The trees were so thick that they grew like a permanent tunnel over the road, casting it in shadow even in the middle of the day. She could smell the fresh splash of water from Lake Michigan, and when the car finally crossed the bridge then emerged, minutes later, from the wooded road into a small clearing, she caught her breath.
Wow.
If this place doesn’t inspire me, I don’t know what will.
The car had barely stopped when Teddy slipped out of the vehicle, and she turned in a slow semicircle, taking in the place that was to be her writing sanctuary for the next month. The place was adorable and charming and stately all at once.
The entire property was a small island about a mile from shore. A little bridge connected the tiny peninsula that extended from the mainland in a finger parallel to shore to the acre-sized island on which the lighthouse and its attached keeper’s cottage sat. The island was little more than a small, rocky outcropping with some reedy grass surrounded by Lake Michigan.
Stony Cape Lighthouse was painted white, and its cap, where the now-defunct light was enclosed, was red. Teddy could see the small walkway around the large gallery, some thirty feet in the air. There were random windows in the whitewashed brick column, and the keeper’s residence was a compact cottage attached to the base of the lighthouse on the southwest side. The cottage was covered by white Shaker shingles, and each window—including the round window over the door—had a pair of shutters in cobalt blue. A wild vine of green ivy grew up one side of the cottage, clinging to the stone chimney that appeared to belong to a real fireplace.
On the side facing the lake was a long, covered porch enclosed by a yellow railing. A riot of flowers that desperately needed weeding spilled from beds on three sides of the cottage (the fourth being attached to the lighthouse). Teddy recognized zinnias, daisies, cosmos, verbena, and hydrangea. Hmm. The combination of perennials and annuals indicated someone—the caretaker?—had been around to plant the gardens. The boxwoods and spirea needed pruning, but they weren’t completely untended. And the minuscule square of grass, a small patch between the cottage and the thickly wooded two-track road, had probably been mowed in the last week.
A little stone path crossed from the small parking area to the side door of the cottage, and another one made from shallow stone steps led over to and down the incline that presumably ended at the beach.
“Looks like a nice place,” said the driver as he began to pull her bags from the trunk. “Kinda remote, though.”
She glanced at him, assessing whether he was taking her measure so he could come back and rob or attack her later. You just never knew.
Being a writer, Teddy had a very active imagination when it came to possibilities and tactics. She was always thinking of other options, of what-ifs, of how murderous or villainous activities could be accomplished.
“Oh, my boyfriend and his sister and her husband will be here in a few hours,” she lied airily. “I’ll have just enough time to settle in before they get here.”
“Small place for four people,” he commented—though he didn’t seem to be disappointed that she’d ruined his nefarious plan. If indeed he’d had one. Not that she had any real reason to believe he did, but…again…you never knew. “But the view makes up for it.”
“Oh, let me get the door open,” she said, realizing he was waiting for her to do that so he could bring in her luggage—which wasn’t all that much, of course, since theonlything she was going to be doing here was writing.
Theonlything.
Looking out over the glistening blue of Lake Michigan as it rushed onto the shore below, Teddy stifled a sigh as she dug in her large tote for the FedEx envelope with the key she’d been mailed.
No swimming. No boating. No hiking. No shopping. No sightseeing. No relaxing. No restauranting.
Just writing.
She had brought a swimsuit, though. She could at least put her toes in the water.
The door opened with reluctance; the lock was obviously not used very often, and it stuck. But at last she muscled it open and stepped back so the driver could bring in her bags.
“You gonna run the light?” asked the driver as, still standing on the porch, she dug out her credit card to pay for the ride. “The one up there?” He jerked an eyebrow in the direction of the top of the lighthouse.
“No,” Teddy told him with sincere regret. “This lighthouse has been dark—ha, ha—for over forty years. They don’t really need it because there are two other ones up along the coast, one south and one north of here, and there aren’t any ships or boats that come along this way. Though there have been plenty of shipwrecks on the lake—including the famous one where theCatherine Teal, which was owned by the Astors—you know, of New York City? during the Gilded Age?—went down in a storm somewhere in Lake Michigan between Traverse City and Chicago. They were sending a large wedding gift to some friends in Chicago—”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the driver said, taking the computer tablet from her as soon as she’d finger-signed (and given him a decent tip, even though he’d driven like a maniac). “Hope you enjoy your stay out here.”
All by yourself.
He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t have to.
Teddy heard them loud and clear, and as he climbed into the shiny black Town Car and drove off down the gritty, dirty road, she gave a long, deep sigh.
Yes.All by myself.
A little trickle of panic threatened, but she pushed it away as she stepped inside the vestibule of Stony Cape Keeper’s House.
Vestibule was an optimistic word, to be sure. In Teddy’s mind, vestibules were large and airy with a ceiling at least two floors high. In this case, the vestibule was hardly more than a small entranceway, dark and dim—as it was currently in the shadow of the lighthouse—painted some standard cream color with, of course, a lighthouse painting on the wall. The mat on the floor appeared to have been there since Woodstock, and the lamp and matching chandelier were hideous mangles of metal, wood, and mirrors.
To the left of the vestibule was the lighthouse itself, accessed through a small door with a curved top. Through the door was access to the small bedroom suite in which she’d be staying, and, she assumed, the stairs that led to the top of the non-working light.
