Page 28 of Escape to Lighthouse Cove

“True enough,” Grace agreed. “But weren’t there more people back then?” she asked.

For a second, no more, Becca’s face hardened. “There were a few more families,” she acknowledged, “but they left, pretty soon after that girl died and the Lawrences packed up. Turned this place into even more of a ghost town. Ghost island, I guess.” She glanced out at the water, placid under a sinking sun, her eyes narrowed and her mouth set in something that was not quite a grimace. Grace had the sense that despite Becca’s almost relentless good humor, life had been hard to her. According to what she’d just said, her father had died and her brothers had left when she was still a teenager, and then she’d had to raise a son of her own, all in an isolated and undoubtedly lonely environment.

It was a reminder, she thought, that everyone had something going on in their lives.Just like Noah Lawrence.

“Anyway, I’m glad I caught you,” Becca said as she turned back from her contemplative view of the ocean to give Grace a ready smile. “I wanted to ask if you felt like going over to the mainland one day this week. I have a few errands I need to run, and I know this island can start to feel pretty small. Plus, Ned doesn’t like to take too many trips, so it’s better if we coordinate, and…” She hesitated, looking almost shy. “I wouldn’t mind the company if you don’t, and I could show you around a little.”

“I’d love that,” Grace replied. She wasn’t sure if the island was feeling small, per se, but the thought of browsing a few stores, maybe even getting a latte, sounded heavenly. She’d like to get to know Becca better, too, and, she realized, she wanted to buy some new, more serviceable, clothes for island living. “Is there a Target nearby?” she asked. “I need to buy some clothes.”

Becca made a face. “About two and a half hours away? But Eastport is only forty minutes from Salt Cove, and it has some decent stores. The art galleries and craft boutiques will be closed this early in the season, but you can get some clothes at Wadsworths and there are a couple of thrift stores, too.”

“Sounds great,” Grace replied firmly.

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

Jacob was meant to have another chess lesson the day after tomorrow, if she decided to go ahead with it, which she was pretty sure she had. Although he hadn’t said anything—surprise, surprise—Jacob had definitely seemed to enjoy the lesson, and Grace didn’t want to deprive him, no matter how potentially awkward or uncomfortable things might be between her and Noah.

As for tomorrow, she’d do her regular walk of the reserve a little earlier, so there was plenty of time to head to the mainland. Her heart lifted at the thought of getting off the island and exploring the area with a friend, or at least a potential friend.

“Tomorrow,” she told Becca, “is perfect.”

16

The breeze off the ocean was chilly although the sun was warm as Grace, Jacob, and Becca started across to Salt Cove on Ned’s trawler the next morning, the ferryman at the wheel, nursing a large thermos of coffee.

Grace sat with Jacob pressed in close to her, watching the water glint off the ruffled surface of the ocean. She felt both excited and a little anxious about heading over to the mainland. Over the last ten days, despite her misadventure with the tides, Lighthouse Cove Island had become something of a haven, a place where she knew she was safe from the prying eyes of the internet, New York society, and the whole world.

Instinctively she glanced behind her at the island fast disappearing over the horizon, the crenellated towers of Grayhaven rising from its heap of rock. It would take them forty-five minutes to get to Salt Cove, and then the same again to travel to Eastport, the tourist town that was on Moose Island, at the entrance of Cobscook Bay, and still a couple hundred miles from just about anywhere. It was, Grace knew, nearly three hours to Bangor, over five to Portland, and that was still considered pretty far from regular civilization. Lighthouse Cove Island really was the absolute back of beyond.

She and Becca didn’t talk much on the way over, thanks to the loud hum of the trawler’s motor and the presence of Ned, but as soon as they reached Grace’s SUV, parked in the lot across from the ferry terminal, shack that it was, the questions started, as Grace had suspected they would.

“So I don’t really know a lot about you,” Becca remarked as she slipped into the passenger seat of Grace’s car. They’d agreed to take her vehicle rather than the old truck Becca’s mother kept in a garage in Salt Cove. “Besides that you’re from New York and have a fabulous wardrobe.” She glanced down at Grace’s outfit—a pair of wide-legged pants in cream linen and a navy-blue boatneck sweater, both, as all her clothes were, designer and expensive. Plus the Prada boots, whichwerecomfortable. “Why on earth do you want to go clothes shopping in Eastport?” she asked frankly.

“Well, these clothes aren’t exactly suitable for being a nature reserve warden,” Grace pointed out with a smile. “And…” She hesitated, wanting to share some confidences, since Becca had been so honest with her about her son, Lewis, but felt that familiar anxiety claw at her throat. What if Becca googled her? What if she believed what she read? Plus, Jacob was here, silent but always listening. “I’d like to change my style,” she said finally. “Try something new.”

“Well, I don’t know if Eastport is really the place for that,” Becca replied with a snicker. “Unless you like t-shirts with ‘chowdahhead’ or ‘brake for lobstah’ written on them, or recycled bowling shirts circa 1990, if we’re going to the thrift store.” She snickered again, shaking her head.

“I guess I’ll have to take my chances,” Grace replied with a smile.

The drive to Eastport around the north side of the bay was pleasant, through rolling hills, the glint of the ocean almost always visible from a curve in the road. Cobscook Bay was dotted with islands, some postage-stamp sized, some a lot bigger, with Moose Island the most notable one, having a bridge that connected it to the mainland.

Eastport, population all of twelve hundred, felt like a booming metropolis compared to life on Lighthouse Cove, and, Becca informed her, was in fact incorporated as a city, the easternmost in the entire United States.

“And it has a salmon festival as well as a pirate one, plus a ferry to New Brunswick. And the 4th of July celebration is wicked good—fourth biggest in all of Maine, just saying.” She slid Grace a humorous glance.

Grace smiled, shaking her head. “Sounds pretty incredible to me.”

“Well, I like it here,” Becca said firmly, almost as if Grace had suggested otherwise. “But I guess it can’t possibly compare to New York.”

“Oh, New York’s not that great,” Grace replied lightly as she parked on Water Street, the town’s main drag that faced the waterfront and, with the art galleries and boutiques shuttered for the season, had only a few open stores. “Pretty overrated, if you ask me.”

“Why did you move all the way to Lighthouse Cove?” Becca asked as they got out of the car and started along the street. Grace thought she’d probably been dying to ask the question since they’d first got in the car. She lowered her voice with a swift glance at Jacob. “Bad breakup?”

Grace glanced down at her son. “Something like that,” she said quietly. Some evening, she decided, she’d invite Becca over when Jacob was asleep and give her a little more honesty. It would feel good, if strange, to have a friend, after so many years of isolation, like stretching a muscle that she’d forgotten how to use. She didn’t know how much she would be willing to tell, but at least it would be something. Baby steps toward a future where she could figure out who she was and how she wanted to be.

But as for now… she really wanted to buy some new clothes. If they had to be bowling shirts or chowdahhead t-shirts, well then, so be it.

Fortunately, Eastport offered alittlemore than Becca had said, and in one of the thrift stores Grace found several pairs of serviceable jeans and cargo pants as well as some t-shirts and fleeces. Her favorite t-shirt was bright yellow, with a sketch design of a shingled building in blue, and a huge lobster snapping its claws on the back. It read “Kenny’s Lobstah Shack” and underneath, in a wide, looping scrawl, “We’re Claw-some!”