Maidenstone Lighthouse Read Online Free PDF

night, either. But then, I don’t suppose many people do forget their first genuine sexual encounter. For that was what the night aboard his father’s sleek new motorsailer had been for me. And, I suspected, it had been the first time for Tom as well.
    Thankfully, Damon had returned quickly, ending the awkward moment. Tom had sheepishly gone back to discussing the lucrative summer-rental market in Freedman’s Cove, sparing me the necessity of reminding him that he was married, or boring him with tales of my handsome and fabulous lover.
    The next day we went to work on the house.
    While I went through countless boxes, trunks and closets, deciding what to keep and what to dispose of, Damon took charge of the redecorating. Helped by Tom, he hired workmen to redo the place inside and out including a modest updating of the old-fashioned kitchen. Partly because of the clutter at the house, but mostly because of my unpleasant memories of my last visit with Aunt Ellen, we had both stayed at a pleasant little B&B a few blocks away.
    Damon and I drove back to New York after five days, leaving Tom to see that the decorating was properly finished. We took with us only Aunt Ellen’s silver tea service, the Tiffany lamp and a few other items that she had treasured. Everything else either had been left for the use of summer renters, given away to local charities or, in the case of Aunt Ellen’s innumerable boxes of letters and old photos, locked in the still-unexplored attic, to be sorted out later.
    I soon forgot all about the embarrassing incident with Tom…

Chapter 5
    I t was very late when I pulled into the narrow drive beside the house and switched off the Volvo’s engine.
    Stepping wearily out of the warm car I stretched my numbed shoulders and looked up at the proud old Victorian. While she was still alive, Aunt Ellen had always kept a light burning in the parlor at night, so the house would seem warm and inviting to visitors, she said. But now the windows were dark and the place looked inexpressibly sad and empty.
    The beacon from the lighthouse on the point swept across the pale yellow clapboards, illuminating the tall, angular structure like a flash of lightning in a cheap horror movie. In that instant I had the fleeting impression that a face was peering down at me from the high window of the turret bedroom. Then the light moved on, plunging the house back into the darkness of the cold, moonless night.
    I stood there a moment longer, staring up at the blank window thirty feet above and wondering if it was possible that the place could be occupied. For, though summer rentals of the property had far exceeded my most optimistic expectations, no one had ever taken the house after mid-September. And I hadn’t even bothered calling Tom Barnwell before leaving the city to tell him I was coming up.
    Anyway, I was almost certain that I had only imagined the face in the window.
    A chilly blast of wind from the sea riffled my thin sweatshirt, sending a chill through my exhausted body and driving me back into the car for my keys and purse. From the cluttered rear seat I retrieved only a small overnight case and the bag of basic groceries I’d picked up at a minimart just off the interstate. Everything else, I decided, could wait until morning.
    With my arms full I hurried to the front porch and climbed the broad steps. On the off chance that the face in the window had not been merely a trick of the light I pressed the old-fashioned doorbell and listened to the sound of chimes echoing through the house.
    When after several seconds no light came on inside and I heard no footsteps on the stair I fumbled with the unfamiliar new lock that Tom had installed on the oak-framed glass door and let myself in. From memory I located the switch on the foyer wall. The glittering Austrian Crystal chandelier blazed to life at my touch, flooding the marbled entryway with light.
    â€œHello,” I called out loudly, just