Lighthouse on the Lake Read online

  With a stout build and a long Roman nose, Kate was more tomboy than fashion model. But even so, she was selective with accessorizing. Unlike her mother, whose knuckles clacked with gaudy jewels and whose chest shone with oversized gems, Kate preferred the less-is-more theory. A few clever basics were enough to transform her from a homely, broad-shouldered empty-nester into a respectable modern woman. With a sleek blonde A-line bob cutting crisply across the very tips of her shoulders and smart-looking tortoise-shell glasses, all it took was a swipe of red lipstick and a starched white button-down to turn her into something more than a widowed mother and a part-time realtor. And, with her latest project underway, Kate felt that she was emerging into a new, grand phase. The one that came after raising children and playing subordinate to her husband and the few bosses she’d known. Now, Kate Hannigan was a small-town business owner. An innkeeper.

  Chapter 7—Clara

  Kate had given them each a neatly printed list of to-dos. Everything from a rotation of linen-laundering to toilet-scrubbing to baseboard-wiping was accounted for and assigned. Even poor little Sarah earned a position as window-washer.

  Clara was excited to spend time with her niece. Maybe she’d even work up the courage to open the conversation she hadn’t yet had with her extended family members, not even Megan’s daughter.

  But first, before anyone began on her assignment, Kate asked for help in making some “big-picture decisions,” as she called them.

  Clara smiled at her, admiring the woman’s togetherness and dedication. Rehabbing and opening the house as a bed-and-breakfast was the perfect opportunity for Kate, Clara knew.

  A dry erase board appeared out of nowhere, and Kate lifted a chubby Expo marker and added the words The Heirloom Inn to the top then drew a perfectly straight line beneath.

  “All right,” she began, her hands steepled like she was running a business meeting. Clara supposed she was. “Upstairs, there are six rooms. Three of those rooms have closets. Three do not.”

  They all knew as much; the older three had fought to the death over who would get the closet spaces. In the end, Nora had decided that Kate, Amelia, and Megan would each get a room without a closet. It was the fairest approach. This meant that when Clara was born and a room was dedicated to her, it was a closet room. She secretly suspected her older sisters had long begrudged her that. Now, it was a silly thing. Then again, regarding the whole establishment of a bed-and-breakfast, a closet might be more significant after all: it could mean the difference in price points for guest rooms. Clara frowned and leaned in.

  As if reading her mind, Megan interjected. “Charge more for bedrooms with closets.”

  “What about Mom and Dad’s old room?” Amelia asked, glancing around. “It’s the biggest. Will one of us get it, or...?”

  Kate pinned Amelia with a look. “Good question. I suppose that depends on your long-term plans and mine,” she replied.

  Clara felt her stomach clench in anxiety. This was the conversation they’d been having since Nora passed. Who would get what? Who was getting too much? Too little? It was the precise reason Clara was happy to begin moving into the cottage. A small, separate space, private and all her own. And, detached from the house or the rental units. Clara felt lucky to get the cottage, and that was exactly why she was waiting for the other shoe to drop and one of her sisters to protest about fairness.

  Amelia cleared her throat. “Listen, Kate,” she began, looking around at the others guiltily. “I love being here. And I’ll stay for a while. But sharing this place with tourists? Not my bag. I’m not in it for the long run. I may not even stay in Birch Harbor past the summer, honestly.” She shrugged.

  Kate lowered her gaze to Amelia. “I understand. And I will be here for the long run.” She shot Clara a small smile.

  Curious, Clara pressed her on it. “You’re going to stay here long term?” She indicated the house by twirling her index finger in a little circle.

  A broad grin took over the woman’s face. “I know that we have to keep this place going. And I’m the oldest. I’m the one who’s most interested. So yes, I plan to stay for a while.”

  With that settled, they quickly began assigning placements and establishing parameters.

  “I’ll move into Mom and Dad’s room. It has the en suite bath and sits at the far side of the hall. The other five rooms will be guest rooms. But, what about all of you?” Kate paused, looking at her sisters.

  “You mean where will we stay when we come to town?” Megan asked.

  Kate nodded.

  Clara felt her cheeks flush. She didn’t want to share the cottage. But if it were just for Megan and Sarah, she could do it. “You’ll stay with me,” she answered for Kate. “Whenever you want, you can stay in the cottage with me, once I move in. Until then, we will bunk together in my unit at The Bungalows.”

  Sarah spoke up, excitement in her voice. “Yes! That’s perfect,” she cheered, grinning at Clara affectionately. It felt good to have the girl’s admiration. Really good.

  “Wonderful. That’s wonderful!” Kate pushed ahead. “And in the long run, we can have the attic converted. Or even the basement! If we work hard, we could have beds in both before autumn.” She added notes to the white board—second-floor guest rooms: five.

  Clara chimed in. “What about bathrooms? There are just two others than the en suite upstairs. Can five guest rooms work with just two bathrooms?”

  “We have one down here, too,” Amelia added helpfully.

  Kate frowned deeply.

  Clara licked her lips. “Maybe that’s okay, you know? Not all bed-and-breakfasts have individual bathrooms. Sometimes you have to share with your floor or whatever. Like a college dorm.”

  “You don’t have much competition in town,” Megan said. “But eventually you want to offer the best experience, right? You want to beat out Birch Harbor Motel, right?”

  “Right,” Kate answered.

  Clara studied Megan, her features bare of makeup, her hair tossed up in a messy bun. For over-forty, she looked good for her age. It was no wonder Sarah was so beautiful. She closely resembled her mom. Dark hair and bright green eyes against olive skin. Clara knew they looked nothing like Nora. Did they look like Nora’s husband? Wendell Acton? She frowned for a moment, then a thought occurred to her.

  “I’ve got it.” Clara’s eyes lit up, and she snapped her fingers. “For now, just rent out two bedrooms upstairs. The ones by each hall bath. Build up some savings, then we can convert the basement and add two rooms down there with two new baths. That saves the first-floor bath as a main level powder room, and it gives you time to work your way up to a full-service bed-and-breakfast.”

  Kate nodded excitedly.

  “Full-service? You make it sound like a brothel,” Amelia joked. Clara didn’t laugh. Amelia did, though. Sarah rolled her eyes.

  “Anyway,” Kate cut through Amelia’s laughter. “I love that idea, Clara. We can ease in. It’s perfect.”

  The window behind them illuminated in a bright boom of lightning. A crack of thunder erupted through their conversation. Then, like a scene from a movie, rain spilled from the sky, pattering on the back porch loudly as the sky lit up in a fresh flash of lightning. A Saturday morning storm in late May. Clara’s favorite weather, even if it mismatched the tone of their little party. A cool breeze splashed through the screen door behind the kitchen island, tickling Clara’s neck and reminding her how warm the house was.

  “First,” Clara remarked. “You’d better look into having the air conditioning unit serviced.” She gave Kate a helpless look, but Kate already knew this and nodded back, twisting her mouth into a thoughtful pout.

  “And paint,” Megan added. “The exterior is peeling off in swaths,” she said.

  Again, Kate nodded and then narrowed her eyes on an absent focal point in the distance. “We need to hire someone,” she said, sighing deeply. “Someone who can help with all of this. Or maybe several someones. I’m not sure we can manage alone.�
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  “I know someone,” Clara answered, a timid smile dancing on her lips.

  Kate frowned and stared at her. “Okay. Well, who?”

  Clara’s smile turned to a grimace as she answered. “Your ex-boyfriend.”

  Chapter 8—Megan

  Now organized into pairs, Megan and Kate got to work. Since Kate had already vacuumed and mopped the common area floors and oiled the banisters and furniture, they could turn their attention to the two guest rooms upstairs, focusing on cleaning and making notes for decor.

  Clara and Sarah set about the windows with a secondary task to head up the laundry cycles.

  Amelia worked independently on the upstairs bathrooms, blasting music out of her phone like an obstinate teenager. Typical Amelia.

  Kate told Megan she also wanted help with establishing a check-in desk of some sort. Last on her list was to tackle the kitchen, but Megan convinced her that she was biting off more than she—or any of them—could chew in one weekend.

  As they set about stripping the bed and collecting old trinkets from around the room and boxing them up, Megan asked Kate what her timeline was.

  “What do you mean?” Kate replied.

  Megan tugged the bed skirt loose from its wedge between the box spring and mattress. “When are you going to start advertising? When are you going to open for business?”

  Kate sighed. “Well, I’m listing my Apple Tree Hill house in a week or two. Once that’s on the market, I’d like to get everything moved here, to the basement or attic for now, I suppose. Then, I’ll be able to focus all of my energy on the Inn.”

  “Plus, you need to call Matt, right?” Megan pointed out, tossing the wadded white lace-trimmed bedding into the hallway.

  Blinking, Kate’s face flushed. “Or whoever can help, yes.”

  “Why not Matt?” Megan pushed. Matt Fiorillo was Kate’s high school boyfriend. They’d reconnected in the wake of the funeral and over the drama with Clara from a week ago, but Megan could tell things were still tepid, at best. She wondered why. If Megan was skillful at one thing in life, it was identifying a good match. Her sister and the Birch Harbor house-flipper were a good match. They had that origin story that so few couples have. High school sweethearts. Grave drama. Dire straits. Distance. And then, a second-chance meeting, years later.

  “I mean I’ll call him, but he might not want to help. Maybe he’s too busy.” Kate left the room with the banker’s box tucked under her arm. Megan followed her.

  “You’re afraid,” Megan trilled as they strode down the hall, Megan with a pile of musty-smelling bedding resting in her arms.

  They passed Amelia and her loud music and descended the stairs, veering through to the lower staircase that would take them into the basement.

  Once they were down there and Megan was stuffing her wad of whites into the empty washing machine, Kate shelved the box of doodads and faced Megan, crossing her arms severely over her chest.

  Megan poured detergent and fabric softener into the little drawers, punched them closed, and set the machine. Ignoring Kate’s pout, she commented, “I thought Clara and Sarah were running laundry.”

  “They are,” Kate replied, her eyes narrowing on Megan.

  “Then let’s get back upstairs and vacuum the mattress or whatever neurotic thing you do when you clean.” There it was. Megan crossed a line.

  Kate audibly sucked in a breath then unleashed on Megan. “You think I’m afraid to call Matt. I’ve been talking to Matt all week! I’m not afraid to talk to him. If anyone in this house is afraid of something, it’s you.” She jabbed a finger at Megan. A distinct shift in tone unmoored Megan from her stance on the cold concrete floor.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Megan held up her hands in an innocent plea. “I didn’t mean to set you off. What are you talking about?” she shot back.

  “Megan, look at you. You have a good husband, and you’re pulling the plug. And why? Because he never pushed you to get a career? Because he was focused on his own? News flash, sis, we are all focused on ourselves.” She shook her head and uncrossed her arms, raising them helplessly. “I don’t understand you. None of us do. Brian is a good guy. Why end it?”

  Megan’s throat closed up immediately. Her heart started to burn in her chest. She felt the instant urge to chew up half a bottle of Tums. Megan was not about to open this conversation. Not in the middle of a girls’ weekend with her sisters during what ought to be a fun project. A healing project. “Are you serious?” she asked, searching for a way to end the line of questioning.

  “Yes, I’m serious. You’re here pointing a finger at me, suggesting I am afraid of initiating... something with Matt Fiorillo. Meanwhile, you’re leaving your own marriage. So, what is it with you, Megan? Do you believe in love or not?”

  Blinking back the threat of tears, Megan was desperate to push past Kate and storm upstairs and out through the front doors. Never to look back.

  But she was better than that.

  “Of course I believe in love,” she admitted at last, her face crumbling and her body slumping into relief and defeat. Then, as she felt Kate’s arms wrap around her, Megan added, breathlessly, “I still love Brian.”

  “Then why are you leaving him?” Kate whispered back.

  Megan swallowed the lump in her throat and quelled her crying long enough to find an answer. “I don’t know anymore.”

  Chapter 9—Amelia

  The rest of the weekend went well. Better than well, even. They’d managed to handle a significant portion of the cleaning. Amelia was pleased to go to bed the night before knowing they’d cleared out and set up one guest room, one hall bath, and even tackled the kitchen, not to mention some other wide-scale jobs like the interior windows and rounds and rounds of laundry.

  Sometime around four in the morning, Kate crept into Amelia’s room, who sensed her sister before she saw or heard her. Neither of them could sleep. The buzz of excitement and new beginnings grew palpable, and once Kate’s face appeared in the milky twilight at Amelia’s bedside, they shared a grin like a pair of schoolgirls at a slumber party.

  So, instead of sleeping, Amelia untucked herself from the narrow bed and followed Kate to the kitchen where they brewed a pot of coffee and sat by the window. The tug of exhaustion pulled hard beneath Amelia’s eyes, and she knew that come afternoon, she’d be dragging, but it was interesting to rise before the sun for once.

  For so many years Amelia had lived her life in the night, rather than the morning, waking well past noon to tend to Dobi’s needs, shower, get dressed and ready for her evening waitress shift. After, she would lamely follow her younger friends on their playful journey to the cheapest show of the night. Then, even later, Amelia would tag along for some party where she was out of place and generally miserable. She’d last until two or three until she begged off and trudged home on foot or by subway, reeking of body odor and cigarettes by the time she plopped onto her creaky bed with eager Dobi, too tired and depressed to bother with a bath. Too tired and depressed to mind that Dobi had filled his little potty pad to the brim.

  Typically, the next morning, the raunchy cycle would replicate itself, and Amelia would begin her day with high hopes for something new to come her way—starting with a fresh potty pad and a shower hot enough to sear away the bad decisions. Some days she’d take Dobi on long, inspiring walks and talk herself into a new plan. But it failed each time, and each day she slipped back into a New York rut.

  Then, her mom died.

  And once one’s mom dies, everything changes.

  So it was with Amelia and little Dobi.

  As the second-oldest Hannigan sat in silence with a tuckered-out Dobi snuggled on her lap watching the sun rise, she wondered if it was only possible to start over if you were pushed to it.

  She asked Kate as much.

  “What do you mean?” her sister replied, tearing her eyes away from the window.

  Amelia let out a deep sigh. “If Mom hadn’t died, would I wait tables for the rest of
my life? Would I have held out for a good role for another twenty or thirty years, pretending I wasn’t the oldest one at the restaurant all the while?”

  Kate chuckled and drew a sip of her coffee. “It’s been one weekend since you moved. Who knows if you aren’t still destined for that?”

  Bristling, Amelia replied, “You think it’s my destiny to be miserable?”

  “No. Of course not. And anyway, Mom would have died one day. If she were immortal, we’d have other issues.”

  Amelia allowed herself a laugh despite feeling a little hurt. “Really, Kate. Do you think I am destined to be miserable and wait tables all my life?”

  Kate set her mug down with purpose and shifted in her seat, looking directly into Amelia’s eyes. “I think you’re in charge of your destiny, actually. But remember what Mom always said. ‘Show me where you’ve been, and I’ll tell you where you’re going.’ Remember?”

  Amelia’s bitterness only grew in reply to her sister’s hard edge, so she pushed back again. “So, you think, and Mom would have thought, that I’m going to be a waitress for the rest of my life? That I’ll never get a good role? That I’ll never fall in love or be happy?” Anger sliced through her words. Dobi roused on her lap, curious now. She patted his head assuredly.

  Kate pushed her coffee out of the way and wrapped her hand around Amelia’s wrist. “No. I don’t believe any of that. But I do believe you have to decide to do it. Here. Now. A new start, right? Don’t slip back, Amelia. Don’t move cities again. Stop searching. Start doing.”

  Amelia’s chest grew hollow. Kate was right. She knew Kate was right. But the truth could be a hard pill to swallow. Amelia opened her mouth to answer but thought better of making some empty promise. Instead, she decided to do.

  ***

  After a light breakfast and a jaunt down to the beach with Dobi kicking sand with feverish confusion, Amelia felt refreshed. Something about the water refilled her spirit, splashing life back into her where it had begun to drain.