“It depends on the book.”
“Right. Can’t you just—I don’t know—skip to Chapter Eleven?”
Teddy gave a sad laugh as she slid the last plate into its slot in the cabinet. “I wish. Unfortunately, that’s not how I work. I’m a linear writer, meaning I write from beginning to end, pretty much, since I amnota plotter—that’s plot-terwith a T, not a D—although there are times when I feel like a plod-deras well, so skipping ahead doesn’t help me because I don’t know what comes next or where I’m going until I write it.”
“That sounds horrible,” he said.
“Yeah.” Teddy sighed again as she folded up the dishtowel. “Let’s go check out the lighthouse—the top of it is called the lantern room.”
“And there’s a Fresnel lens up there, too, I believe,” he said. “Beehive shape with bull’s-eye prisms.”
She gave him a quick, appreciative smile. “You’ve been doing your research.”
His skin was pretty fair, and it turned a little ruddy in the cheeks as he gave a wry smile. “Well, yes. I mean, I was going to stay in a lighthouse—I figured I should know about it. Even if it isn’t operational.”
“You probably even know what year the Fresnel lens—a breakthrough in lighthouse lantern design—was invented,” she teased as they walked through the arched doorway into the base of the lighthouse. Not that she hadn’t done her own research—when she was supposed to be working on her book. For, like Oscar said, if she was going tostayin a lighthouse, she should know about the structure and history.
Besides, Teddy never knew when a bit of trivia or seemingly unrelated information could help her with a story.
“Eighteen twenty-two,” he replied. “The reason the Fresnel lens became so popular was because it used prisms—called bull’s-eyes for obvious reasons—which collected the light from the flame or bulb and reflected it more strongly. That meant that eighty percent of the light given off by the lantern was directed and reflected out, rather than the less than twenty percent before the Fresnel lens.”
She’d opened the door to the tall spiral staircase that wound around the inside of the lighthouse column. It was metal, and their shoes made dull clangs as they climbed.
“And,” he said, “when they began to use revolving lanterns—which meant the light went around in a circle, moving from prism to prism—it gave off the appearance of a flashing light. Between that and the colors of the lantern shield—which could be red or blue or yellow or whatever—the beams from each lighthouse could be made to look unique so as to allow them to be distinguished from one another by the navigators…”
His voice trailed off, and Teddy knew it wasn’t because he was out of breath from the climb.
She, on the other hand,wasa bit out of breath from the climb. And they were only about halfway up. Argh. She really should start walking regularly again.
Once she finished the damned book.
“Sorry,” Oscar said. “Sometimes I get into lecture mode and forget I’m not in class, giving off information people actually need.”
“Nevertheless, I found your—uh—lecturevery interesting and quite thorough.” Teddy grinned at him from two steps up. Since she’d turned, she took the opportunity to pause and look out one of the small, lakeside-facing windows. “Wow. What a view. We should have brought a pair of binoculars.”
“Agreed. Next time.” Oscar moved in behind her, close enough that she felt his warmth and caught a hint of his scent—shampoo, soap, hair products; whatever it was, it was nice. Masculine without being obnoxious. His foot bumped hers as he adjusted to see out the window. “Oh, sorry,” he said, and stepped back as if he’d been burned. “Let’s keep going.”
This time, Teddy followed him so she could go a little slower, and without feeling self-conscious about the size of her butt—which sat in a desk chair far too often. She also had the benefit of seeing the way the shorts fit to his rear end, and noticed the tight, lean muscles of his calves. They were tanned several shades darker than his face—he must wear a hat outside—and sprinkled with blond hair instead of the rosy-gold color on his head.
Teddy was pleased that she was lagging only a turn of the spiral away when Oscar stepped off the top stair onto a small landing with a door that must lead to the gallery. “The door’s locked,” he called down to her. “Don’t suppose you have a key?”
“There are a bunch on the ring I have. I hope one of them works.” Because it would be a real drag to have climbed up a hundred and sixty-eight (yes, she’d counted) stairs and not be able to get to the good part.
She handed him the keychain and paused to catch her breath while he studied the keys on it. Teddy smothered a smile. If she’d been doing it, she’d have just started sticking each key in, one at a time, until she found one that fit. Oscar, on the other hand, examined the lock, looked at the keys one by one, then picked one out, stuck it into the keyhole, and turned.
“Success,” he pronounced, then handed the keychain back to her. “Ladies first—especially since it was your idea.” He opened the door, and she stepped in.
As she came through, some great, dark entity came to life in a flutter of wings and rush of movement.
“Eeek!” She ducked and automatically covered her head, but the flock of bats—of course it was bats—knew their way out of the encasement in which they’d been making their home for some years.
She reared back, flailing a little, and bumped into Oscar, who caught her before they both went tumbling onto the small landing—and potentially down the spiral stairway.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away—totally mortified and feeling ridiculous. “I’m not usually that—uh—squeamish. But they caught me by surprise, and there were so many of them. Sorry for screaming in your ear.”
“No problem. And you didn’t scream.” His hands were still hovering near her hips, as if to catch her if she bolted back again.
“I didn’t?” she said. “Well, thank goodness for that. In my head, I screamed.”
