The Lighthouse Keeper, page 1
ALSO BY CYNTHIA ELLINGSEN
Marriage Matters
The Whole Package
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Ellingsen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477822821
ISBN-10: 1477822828
Cover design by Michael Rehder
To Hudson, the light of my life
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
The lighthouse in Starlight Cove filled the television screen, its red door vibrant against the midnight blue of Lake Michigan. The familiar theme music of News Tonight rang out to the cheers of the friends gathered in my living room before the announcer gave a brief teaser about treasure hunting and the show cut to commercial.
I let out a pent-up breath. My parents’ part in the show was supposedly small—just two quick interviews—but I never knew what to expect with my family.
My best friend, Libby, hit me on the leg. “Starlight Cove was the first shot,” she squealed. “Your parents are going to be the star of this thing!”
I pulled an embroidered throw pillow across my chest. “Please don’t say that,” I mumbled. “The show is about famous lost treasures. Not my parents.”
Thank goodness.
It was hard to believe that even though I was now thirty-two years old, they still had the power to embarrass me. Some people are raised by lawyers or bankers. My parents specialize in historic shipwrecks. To put it more aptly: they’re treasure hunters.
I typically avoided talking about their irresponsible lifestyle altogether, but Libby has known me since I was a kid, so I’ve never hidden it from her. Now that my parents were on national television, it would be hard to hide it from anyone.
“Is it too late for me to wait this out in my room?” I reached for my glass of pinot grigio. It sat on a silver coaster, sweating profusely.
Libby giggled. “You have to be here. This is the first time Todd gets to meet your parents.”
I flushed. Todd and I had been together for more than a year. There was a good chance he was The One, but every time he mentioned meeting my parents, I changed the subject. They wouldn’t understand his pressed khakis, starched shirts, and interest in the stock market, and he was sure to have strong opinions about how I was raised. Until the two worlds were forced to collide, it was much safer to keep them apart.
Todd caught my eye and lifted his glass of scotch. I raised my glass back, hoping he couldn’t see that my hand was shaking from nerves.
My eyes wandered over my apartment. Entertaining ranks last on my list of fun at-home activities—bingeing on home improvement shows is much more my style—but Libby had invited everyone for a potluck and screening before I could stop her. To make it bearable, I’d texted out a list of acceptable dishes so there would be an actual meal instead of fourteen varieties of spinach and artichoke dip sitting on the table.
The News Tonight music started, and Libby called, “Here we go!”
Todd and Jack, Libby’s fiancé, came over to join us on the couch. Todd took my hand. His was cool from the ice in his drink, and I pulled away, embarrassed my hand was warm and sweaty.
He tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. “You okay?”
I gave a tense smile. “Ask me when this is over.”
Was it too late to cut the power and pretend I hadn’t paid the electric bill? Probably. And no one would believe that I could be that irresponsible.
“There he is!” Libby cried as my father loomed on-screen. In the lower right corner, it read PROF. WARD CONNERS, TREASURE HUNTER. “I know him!”
“He looks great,” I admitted. “Sean Connery, watch out.”
My father was as distinguished as ever with his short white hair and close-cut beard. He sat in a mahogany chair against the backdrop of my parents’ enormous library, sporting a captain’s blazer over a gray turtleneck sweater.
The host, Greg Norten, said, “I’m sure everyone in America wants to know: How does one become a treasure hunter?”
The camera zoomed in on my father’s face, and he flashed his familiar charming smile. “I got a metal detector for my tenth birthday. There were some stray quarters in the yard, I scrounged ’em up, and I was hooked.”
The story wasn’t true, of course, but it didn’t matter. My father is a master of showmanship.
He went on to explain that he obtained a degree in archaeology before working as an apprentice on several fishing boats and, later, wreck dives. He reminisced about the first dive he went on with my mother and waxed poetic about how that led to the discovery of the San Arabella. He forgot to mention that it took at least a decade for them to find anything at all.
“The San Arabella was a Spanish ship, missing for centuries,” the host said. “That find came with a huge payout. It made you one of the most famous treasure hunters in the country.”
More than one person in the room sneaked a look at me, and I shifted, uncomfortable. My friends would certainly Google the San Arabella that night, if they weren’t already doing it right there in my living room.
“Yes.” My father looked pleased with himself. “The San Arabella was quite the coup.”
“Your grandfather was also a ship captain,” the host said.
My father’s expression became guarded. “He was indeed. Now, if I could—”
“Captain Fitzie Conners was responsible for a very large shipwreck,” the host said. “A lot of men lost their lives.”
Libby shot me a nervous look. In general, my father loved talking about treasure hunting and his work as a ship captain. But after years spent trying to clear his grandfather’s name, he didn’t talk about Captain Fitzie with anyone.
Sure enough, his tone turned low and dangerous. “The weather caused that wreck,” he said. “It was nobody’s fault.”
“What about the missing treasure?” the host persisted.
I bit my lip. If Greg Norten valued his hair plugs, he’d drop this line of questioning.
When my father didn’t answer, the host continued. “If that treasure is still out there, I’m surprised one of the most famous treasure hunters in the country hasn’t found it yet. Have you looked?”
“I’m not discussing that,” my father growled. “And this interview is over.”
I jumped as he ripped the microphone out of his lapel and stormed out of the view of the camera. The show cut to commercial break, and an awkward silence filled the room.
“Snap!” Libby lifted her glass in a toast. “Your father shut him down.”
Everyone laughed and applauded. Libby patted me on the knee and got up for more wine. I gave her a grateful look.
“Is that true?” Todd turned to me. “About your great-grandfather?”
“Which part?” I asked, fiddling with the diamond stud in my ear.
To my relief, two of his fellow accountants cut in to coordinate a golf game. I escaped and headed to the dining room to wrap up leftovers.
Armed with foil and a fat Sharpie, I wrote today’s date on Post-it Notes and stuck them to each dish, hoping to look industrious instead of upset.
The interviewer had made my father seem grumpy and uncooperative, which was hardly the case. I wasn’t sure what to think; I had texted with my mother after my parents filmed the interviews, and she said everything went fine.
The theme music rang out, and Libby paused the show. “Dawn, it’s back on!”
“Go ahead,” I called. “I’m watching.”
I was wondering if I should sneak off to call my parents when Greg Norten’s voice boomed through the room, measured and dramatic over a lilt of mysteriou
“It wasn’t a surprise to us that Professor Ward Conners ended our conversation when we began to dig into the history of his family.” I set down the Sharpie. The host stood on the beach of Starlight Cove, his ridiculous hair blowing in the breeze. “So, we did some investigating of our own.”
I walked back to the couch and sank into the soft leather. A montage of old photographs flitted across the screen: Lake Michigan in the height of a storm, the wreckage of a ship smashed against the shore, and a wiry ship captain in front of the American flag.
My phone lit up: Mom.
“Hi,” I said, in a low tone. “What is this?”
“Dawn, we don’t know.” She sounded panicked. “They told us this was about lost treasures. We assumed that meant the San Arabella.”
My blood went cold. “It’s not?”
“I don’t think so, baby. I think it’s an exposé on your great-grandfather and the legend of The Wanderer.”
“Mom, I—”
My father’s shouts echoed in the background, followed by the sound of something crashing to the ground. It might have been the television.
“Honey, I have to go,” she said, and hung up.
I stared at my phone in disbelief.
This was exactly what I was afraid of. The reason I didn’t want to watch the show with a roomful of people.
“What’s wrong?” Libby whispered.
Shaking my head, I stood up. I walked to my bedroom and shut the door.
Voices murmured out in the living room, the television clicked off, and people gathered up their things while saying good-bye. Someone knocked on my door—probably Todd—but I was too upset to answer. Instead, I locked myself in the bathroom and turned on the hottest shower I could handle.
I came out a half hour later, in a waft of steam and peach shampoo. I wrapped my hair in a white towel, put on a silk robe, and padded out to my bedroom. There, I listened.
Silence.
I risked opening the door. The living room was spotless, as if no one had been there at all. A piece of paper rested on the counter, probably a note from Libby. Something along the lines of Sorry I bullied you into having everyone over to witness your family get humiliated on national television.
In the kitchen, I put on the kettle and picked up the phone to call my mother. Their landline beeped and beeped, as though someone had taken the phone off the hook.
I pictured my parents’ cozy country kitchen in Northern Michigan. The place was filled with antiques and treasures from their travels around the world. Even though I hadn’t been there in ages, I wished I could sit in that kitchen with my mother now, my toes buried in the bright-red Persian rug beneath the table, sipping coffee from the handcrafted pottery she loved.
Instead, I put together a plate of macaroons and poured milk into my tea. Setting up the spread in the living room, I let out a deep breath.
“Okay.” I cued up the DVR. “Let’s see how bad this is.”
It was worse than I could have imagined.
The first segment of the show was indeed about The Wanderer, the ship commissioned to transport silver coins, fur, and illegal whiskey from Chicago to Canada. It sank a mile and a half outside of Starlight Cove on April 29, 1922, under my great-grandfather’s command. The wreck can still be seen in Lake Michigan, but the silver was never recovered. Pretty much every person with a pulse has tried to find it since.
When the ship sank, the price of silver was weak, but there was enough on board to make it valuable. Today, the imprint of the lost Morgan silver dollars is rare and worth more than ever. Treasure hunters have calculated the lost coins to be worth somewhere in the millions.
Theories surrounding the silver have existed for decades. Some people continue to believe the coins rest on the floor of Lake Michigan alongside my great-grandfather, Captain Fitzie Conners. Others think he survived and disappeared with the very treasure he was commissioned to protect. My family has always believed he was innocent. Clearly, that didn’t matter to News Tonight.
They painted my great-grandfather as the one most likely to have stolen the treasure, especially since he trafficked illegal whiskey. Worse, they questioned whether my parents’ vast fortune really came from the discovery of the San Arabella. The entire segment was inflammatory, embarrassing, and sold in a way that sounded plausible.
They made it sound like the Conners family was up to no good.
I barely slept, which made it harder than usual to go for a run at 5:00 a.m. The streets of Boston were quiet, and I looked up at the sleek buildings, wondering how many people watched News Tonight. I didn’t want it to be a trending topic at the watercooler, along with the usual Sunday night shows.
Back at my apartment, I found a text from Todd.
Can we meet for coffee?
I hesitated. I liked to stick to my routine before work. Still, considering the way I’d acted the night before, I owed him the courtesy of a conversation and, maybe, an explanation.
Thirty minutes later, I walked into Buzz, a coffee bar in the business district. The tables were chrome, and the waitstaff wore white jackets. The smell of fresh-roasted coffee hung thick in the air.
Todd sat at a corner table. He wore a tailored navy suit with a light-blue shirt and a burgundy tie that worked well with his tortoiseshell eyeglasses. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional way, which was fine by me. I’ve never felt comfortable around attractive men—I have a gift for embarrassing myself in front of them. It started in the first grade, when I laughed during snack time, only to have chocolate milk come out of my nose. It sprayed all over Bucky Branson, the cutest boy in class.
Todd stood up as I approached. “How are you?” He studied me from behind his glasses.
“Fine.” I settled into a cold, metal chair.
To be honest, I wasn’t fine. I felt shaky inside, as if the wrong words might break me. Still, I didn’t want Todd to know, so I kept our conversation centered on the news headlines, the stock market, and the cleanliness of the restaurant.
The waitress dropped off our coffees—a French press for Todd and a chai latte for me. She swept away before I could ask for honey, so I riffled through the collection of condiments in my purse to find a stray packet. Todd watched as I squeezed it into the mug, an unreadable expression on his face. Then, he took off his glasses and sighed.
“This isn’t . . . working,” he said.
I assumed he meant the French press. I pushed down the plunger and poured him a full cup of coffee. He added cream before shaking his head and pushing the cup away.
“I meant us,” he said.
The din in the restaurant went quiet.
“What do you mean, exactly?” I asked.
Todd reached for my hands. “Dawn, you know I care for you. But last night I realized I don’t know a thing about you, your family, or your past.” He dropped my hands. “That show shocked me.”
“That show was a completely fabricated version of the truth,” I told him.
“I don’t want to pass judgment on you or your family,” he said, in a tone that indicated he was absolutely passing judgment on me and my family. “I just can’t be a part of that type of sensationalism.”
Sensationalism?
He got to his feet and patted my shoulder.
“Good luck to you, Dawn,” he said, and headed out the door.
On the walk to work, I called Libby. I was so stunned I couldn’t even cry. Not that I would have on a public street, but still.
“Forget Todd,” she said, furious. “I never liked him.”
I stood outside the elevator in my building. “Really?”
“Well, I don’t anymore,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I stepped into the elevator and studied my reflection in the faded metal of the walls. My gray pantsuit was perfectly precise, hair up in a neat French twist, and makeup flawless. Everyone around me probably thought I seemed just fine.
“Not really,” I whispered.
“Call me after work,” Libby said. “We’ll get drinks. And, hon?”
“Yeah?”
“Hang in there.”
I swept into my office on the fourteenth floor, where I worked as a corporate loan officer. The moment I shut the door, I sank to the floor and pressed my fists into my eyes, fighting back tears. I couldn’t believe this.
Just last Friday, Todd and I had talked about what it might look like to get married, move to the suburbs, and raise a family. It sounded so good, so normal, that I should have known it could never happen to me.
