Torchlight (4 page)

“Just Kenbridge. Seems like just the man. Has he been out to see you?”

“Yes. But I think I’m looking for someone … different.”

He nodded, but his face belied his confusion. Again, Julia wondered why she was so cowed by the tall stranger in the corner. Tara and Ben had thought he would be perfect for the job. What was it about him that made her uneasy, wary?

Julia changed the subject. “So, how do you know Tara?”

“Been friends since we were little. She was my wife’s best friend.”

“And yours now,” Mike piped in.

“Nah. You’re my best,” Ben said, nudging him on the shoulder.

“Dad,”
Mike squirmed under his father’s arm. “I think I’ll go talk to Jessica.” He left without waiting for permission.

“Adolescence,” Ben said with another easy smile, shrugging off Mike’s action. “He still misses his mom.”

“Oh. Are you divorced?” she asked carefully.

“No. Sharon died in a boating accident ten years ago. I sure could use her help in dealing with a teenager.”

“I bet. They can be a handful.”

“Here. Let me introduce you to some of your new neighbors.”

Across the room, Trevor’s eyes never left Julia. She held herself in an elegant manner and moved easily through the crowd of strangers, introducing herself and talking intermittently with Ben. Trevor fought off a feeling of competition. Ben was just being kind. Trevor had already picked up that the man had a thing for Tara.

The distance allowed him to watch Julia without interruption until an old man next to him broke into his concentration.

“A beauty, eh?”

Trevor followed his cataract-glazed eyes. “Yes. She is.”

“Still. Not from these parts, so she can’t be much. Her people built Torchlight, but they haven’t been ’round in years. We can’t have people just up and comin’ to the Harbor and making their way in.”

“Why not?”

“Well, son, I like it just the way it is. Someone should blow up the bridge down there in Kitteredge to keep the tourists from poisoning these parts—present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” Trevor said with a smile.

Another elderly man nearby roused at the idea of blowing the bridge at Kitteredge. “Keep out the summer complaints, I say.” Then he settled back into the couch, having spoken his mind.

Trevor enjoyed the way New Englanders didn’t pull any punches. He liked their droll manner of speaking and their one-liners. When conversation turned to themselves, they became more withdrawn.

“You retired?” he tried, hoping to draw out his companion.

“Yep.”

“How do you spend your days?”

“Work some on my son’s boat.”

“How big is she?”

“Forty-footer.”

“Where is she moored?”

“The bottom. Winter storm.”

Trevor laughed under his breath. “Are you gonna get her running again?”

“Not where she is.”

“Are you going to raise her?”

“Yep.”

Tired of the game, Trevor turned his eyes once more to Julia. “Spittin’ image of Anna,” the old man said.

“Anna?”

“Anna Donnovan, her great-great-grandma. There’s a portrait of her up in the library.”

“Oh? I’ll have to see that.”

“She is much more interestin’ in real life.”

“That she is.”

A week later the only people who had shown up looking for work were the town drunk and a swarthy man Julia instantly distrusted. As she scrubbed the wooden floors to see what kind of shape they were in, her thoughts turned once again to Trevor Kenbridge.

As much as he aggravated her, she had to admit that he might be the best man—perhaps the
only
man suitable—for the job. She had thought of him often in the last week. Julia sat back on her heels and wiped her brow. She needed Trevor, and he might be leaving soon. What was to keep him here? He needed work, and as it stood, there weren’t enough fish to go around. Even with the inheritance, she had to get the inn up and running soon, to start bringing in some income. There would be a ton of money going out in the next nine months.

Coming to a decision, she bathed quickly in the ancient, deep, freestanding tub, grimacing as the faucet spewed half-dirty water from the rusted old pipes, and dressed in jeans and a purple turtleneck, before heading into town. She spotted Trevor’s motorcycle in front of Tara’s restaurant and pulled in beside it.

Trevor allowed his eyes to rest upon her for a moment, then deliberately turned back to his late-morning breakfast. She sat a ways down the counter from him and greeted Tara enthusiastically.

“Hi there, Julia,” Tara said, pouring her a cup of coffee. Then, louder, she asked, “Have you found that handyman yet?”

Julia pointedly stared at Tara.

“Uh, I think I better get workin’ on dinner. Expectin’ quite a crowd tonight.” Tara bustled out of the front room and back into the kitchen, humming loudly.

“I think you get more gorgeous every time I see you,” Trevor said, looking calmly down the counter over his mug of coffee.

“I think you speak out of turn. I think you should remember I have a boyfriend. And I think you know I still need some help at Torchlight, thanks to Tara.” Julia spoke loudly so Tara could hear her in the kitchen. The humming stopped. “Mr. Kenbridge, I’m in a bind. My better judgment tells me not to hire you, but I need help and I need it right away. The whole house will need to be rewired and new plumbing put in. I plan on basically gutting her and starting over. I want to make Torchlight into The Torchlight Inn. And I want her up and running in less than a year, this fall, if possible. Overwhelmed yet?”

“No.”

“Do you do electrical work?”

“Yes.”

“You said you’re an adept plumber.”

“Yes.”

“Carpentry?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind some grunt work as well as the big jobs?”

“No.”

“References?”

“Uh, yes. Most are out of the country.”

She paused. “Out of the country?”

“Yes. My last three jobs were in Afghanistan, Greenland, and Zaire.”

Julia frowned. Just as she had thought. A vagabond. “How long in each place?”

“Three, sometimes four, months.”

“And is that how long you plan to stay here?”

“Want me to stay longer?”

“Mr. Kenbridge, I need someone trustworthy. No more games. No more flirting. I need to be able to count on the man I hire. To know he’ll be here until at least the major jobs on Torchlight are complete. I don’t want to start with you and have to hire another to take your place. If we work together, find some good people for each project, we could be done in four or five months, and you’d be free to go.”

He stared into her eyes for an inordinate amount of time. She refused to look away.

“You can count on me, Julia. No games. We’ll get the old mansion into tiptop shape.”

She sighed, still studying him. Why did this feel like a mistake?
Stop me, Lord, if this is wrong
, she prayed silently. Hearing no response from her Maker, she said grudgingly, “You can bring your stuff and stay in the lighthouse cottage.”

The next Saturday night, Tara again invited Julia over for dinner.

The two ate at her kitchen table and gabbed about Trevor and Ben and life in Oak Harbor. Julia gushed over the food.

“I’m serious, Tara. You should write a cookbook. You could even call it
Tara’s Good Food.
It’s quaint! And the recipes … people all across America would kill for your baked beans.”

Tara waved her off. “Please. I can’t write an entire cookbook.”

“You run a restaurant! Of course you can. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough recipes.”

“Oh, I have enough.” She paused and fiddled with her napkin. “I have thought of it once or twice—”

“Then it’s settled! My dad has some friends in publishing in New York. A few phone calls, and I can get you a chance to pitch your
ideas. Send ’em a vat of beans, and you’d win ’em over in seconds flat.”

“Seconds flat, eh?”

“Seconds flat.”

“Well, maybe,” Tara said shyly, still toying with the idea. Apparently, for a woman born and raised in tiny Oak Harbor, the idea of reaching out to the world seemed daunting.

“Do this for me: Pull together your top hundred recipes.” Julia looked around Tara’s kitchen, which was artfully painted and stenciled, and remembered the restaurant’s exquisite decor. “Did you do all this?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a great idea! You obviously have an artistic bent. Along with the recipes, include some sketches and homey notes. Publishers love a gimmick.”

“That might be fun. I’ll think about it.”

“Just remember who to dedicate it to when it’s published and you’re rich and famous.”

Tara paused a moment and then shook her head. “Imagine that! Beans making me rich and famous!”

The two laughed together like old friends.

Trevor and Julia’s first days together at the mansion seemed to revolve around one trial after another, but it felt good to Julia to have someone else in on the planning. Alone it was overwhelming. But Trevor’s take-charge attitude, while vaguely disturbing and stimulating to Julia, also relieved her burden. He was careful and polite from the start, arrived on time, and often worked late. And it had been Trevor who decided they needed an architect to help them plan the
additional bathrooms, as well as to confirm their plans to take out a couple of walls and move another to expand the kitchen.

“I found the guy,” he announced on the third morning as she sat sipping some coffee.

“What guy?”

“The architect. I called my cousin Bryn in Boston, and she knew just the right one. Just out of school, hungry, but smart, and he has a penchant for old houses. Shouldn’t cost you much, but he’ll know what we need to know.”

“Wonderful!” She rose. She could at least be polite. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

“Please. Black.”

She walked to the coffee maker and poured him a cup. As she handed it to him, she asked casually, “Do you have much family here?”

“Bryn is my cousin, doing her medical residency in Boston. She’s one of the few left. But she’s part of why I wanted to come to the coast. Went for a visit, then started searching the tiny towns along the Eastern seaboard, looking for the next right place for me. And work,” he added with a smile.

“What about your parents?”

“Died. When I was little. Bryn’s parents, who separated when I was in high school, raised me. I took off after graduation to travel a bit. Returned for college.”

“You have a degree?”

“Five credits short of the degree. Got most of my knowledge on the job.”

“In Afghanistan, Zaire?”

“Yes. And elsewhere.” He looked at her curiously. “You don’t think much of my traveling, do you?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s just … interesting. I’ve done a little traveling but have spent most of my time making a life, friends. Hasn’t your … 
moving about
kept you from some of the good things in life?”

He took a long sip. “Like what? I have friends in virtually every country of the world. I’ve experienced more than most will ever think of doing.” Trevor set down his cup to gesticulate left and right. “This is a huge, wonderful world, Julia. God has done amazing things, everywhere I go. Isn’t that why you are here? To explore what he has for you to see next?”

“Maybe.” What was it about his explanation that left her disgruntled, confused? “But mostly, I’m thinking I need a sense of place, a sense of me.” She clammed up, well aware that she was sharing too much, letting things get too personal.

But he didn’t let her off the hook. “Let me guess. Society girl, right? Debutante? The right schools, the right clothes, the right car. College in four years, maybe grad school. Right job, right condo, right church. Even the right boyfriend—how long have you been dating?”

“Four years,” she said, wondering how to extricate herself from the conversation. His presumption irritated her, regardless of how close he was.

His chin rose in surprise. “Four years. But you left and went to the opposite coast. Is he moving out here?”

“I don’t know. Listen—”

“Ah. I’ve met a lot of people like you on the road, in the middle of the Sinai, in Rio. You’re wondering if it’s right at all, if you’re meant to be somewhere else, doing something else. You’re wondering if you were ever home at all. That’s why you’re here at Torchlight,
far from Frisco and family and boyfriend. To discover the truth of it.”

“And what about you, Trevor?” she asked, conscious that her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Have you discovered the truth?”

He studied her for a long moment. “I’ve discovered the pertinent truths; now all I need is a home. And as I’ve told you, I’ve been dreaming of lighthouses lately.”

She coughed and turned away, intentionally breaking up their intimate moment. She didn’t need this now, a man who thought he knew her, who invaded her privacy and urged her thinking toward darker unknowns. The places she longed to go but didn’t dare. It simply wasn’t wise. She’d ventured far enough, coming here.

“I was thinking that we could start in the master bedroom today,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “I’ll need help clearing it of furniture before we begin ripping up plumbing.”