. He snaps his fingers. “Got it!” He takes my hand and leads me to the next room.

I stand in the center, hands on hips. “Well?”

His palms are together in front of his face, the tips of his index fingers tapping his smiling lips. “Right behind you,” he says.

I turn, and I know exactly which display he wants me to make up a story about. “The dog collar.”

“Yup.”

This is a true story that I know, because the dog collar is one of the favorite displays among the kiddies. I try to empty my mind of the facts and focus on the collar, trying to let it tell me a story. “Fog,” I say, as images begin to come.

“Fog?” Oliver repeats.

I wave my hand at him to get him to be quiet so I can formulate the story. “This once belonged to the dreaded ghost dog of Rocky Point.”

“Good start,” Oliver says. He leans on the display case in that way he does, weight on an elbow, ankles crossed.

My voice goes low and creaky, my scary-story voice. “They say in these parts that fog can be a living thing. Ask any sailor and lobsterman and they'll agree—it can be a malevolent force with a mind of its own.”

“Spooky.” Oliver shudders appreciatively.

“When the moon and tides are right, a howling goes up. All then know the cursed fog is forming into the giant hound, a creature fearsome to behold!”

I let out a howl. Oliver covers his mouth trying not to laugh.

“The creature is impossible to fight, since it's made entirely of fog, yet it can devour men and ships whole.” I point at the dog collar. “This is the only hope for mankind. As long as the dog
collar is in the hands of good and not evil, the fog dog can be contained. The collar owner says the magic words . . .” I pause, trying to think of where to take this.

“Woof,” Oliver moans. “Wooooooo-oooof!”

“Exactly. Those magic words! Then the fog shrinks down to fit into the collar, and then vanishes.”

“Excellent story!” Oliver holds his bare arms up for me to see. “Look. Goose bumps.”

“Yeah, it was pretty good.”

“Archive worthy, I'd say.”

I turn and look at the dog collar. “The real story is good too,” I say. “That brave dog, ringing the fog bell when his master had slipped and broken his ankle trying to get to it.” I shake my head in amazement. “That dog even got the right ring pattern.”

“See?” Oliver says. “There are good stories all around you.”

I look around the lobby at all the carefully preserved objects, the photos that capture a specific time, place, and face. “Okay, you convinced me,” I tell him. “History isn't just the boring dates and wars that we learn about in school.”

Oliver's face lights up. “In that case, how about we poke around the historical society?”

I laugh. “You really know how to get on my mom's good side.”

“I'd rather be on
your
good side.”

“Would that be this side?” I turn one way. “Or this side?” I turn the other way.

He laughs and gives me a kiss first on one cheek and then the other. “Both.”

We head out of the lighthouse and bike to the Square. We
lock the bikes in the rack, then enter the hushed library. Mom is at the check-out desk, talking to a family with several kids and a large stack of books. She smiles when she notices Oliver and me, but she looks tired. Once the group moves away, Oliver and I step up to the desk.

“Hi, Mom,” I say. “Can Oliver and I check out the files up in the society office?”

Mom tries to hide her surprise but isn't very successful. “This must be your influence,” she tells Oliver. “Because she's never wanted to go up there before.”

“It didn't take too much convincing,” Oliver says.

I squirm a little. It's a little weird to realize my mom may have more in common with my boyfriend than I do.

“This way,” I say to Oliver. We tromp up the stairs to the office in the attic. It reminds me of Freaky's, minus the paintings, though there are framed documents and photos leaning against the walls in similar stacks. There's an old card table with some boxes and a phone on it and the cluttered desk that Mom and Mr. Garrity share, and that's about it.

“What do you want to look at?” I ask him.

He shrugs with a grin. “I'm a completist, remember? I want to look at
everything
.”

“Oh, right!” I gaze around the room. “Well, there's probably something you'll like in every nook and cranny. Just start somewhere.”

“Do you know where they keep the info about the keeper's house? I'd love to see the changes over the years.”

“Not a clue,” I admit. “Why don't you try over there.” I point
at the filing cabinets along one wall. “I'll start with Mom's desk.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Oliver studies the file-drawer labels as I pull open a bottom desk drawer and find a thick folder labeled
KEEPER'S HOUSE
.

I pull it out. “Found something.”

Oliver joins me at the desk and flips open the folder. “This is all about the renovations when they turned it into the café.” He carries it over to the table so he can lay it flat.

While he looks through the folder, I riffle through the papers on top of the desk. “These are all current bills for the lighthouse. Insurance. Estimates for repairs. An electric bill.” I look up at him. “Some are marked past due. That's bad, right?”

He pulls a paper out of his file. “This explains why the second floor of the Keeper's Café is closed. They couldn't afford to make the repairs to make it safe for the public. Floorboards and staircase problems.”

“They're probably waiting for more of the summer visitors and their cash to kick in so they can reopen it,” I say, realization dawning. “No wonder Mom seems stressed.”

“I guess this is why she's having you volunteer.” He holds up another piece of paper. “Last year they paid someone to be the greeter. They save money this way.”

“And why Mrs. Gallagher volunteers in the café on Celeste's days off.”

I pile the papers back into what I hope had been their original order. In my usual clumsy way, I manage to knock a standing file off the desk. I slide onto the floor to put it back together. It seems to all be memos between the historical society board and
various committee members. My eyes widen when I get to the most recent one. My head snaps up. “This says they're closing Candy Cane!”

“What?” Oliver puts down the folder and rushes over. He drops beside me and scans the memo. He turns to look at me, his forehead scrunched with concern. “They can't afford to keep it open anymore.”

The disappointment that rushes through me is as surprising as it is overwhelming. Tears spring into my eyes. “But—but they can't!” I grab the paper back from Oliver, and he starts looking through the other memos.

“They are really behind with some pretty big bills,” he says. “And there are all kinds of regulations they won't be able to meet if they can't make certain repairs and get additional insurance.”

I keep shaking my head. “This can't be happening.”

“It looks pretty definite,” Oliver says. “Only a major influx of cash—and I mean
major
—will make a difference.”

Oliver and I sit on the floor in silence. His hand snakes over to mine and he squeezes it. I'm just dumbfounded. I haven't always loved Candy Cane, but she's been part of my life forever. Literally. I may not have gone to the Candy Cane celebrations very much over the last few years, but it makes me so sad to think no little kids will be going for their first school visit, or that Mom won't be putting on Mrs. Gilhooley's dress for the Lupine Festival and the Fourth of July.

I lean against Oliver. Candy Cane brought us together. Just like Martha Kingston and Abner Rose. When she saved the sailor from drowning and he recuperated in the upstairs room at the
keeper's house, they fell in love there. Like my parents. There's just something about the sweet little lighthouse that seems to shine a light on romance.

“She never said a word,” I say. I turn to face him. “Why wouldn't she tell me?”

Oliver shrugs. “Doesn't want to worry you? Hoping for a last-minute save?”

“I guess. . . .” It does explain why she looks so worried all the time.

We gather together the last of the papers and return them to the desk. Just as we're shutting the drawer, I hear footsteps.

Mom pokes her head over the top of the stairs. “Closing time,” she announces. “Find anything?”

Oliver looks at me, and I give my head a tiny little shake. This isn't the time to ask her about the closing. She might not like that we snooped.

Oliver grabs a book about lighthouses from one of the bookshelves. “Is it okay if I borrow this?” he asks Mom.

“Of course,” she says. “Would you like to join us for dinner? You can let me know your secret for getting Mandy interested in our history here.”

I roll my eyes.

“And maybe help me figure out how to get her to stop doing that,” she adds with a laugh, lifting her chin toward me.

“Whatever,” I grumble, and push past them to clomp down the stairs. Behind me I hear them laughing. How can she make jokes with all that's going on? The more I find out about her, the less I feel like I know her!

M
om shakes her head with a smile. “That imagination of yours, Mandy.” Over dinner Oliver told her about the game we played at the lighthouse.

I always thought she said this in disapproval. Now I recognize she's saying it with some parent combo of admiration and amusement. This is another gift Oliver gave me.

“I've always loved that elf story,” Mom says as she scoops ice cream. “And that's why you came into the library? To get more material?”

“Kind of,” I say.

Mom returns the ice cream container to the freezer. “To me history
is
a collection of stories. It's not always taught that way, I know,” she says in my direction, “but once you scratch the surface, it all becomes alive, and rich, and fascinating.” She sits back down and dips her spoon into her bowl.

“I was wondering, Mrs. Sullivan,” Oliver says, “would you like to keep Candy Cane Jr.? I mean, that is . . .” He flushes a little as his voice trails off.

I squeeze his knee under the table. I know this is his way to try to make up for the fact that it looks like she may be losing the real Candy Cane.

All through dinner I tried to figure out a way to bring up the awful subject. But it never seemed quite right to bring up something so upsetting. Maybe she didn't tell me because she's too devastated to even talk about it.

“That's so sweet of you, Oliver,” Mom says. “But don't you want it?”

“Well, it's not like I can take it home with me on the plane,” Oliver says.

“That'd be quite a sight,” I say with a laugh, focusing back in on the conversation. “You could wear her, like you did in the boat.”