“Oh, youmustgo see it!” the tiny older woman exclaimed in excitement. “It’s on the north side of the island, along the cliffs. It’s private property, but there’s a good road and a parking lot, because the owner—Augustus Frapp—has said he doesn’t mind people visiting. He knows it’s part of our history.”
Since this had definitely been on my agenda, I was happy to hear that. I pulled up the map on my phone. “You’re sure it’s okay if I visit? I love lighthouses and was really hoping to have the chance to see it.”
“Oh, yes. Augustus has more money than Midas, and it’s not exactly a tourist attraction, so he’s never bothered charging admission fees. The land has been in his family for generations, and he’s quite—quite—proud of his family’s history and their place in Eastshore’s story.”
Smiling, I slid my phone back into the pocket of my stretchy pants. “Then it’s a plan. I’ll go visit this afternoon. Any other suggestions of places I can learn more history?”
Patti was definitely my soul sister—aunt? Grandmother?—because she had a list as long as my arm. When I left her to prepare for afternoon tea, I decided to focus on the places she’d mentioned in town first.
It was late afternoon when I stumbled back to my car, ready to drive out to the lighthouse location. To my consternation, it took three tries to get it to turn over, and each time my heart was in my throat, praying it would start. When it finally did, I exhaled in relief. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, and each time I found myself praying the car would last just a bit longer.
Driving around Eastshore was just as much fun as walking around it, and I reached the north side of the island before I knew it. The GPS steered me right to the turnoff, which had a homemade sign with an arrow pointing toward the lighthouse. Just as Patti had promised, the parking lot was tucked up against it, and empty except for construction equipment.
My heart began to speed up. Construction equipment around a lighthouse? This was something I knew.
Glad to have the place to myself, I slammed my car door and hurried across the parking lot, already tipping my head back to stare up at the lighthouse. It was on the small side—being perched on a sandstone bluff, it didn’t need to be tall—short and squat, only about thirty feet tall. The light itself was electric now, but I could see where it had replaced the old oil one a hundred years ago. The whole building likely dated from the early 1800s, based on what I knew of New England lighthouse architecture, assuming it followed the same patterns…
The front door was locked, to no surprise, but I could see everything I needed from out here. Slowly, I circled the building, taking photos of everything I could see, remembering the fun I had that summer on Cape Cod, and listening to the sounds of the crashing waves far below.
It wasn’t until I reached the far side of the lighthouse that I realized I wasn’t hearingallwaves; there was a backhoe moving piles of dirt off to one side of the lighthouse. I frowned at it, my attention darting between those piles and the edge of the bluff…too close.
Oh no.
I sighed, understanding what I was seeing. Just like the lighthouses on Cape Cod, and all up and down this coastline, climate change meant faster erosion, which threatened important historical buildings. This lighthouse had likely been built some distance from the bluff, but the last two hundred years of erosion meant it was in very real danger of destabilizing the foundation, and eventually even falling into the water.
There were so many historic lighthouses which had just…disappearedin the early 1900s because of this erosion. And now it was happening faster. At least the owner of the Eastshore Lighthouse had enough sense to do something about it.
“Hey!”
I was startled out of my examination of the foundation by a distant voice. Confused, I glanced around.
“Hey, get away from there! Shit’s unstable!”
I saw the figure climbing out of the excavator, waving his hand, just as I recognized his voice. I found myself stumbling away—not because of the threat, but because of who it was coming from.
There was a moment when Brakkor realized it was me. I saw him hesitate, then he lowered his arm and burst into a legitrunto reach my side.
“Joss?” He barreled to stop in front of me, his brow furrowed as his gaze darted over me. “Are you alright? What are you doing here?”
“Of course I’m alright.” Deciding to pretend like Friday night hadn’t happened, I gestured over my shoulder to the lighthouse. “This is my jam. I wanted to come see it before it was moved.”
Brakkor’s mouth tugged into a frown, and he glanced over my shoulder for a moment, before snapping his gaze back to mine, as if he couldn’t look away. “Moving alighthouse? What makes you think that’s happening?”
What? I frowned and twisted, half to look around me and half to avoid his gaze. There were pieces ofconstruction equipment waiting to be put to use—bags of cement, loads of cinderblocks, a few pallets of bricks.
With a sinking feeling, I realized there were no cranes or lifts.
“You’re not moving it?” I whispered.
Brakkor had moved up beside me, but I could feel him watching me instead of the building. “Nope. I work for Butch Holdings, and Mr. Frapp hired us to shore up the building’s foundation. We’re going to disguise it as a patio—I guess that’s what it’s called.”
I was already shaking my head. “No, no, that’s entirely inaccurate, historically speaking. The area around the site”—I gestured to the large grassy area between the building and the bluff—“is a goldmine of archaeological information. You only have a few years to excavate it before you lose it all, and if you pour cement over it, you’re losing thatanddelaying the inevitable.”
In my distress—honestly, they were going to bury two hundred years of history under concrete!—I’d turned to him, trying to make him understand. His expression had softened, and now he shrugged.
“Sorry, Kitten, not my ballgame. Korrad got orders from the top, and those come from the owner. We start tomorrow.”
I could feel the tears pricking behind my eyes. “Damn,” I whispered, swinging my gaze back to the lighthouse, which would most certainly crumble in a few years as its foundation continued to destabilize. “Who signed off onthat? Do you have a staff archeologist?”
