Torchlight (2 page)

When no one emerged after several minutes, Julia called out, “Hello?”

The chopping and humming stopped. An attractive young woman peeked out the window through which food was passed from the kitchen to the dining area. “My goodness,” she said with a slight New England accent. “How long have you been sittin’ there?”

“Not long. Sorry if I interrupted. Are you open now?”

“Always open when I’m here at work. What’s the sense of havin’ a restaurant if you close it?” The woman grinned and walked into the main restaurant area, wiping her hands on a bleached white dishtowel that was thrown over her shoulder.

“The name’s Tara. Welcome to Oak Harbor.”

“Thanks. It’s wonderful to be here,” Julia said with feeling.

Tara raised her eyebrows. “You sound like you really mean that.”

“Oh, I do. I’ve been driving for days, and it’s good to be home. I’ve come to renovate my family’s estate—make it into an inn. I’m Julia Rierdon.”

“Rierdon? Not a familiar name ’round these parts. Which estate might you be speaking of?”

“My great-great-grandfather was a shipbuilder named Shane Donnovan. He built the mansion beside the lighthouse on the point. The Torchlight estate.”

Tara’s eyes grew wide. “That’s wonderful news! It’s high time someone came and looked after the ol’ girl. I love that mansion. I even climb the lighthouse steps from time to time to look out from up top.” She blushed. “I guess I just confessed to breaking and entering
 … or at least entering. The lock was picked long before my time. Probably by some bored high-school kids. Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I guess I won’t be trespassing anymore now that the owner’s home.”

Julia immediately felt a bond with the woman who loved the estate she had dreamed about for years. “You won’t be trespassing anymore. You’ll be my guest.”

“Well, that’s kind of you. Say, since you’re new in town, why don’t you come over to my house Saturday night for dinner? I’ll invite some townsfolk over and introduce you around … make you feel right at home. But listen to me go on! You came here to eat. What can I get you?”

“What do you have?”

“I can fix up almost anything you please. Right now, I have a pot of clam chowder on the stove and sourdough bread in the oven. If you care to wait five more minutes and pass the time of day with me, you can have some fresh.”

“Fabulous. Oh, and a cup of coffee would be great too.” The woman smiled warmly and moved down the counter to get Julia the coffee. Julia watched her as she poured the steaming liquid into a cup. Tara was shorter than Julia, with a more curvaceous figure, and she had rosy apple cheeks. Her short brown hair swung as she walked, and her eyes danced when she spoke. Julia looked forward to getting to know her better.
No wedding ring
, she thought.
Maybe we single gals can hang out together.

“Here you be,” Tara said as she served Julia minutes later. She poured herself some coffee and scooted up to sit on the counter behind her, to sit and face her guest. She watched her eat and looked amazed when Julia accepted a second bowl of chowder and blueberry pie afterward. “How do you keep that figure?” she asked pointedly.

Julia blushed. “Obviously, I eat like a pig. Lucky genes.”

“I guess so,” Tara said.

Julia smiled along with her. “Did you decorate this place? I love it.”

“My great-great-grandparents were Shaker farmers. I think they’d be proud to see I turned the town pub into a sober café.”

“Are there any Shaker colonies still around?”

“Very few. One up at Sabbathday Lake. Nothing like a penchant for celibate marriages to kill off a tradition.” Tara smiled mischievously. “What about you? What made you decide to fix up Torchlight?”

“I’ve been on the fast track for a while—San Francisco CPA. I had a great office, top salary—but I was miserable. I’d always dreamed of coming here to restore Torchlight and opening an inn. When I hit thirty, I decided it was time. I came into some Donnovan family money on my birthday and thought the best place to spend it would be on the old estate.”

“No one else wanted the estate?” Tara asked incredulously.

“My brother’s pretty entrenched on a ranch in Montana—he loves it there—and my parents are wrapped up in their lives in San Francisco. I’ve always been the one who was interested in the old place, in Oak Harbor. We used to come up summers when I was a kid. When my grandparents died, we stopped visiting, and the place was closed up.” She looked from the window to her hostess. “How about you? How long have you been a restaurateur?”

Tara scoffed at the lofty title. “I’ve spent my whole life here. A lot of my friends have left, looking for something bigger and better. But I can’t imagine leaving. It’ll be an adjustment for you, but I think you’ll like it. The restaurant has been mine for, let’s see, two, almost three years now.”

Julia glanced outside then down at her watch, looking worried. “I’ve enjoyed my first meal in Oak Harbor, Tara. Thanks for your hospitality, but I’d better get going if I want to make it to the estate and get settled before dark.”

“You can’t sleep in there tonight! You’ll freeze to death. Look, why don’t you stay with me? We’re practically neighbors, and you can head over to explore at first light tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Tara, but nothing’s going to stop me from getting home tonight. I’m so excited, I can hardly stand it.”

Tara looked at her resignedly. “Well, if you can’t get a fire goin’, you just head on over to my house. I’m a mile south of you on the left side of the main road. I get home ’round ten, and the guest bed is always made up. Good luck. You have your work cut out for you.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Julia smiled and walked toward the door.

Tara liked her new neighbor and hated to see her go. But the entrance of Benjamin DeBois and his son, Mike, quickly distracted Tara just as Julia was leaving. Ben met Tara’s eyes, looking curious.

Mike beat him to the question. “Who’s the babe?”

“The babe, as you so rudely put it”—Tara swatted him across the shoulder with her damp dishtowel—“is my new neighbor, Julia Rierdon.”

“Julia who?”

“Rierdon. The heiress to Torchlight. She’s come to rebuild the old lady and make her into an inn.”

“Wow. A gorgeous babe and rich.” The boy was the spitting image of his father—sun-burnished brown hair, wide, soulful blue
eyes, and ruddy cheeks. They settled in at the counter, side by side, to chat with Tara, as was their habit three afternoons a week.

“Humph,” Ben grumbled. “Just what we need. More rich folks coming in here and driving our property taxes up.”

“Bad day, pumpkin?” Tara teased.

He allowed a smile. Tara believed she could kick his bad moods faster than any other person in the county could. “Sorry. Even with spring coming, the fishin’s been lousy. If this keeps up, I’ll never get Mike to college.”

“Aw, who needs college?” the fifteen-year-old interjected.

“You do.”

“You didn’t need a college degree to fish,” Mike argued.

“Son, we’ve been through this. The lobsters aren’t gonna be around long enough for you to make a livin’ off ’em. It’s time you start facing reality.” Ben’s voice was low and firm.

“I don’t care. I wanna be out there. If it’s not fishin’, I’ll find some other way to be on the water.”

Tara broke into the familiar conversation. “How ’bout some chowder?”

Both sun-bleached heads turned toward her.

“Sounds great, Tara,” Ben said, smiling at her shyly.

J
ulia followed Tara’s directions but could have found the old place without them. The Donnovan estate, dubbed “Torchlight” by Julia’s great-great-grandfather, was the largest structure in Oak Harbor. As the sun set in the west, the water to the east of the old house became a deep blue-gray. Waves crashed against the rocky ledges that protected the old lighthouse, which George Washington had commissioned in 1791. In the early days the beacons had been critical in guiding the numerous seafarers who navigated the dangerous reefs and shoals of Maine.

Beside the lighthouse was a small structure that had served as a home for those who manned the post. When Shane Donnovan had bought the property, he had allowed the lighthouse keeper to live on his land. According to the family’s oral history, Shane had a deep love for lighthouses, no doubt because they routinely saved many of his vessels, while his wife, Anna, simply considered the entire pointed headland a romantic and wonderful place for a home.

Home.
As Julia stood before the iron gates that guarded the entrance, she agreed with Anna. Torchlight was as wild and wonderful as she remembered. From the looks of the rambling mansion that had fallen into disrepair, it would take a lot of elbow grease to tame it. She paused to roll up her sleeves; she was bound and determined that Torchlight be restored to its original grandeur.

Giving up on the rusted-shut wrought-iron gates, Julia threw a
duffel bag over the old stone wall and carefully climbed up and over, the way she had as a child. She landed hard.
I’m not as limber as I used to be.

She pushed aside overgrown branches that blocked the front walk and moved toward the old house’s steps. Along the way she paused to take in peeling white paint, shutters hanging from loosened hardware, and easily visible holes in the roof above the porch.
I’ve got my work cut out for me, all right.
Rotting boards and rusted nails, long unaccustomed to human company, groaned their disapproval at the visitor’s approach.

The screen door came off its hinges as Julia pulled. Laughing, she set it to one side, then turned the oversize key in the lock. The huge oak door opened inward, surprisingly without a squeak. She resisted the urge to call out, “Hello? Anybody in there?” and shook off the chill that ran down her spine. Spooky.
Maybe I should’ve taken Tara up on her offer.

Smells of dust and mold invaded her nostrils, and she unzipped her bag to search for a flashlight. The shadows were deep, and in the fading daylight the covered furniture made her think of oddly shaped ghosts. Julia was relieved when her fingers closed around the flashlight and the bulb illuminated her way. She stood in the grand entry and gazed up at a dramatic staircase that rose straight up and then divided at the landing into a Y, each arm leading to a separate wing of the house. The rust-colored carpets were dingy and faded, and the solid oak banisters needed refinishing. But it was clear that, with a little repair, the entry would be grand indeed.

Julia moved to her left, stepping into the kitchen and a puddle of water. She moaned at the damage that had been done to the wood floors and shuddered at the thought of what she might find upstairs.
Her flashlight’s beam reflected off blue-and-white tiles that decorated the large old kitchen’s counters and backsplashes. Copper kettles still hung from their rack, as if someone had left the house just the day before.

Most of the mansion’s contents had been abandoned, unwanted, when Julia’s grandfather, James, died at the age of ninety-eight. His descendants were making their own way in the world—mostly on the West Coast—and doing well at it. They had their own kettles. The family had maintained the house for ten years after his death, thinking they’d get a chance to visit it more often, but eventually closed it up for good.

Julia was delighted with all that remained. She idly opened a cupboard drawer, marveling at the craftsmanship that allowed it to roll so easily, even after so many years. The drawer lay empty.
But
, thought Julia,
so many drawers to explore!
She moved on, entering the dining room through the swinging wooden door. The dining table was huge, built to seat as many as eighteen. Julia pulled off the dusty sheets that covered the ancient cherry masterpiece and moved to expose each of the chairs that surrounded it.
Unbelievable. How could the old place have escaped burglary through all these years?

The china cabinet was a spectacular matching cherry piece, with a large center door of convex glass and oval glass shelves where heirloom china and crystal had once been displayed and would soon be again. Julia’s aunt, Linda, had promised to send down to her at once the pieces that remained. “They belong in the old house,” she had said, accepting no argument from her niece.

“Well, I have no one to invite for dinner, but I sure could put on a show.” Julia moved into the hall as the house grew darker. The next door led into the room that had been her favorite as a child: the
library. The odors of mold and dust and leather permeated the air. Huge, leather wing chairs sat in idle pairs here and there in the giant room; wooden tables of various sizes stood beside them. But it was the books, the hundreds upon hundreds of leather-bound volumes, that intrigued Julia.

She flashed her beam left and right, hoping that the books, which she considered to be the real treasures of the house, still remained. The library was vast, as Anna had been a devoted reader and self-taught scholar. Julia looked forward to spending countless hours in the room. She walked to the window and peered through leaded-glass windows to the dim form of the lighthouse against the dark sea. The shadows were deepening further, and Julia wanted to see the upstairs before night completely descended. She headed through a unique arched doorway that led back into the living room, then walked upstairs and turned left where the stairs divided.

As she reached the top stair, the house groaned, sending another shiver down her neck.
Come on, Julia, be brave.
She quickly circled the hallway that bordered the staircase, taking stock of the rooms as they lay: the tiny room her great-grandmother had called a water closet, several guest bedrooms, a master bedroom with its own water closet, three more bedrooms.

Two bathrooms for all these people. It’s grounds for murder.
Julia returned to the master bedroom. Spying the wood stove, she thought about lighting a fire but decided instead that climbing into bed early would be easier. She rubbed her arms, chilled even under the wool sweater and duffel coat she wore.