Lake Michigan that had been her family’s home for more than fifty years. That was where her grandparents lived, and where her mother had first come as a bride, with her father. It was where they had raised their four daughters, and where each of Sidney’s sisters had lived until finding a home of their own.
For the first few months Sidney had welcomed the tender ministrations of her family. The serene walks along the shore with Bert. The long, late-night talks with Poppie in his study. And the determination of Trudy, their lifelong housekeeper, to, as she had said in that wonderful old rusty-gate voice, “ply her with food and put some weight on her bones.” But before long Sidney had recognized the worried looks, the questioning glances that passed between her family members. Their constant hovering had begun to make her feel helpless and more than a little smothered. Despite the fact that she was still grieving, and feeling confused about how to get on with her life, she recognized that it would be far too easy to become dependent upon her family for the strengths she needed to find within herself.
“Not yet, dear,” Bert had said gently when Sidney first mentioned finding a place of her own. “It’s too soon. Your emotions are still too raw. Let us indulge you a while longer.”
“Besides,” Poppie had said a bit more vehemently. “Who would stay up late with me and argue the latest murder cases being aired on the news?”
“If you go,” Trudy said in that raspy voice roughened by years of smoking, “your grandfather will be forced to eat an entire batch of chocolate-chip cookies by himself. And then his cholesterol will go up, and his blood pressure, and who knows what else?”
Sidney had remained adamant. “I won’t be bribed or made to feel guilty about going. It’s time.”
Once she’d begun seriously shopping for a place to call her own, her mother, Charley, a real-estate agent, had discovered this little cabin in the woods. From the moment Sidney set foot inside, she’d known it was meant to be.
She still felt a thrill each time she returned home. She loved everything about it. The way it sat, snug and perfect amid the towering pines that surrounded it. The way the waters of Lake Michigan, shimmering just a stone’s throw away, beckoned. The cozy feeling of the cedar logs that formed the walls, and the high, natural wood beams framing skylights that allowed light to stream in even on the grayest of days. Though it was small, with just a single bedroom, a great room and galley kitchen, it was more than enough space for her. She’d turned the upper loft into her studio where she could happily lose herself in her work, when the weather wouldn’t permit her to paint outside. Despite the unreliable Michigan weather and its often turbulent storms, Sidney much preferred to paint in the open air, by the water’s edge, rather than paint her subjects from memory. There was just something about the antics of the waterfowl that were her specialty that could always be counted on to make her smile. The ducks, the geese, the herons that fished these waters were natural clowns, causing no end of amusement. Best of all, they seemed undisturbed by her presence. Because they’d become accustomed to her sitting at her easel along the shore, they went about their business without distraction.
With the dog and cat sniffing a hundred scents in the forest, Sidney pulled the loaded wagon along the trail through the woods until she emerged in bright sunlight at the water’s edge. This was one of her favorite spots. It took only minutes to set up her equipment. Then, after watching a family of ducks splashing near shore, beside a half-submerged wooden rowboat that had stood along the shore for years, she picked up her brush and began to bring them to life on her canvas.
Adam Morgan sat straight up in bed, ready to bolt, when he came fully awake and realized he’d been in the throes of the recurring nightmare. Rubbing a hand over his face, it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctors had warned him that these terrifying dreams were part of the healing process. Though the wounds to his body were visible, and therefore easier to tend, the ones in his mind were no less serious. There were too many things about the incident that were still lost to his conscious memory. But they were there, locked away in his mind, and when he relaxed in sleep, they rose to the surface, taunting him with bits and pieces of the terror he’d experienced. There was still so much about the accident that he couldn’t remember. But he’d been assured by his doctors that it would all come back to him in time.
He slid out of bed and moved slowly across the room. Filling a glass with water, he gulped down two capsules, then leaned on the bathroom sink and waited for the dizziness to pass. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. Eyes bloodshot. Cheeks and chin darkened by several days’ growth of beard. It would take too much energy to shave. Besides, why bother? Who would see him here, in the middle of nowhere?
The doctors had done all they could. Now, they warned him, what he most needed was time. His frown deepened. Time. There would be plenty of that now. He couldn’t return to work until the madman who dogged his trail was captured and put away for good. Twice Adam had managed to elude his stalker, and twice the man had proved just as adept at escaping the authorities, despite their best efforts.
It had been Phil Larken, Adam’s boss and president of WNN, World News Network, who had arranged for Adam to use this lighthouse as his own private retreat. Though the nearby town of Devil’s Cove was small, there was a modern medical clinic and an excellent physical therapist. Since Adam couldn’t return to work until he had a clean bill of health from the doctors, and since they weren’t about to let him off the hook until he’d completed at least six months of therapy for the shoulder that had been shattered in the blast, this place afforded him the perfect refuge until he could take back his life.
Odd, he thought as he returned to the bedroom. He’d been working nonstop since his college days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken time off. As a photojournalist for World News Network, he’d covered every hot spot in the world. Asia, Africa, Europe, the Middle East. How ironic that his injuries had occurred not in some troubled corner of the world, but right here in the United States, in New York City, outside the United Nations Building.
Now, here he was, feeling as though he’d been caught in a time warp. He looked around as though still doubting he was really here. The last time he’d been in Devil’s Cove, he’d been all of twelve, on a fishing trip with his uncle. He’d taken one look at the lighthouse that sat on a finger of land that jutted into Lake Michigan and fell wildly, madly in love. There was just something about the look of it. That tall spire looking out over miles and miles of nothing but dark water, its beacon the only warning the captain and crew of ships plying this lake had of the dangerous shoals and shallows that lurked beneath the waves.
And now it was his home. At least until he healed. And all because, in a moment of dark depression, he’d confided in Phil that if he had to do nothing for six months, he’d surely go crazy. When Phil asked if there was any place he might be able to endure the boredom, Adam had blurted out his boyhood fascination with the lighthouse. The next thing he knew, Phil had used his considerable influence to make it happen. Adam had been invited by the historical society to spend the off-season living in the Devil’s Cove lighthouse, in exchange for photographing the various changes of season for their almanac. Simple work. A simple lifestyle. And because it had all been arranged quickly, and in complete privacy, the authorities were hoping that this time, his stalker would be confounded. Not that Adam believed it was over and he was safe. He’d believe that only when the assassin who’d triggered the car bomb that killed the ambassador and his assistant was behind bars, and not a minute sooner.
Moving like a slug he climbed the dozens of stairs that led to the tower. Though the ships passing through the Great Lakes had long ago switched to the latest in high-tech navigational equipment, and the lighthouse was no longer necessary to the boaters’ safety, the computer-operated light still went on every day at dusk and stayed on until morning. There was something comforting in that. The sameness of it gave him a sense that, in a world gone crazy, some things never changed.
