Cape Light Read online

  Contents

  Welcome to Cape Light

  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

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cape Light

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Media Arts Group, Inc. and Parachute Publishing, LLC.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1473-2

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: January, 2005

  The Cape Light Titles

  CAPE LIGHT

  HOME SONG

  A GATHERING PLACE

  A NEW LEAF

  WELCOME TO CAPE LIGHT

  I AM OFTEN ASKED WHY THERE ARE NO PEOPLE IN my paintings. And some “experts” have even come up with weighty answers to that question. But the truth is, my paintings are full of people. They are there. I see them when I paint. They sit in the windows reading a bedtime story to their children. They tend the flowers that line the paths to their warm and inviting homes. They work in the shops. They play in the parks. They pray in the churches. They struggle. They rejoice.

  They live.

  They love.

  They can’t stop their lives to pose for a picture. But if you come with me now, you can meet some of them. Come with me to Cape Light.

  Located just an hour’s drive north of Boston, some call it the town that time forgot. But Cape Light’s slow-paced, old-fashioned atmosphere is valued and protected by its residents. In this close-knit community, neighbors help neighbors, and storekeepers greet their customers by name.

  Up on Main Street, the storefronts and restaurants look much the same as they always have. First stop at the Clam Box where Lucy Bates and her husband still make the best clam chowder and the strongest coffee in New England. Then, you’ll be ready to wander down through to the Village Green where Cape Light residents, led by Mayor Emily Warwick, gather to celebrate each season. A Christmas tree is lit for the winter holidays. There are band concerts on soft spring nights, fireworks on the Fourth of July, and the Harvest Festival in the Fall.

  Walk down to the harbor and you’ll probably see Digger Hegman. The old fisherman is never too far from the water. Let your gaze follow the coastline and you’ll see Durham Point Lighthouse whose beacon has guided ships for more than a century.

  Cape Light is a place where people have the time to savor life’s simple pleasures. Where they have learned to find joy in the simple—but extraordinary—blessings of everyday life. Their lives are not without challenges, fears, even sadness. Light cannot exist without shadow, and neither joy nor love can be experienced without dark times as well. But day by day, the people of Cape Light struggle to make the right choices—choices that will lead them toward the paths of deep, satisfying lives. They learn how the power of faith and hope can work to change them for the better. And in the course of their journyes, they also experience the unexpected miracles that bring events full circle—and feel like a gentle, guiding push from some unseen hand.

  I know you will enjoy meeting the people of Cape Light. Their stories remind us that it is possible to overcome challenges and learn to live again in the light of love and faith.

  Welcome to Cape Light, a little town you’ve never been to, but you know it by heart.

  Welcome home.

  —Thomas Kinkade

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS HARD TO COME BACK AGAIN.

  This time, for some reason, it was harder than usual. As Jessica Warwick headed north on the thruway, she could almost feel the pull of Boston behind her. She was already missing the city—her friends there, the stores, the restaurants and galleries. She loved the city’s excitement and sophistication. She couldn’t quite believe that she was once again leaving it for Cape Light.

  Jessica fought back a surge of frustration. The thruway was thick with traffic, and the air conditioner in her aging hatchback was no match for the late-afternoon heat.

  What were all these people doing, driving around on Memorial Day, anyway? They should be at barbecues or at the beach. Or even in shopping malls.

  I never should have promised Mother I’d visit her tonight, she told herself as the traffic inched forward. I could have gone to Rita’s party and breezed up here later. When the roads were clearer and I was in a much better mood.

  When was the last time she’d been to a party? Jessica honestly couldn’t remember. But it had to be when she was living and working in Boston. Before she moved back to Cape Light. She’d returned to her hometown nearly six months ago to help care for her mother, Lillian, who’d had a stroke. Except for working at the bank every day and helping her mother, Jessica found very little in Cape Light that interested her. All her old friends had either moved away or were married with children and living very different lives. Or they had changed so much they didn’t have a lot to say to each other anymore.

  Maybe the problem is that I’ve changed, Jessica thought. She didn’t have much in common with the people in the small village. Maybe she never did. It was difficult to make new friends, even among her co-workers at the bank. Although she had lived in Cape Light most of her life, Jessica now felt very much the outsider.

  Finally the exit for Cape Light came into view, and Jessica turned off the highway. At the last minute she decided to take the back road to her mother’s house instead of driving through the village. It would take a little longer, she knew, but there would be a big crowd at the harbor and village green by now, everyone waiting for the fireworks display due to start at sundown.

  Of course, there had been a parade down Main Street that morning, and Jessica’s older sister, Emily, had made an appropriate speech as the town’s mayor. Jessica could already imagine the full report she’d receive from their mother, praising Emily’s many accomplishments.

  Well, that wasn’t Emily’s fault, Jessica told herself. Her older sister was, in fact, quite modest. Emily also seemed to have endless patience with their elderly mother, which was no small feat. Emily was a genuinely caring person, Jessica thought, though Emily had no one close to look out for, except for their mother. And her, Jessica. The two of them were nine years apart, and Jessica figured Emily’s protectiveness toward her was only natural. Sometimes it irked her, though, as if Emily didn’t quite realize her little sister was not a child anymore but a thirty-two-year-old woman.

  Jessica had expected that she and her sister woul
d become closer once she returned home. She wasn’t sure why, but so far that hadn’t quite happened. They were both busy with their jobs. Still, there was something more to it—some wall of reserve they could never quite break through. Their mother didn’t help, either, with her sly way of pitting her daughters against each other. Jessica was aware of it now, as an adult, and Emily was, too. Sometimes they even joked about it. Though Jessica wondered if the damage done over so many years could ever quite be undone.

  Driving along the Beach Road, lush and overgrown already in late May, Jessica slowed as she came to a long line of cars parked along the shoulder, just before the Potters’ orchard. Sophie and Gus’s annual barbecue, she realized. There was quite a crowd there. Jessica had gone to a few of their parties when she’d been very young. While the Potters were never close friends of her family, they’d always been kind to the Warwicks, even when it felt as if the whole town had turned against them. Jessica had been invited to the barbecue this year, as well, and as she approached the orchard, she was tempted to park and stop in for a minute, just to say hello.

  But she decided against it and continued to drive by. The Potters’ grand old Queen Anne–style house caught her eye as she passed, only partly visible through the trees. She spotted children running around beneath the apple trees and caught just a hint of the smoky scent of grilling food carried on the breeze.

  Jessica sighed. Well, there was another party she’d missed today. Now it was on to her mother’s house, where she was sure to be greeted with a litany of complaints and demands.

  THE PARTY HAD BEGUN IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON. By dusk it seemed at least half the population of Cape Light had gathered in the field behind the Potters’ orchard. Family, friends, and neighbors of Gus and Sophie Potter had arrived from near and far, as they did every year on Memorial Day weekend, for as long as anyone could remember. They came for the company, the music, and even some dancing. And, of course, for Sophie’s renowned cooking.

  When darkness finally dropped over the harbor like a heavy curtain, a hush would fall over the crowd as well. Everyone would find a comfortable spot, then settle back to watch fireworks explode in the night sky. Set high on the bluffs north of town, the orchard was an ideal viewing point for the show. An unofficial but indispensable village tradition that marked the start of summer.

  This year the evening was unseasonably warm for late May, the air heavy with the scent of barbecue. There was also a drift of fragrance from the flowering shrubs, honeysuckle and early roses, mixed with the faint, intrinsic scent of the sea.

  Beneath a star-filled sky and a full moon, the open field looked luminous. Magical. Paper lanterns had been strung in the trees, and small candles glowed on tabletops. Long tables stood under a makeshift canopy, covered with an array of homemade dishes. No one had come empty-handed, and the guests could be heard exchanging compliments and recipes.

  Sophie had prepared several of her specialties, including poppy-seed coleslaw, red potato salad, johnnycake, and twice-baked beans with seven secret spices, which no one had ever quite figured out. Notoriously secretive about her recipes, Sophie would only confirm five.

  Real-estate maven Betty Bowman, who was quite well traveled, suspected the missing ingredients were ground cloves and a dash of paprika. Charlie Bates, who owned the Clam Box Diner, insisted it was chili powder and Seaman’s Boiling Spice. But then again, it was common knowledge that Charlie put chili powder and boiling spice into nearly every dish he served, so few took that guess too seriously.

  It didn’t help to ask Sophie. She claimed she was writing a cookbook and wasn’t about to give away her secrets for free when she and Gus could be living off her royalties in their old age. Sophie had reportedly been working on this manuscript for years, though no one had yet seen a page of it.

  At the dessert table there was another bountiful spread of confections. A huge strawberry shortcake held center stage, the berries fresh from the Potters’ pick-your-own patch. The chorus line included lemon-meringue and strawberry-rhubarb pies, chocolate layer cake, and carrot cake with cream-cheese frosting, all baked by Molly Willoughby. Chocolate chip cookies, gelatin molds, and watermelon slices rounded out the offerings.

  Some time after dinner, instrument cases appeared—a guitar, a fiddle, and even a banjo this year. A space was cleared for dancing, and the music began, floating out over the field and vine-covered trees to the shadowy spaces beyond, where children chased each other through the dark orchard, miraculously tireless.

  Sophie moved among her guests with a regal air, dressed in a long summer gown. The beads and bangles around her neck swayed and glittered with every step. Her hair, a faded strawberry blond mixed with silver gray, was arranged in a braided coil and studded with fresh flowers. She paused to chat with each group, making sure everyone was having a good time.

  Gus watched his wife from a distance, his large chest puffed with pride as he stood beside the reverend Ben Lewis.

  “She’s the queen bee tonight, all right,” Gus noted with an admiring shake of his head. “Sometimes I think we’d be better off running a banquet hall instead of keeping the orchard all these years. Sophie sure loves throwing a party.”

  “It’s a good one, Gus,” Ben said. “The best ever, I think.”

  “Thanks, Reverend. That’s kind of you to say.” Gus hooked a thumb in his suspenders, a patriotic red, white, and blue pattern he’d received as a Christmas gift from one of his grown children. “Sophie and I were just saying last night, we’ll keep doing this as long as we’re able and the Lord is willing.”

  “And we’ll all keep coming as long as you keep inviting us,” Reverend Ben replied with a smile.

  Gus laughed. “Well, it wouldn’t feel like summer’s really started around here without it, I guess.”

  “No, not at all,” the reverend agreed.

  When Gus drifted off to visit with other guests, the reverend joined his wife, Carolyn, seated at a nearby table with their friend, Harry Reilly. Harry, who was busily eating, answered the reverend’s greeting with a nod.

  “Enjoying yourself?” Ben asked Carolyn as he sat down.

  “Yes, very much,” Carolyn assured him. She was already on her dessert and about to take another bite of strawberry shortcake. “The shortcake’s perfect.”

  Harry looked up. “Try the rhubarb pie,” he managed around a mouthful of pie. “You’d better get up there,” he advised the reverend. “It’s going fast.”

  Carolyn laughed and turned back to her husband. “Wait, dear, don’t go yet. Harry has some news. . . .” She turned to Harry with a prompting smile.

  “You tell him.” Harry shrugged and speared a large strawberry with his plastic fork. “It’s no big deal.”

  “All right, then, if you don’t want to, I will.” Carolyn’s blue eyes sparkled. “Harry’s giving Digger a job at the boatyard,” she announced.

  “Really? That is news,” Ben replied. Removing his round wire-rimmed glasses, he wiped them on a paper napkin and glanced at his friend. Harry met his gaze for a moment, then looked away, clearly reluctant to offer any explanations.

  Harry had never been an easygoing man, Ben knew, nor the most accepting. Grief over the loss of his wife, Nora, ten years ago, had caused those traits to harden. Maybe this news about Digger was a good sign, Ben mused. Maybe Harry was turning a corner.

  “And how did that come about?” the reverend finally asked. “From what I hear, Digger’s the last person you want around the yard.”

  Harry shrugged one large shoulder. “He’s always hanging around. I thought I’d put him to work, is all. He’ll be scraping hulls mostly. Painting, patching. That sort of thing. I need a hand. Temporary, I mean. He was more than willing.”

  Yes, Digger Hegman probably was eager to work, Ben thought. The old fisherman had been the best clammer on the Cape in his day, hauling up shellfish faster than any man on the water. Nearly eighty and still strong in body and spirit, Digger tended to be a bit absentminded these days. Oft
en wandering the village as early as dawn, he’d watch the fishing boats leave the harbor, then turn up at Reilly’s Boatyard.

  “Does Grace know?” Carolyn asked Harry.

  “I think Digger is old enough to do as he likes without his daughter’s permission.” Harry sat back and rubbed his hand through his bristly gray crew cut.

  Carolyn glanced at Ben. His look told her to let the subject drop.

  “Looks like Digger is showing the children his tricks,” Ben said.

  Harry turned to see his new employee a short distance away, entertaining a group of kids with a handkerchief and a coin.

  “And that’s another thing,” Harry added. “He showed me some knot tricks the other day. He’s entertaining when things get slow.”

  “Digger is full of surprises,” Ben agreed.

  Harry dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin. “Well, he starts at the yard tomorrow. We’ll see how it works out.”

  “Yes, you’ll just have to see,” Ben agreed. He turned to watch Digger again. Grace was approaching her father, her slim body seeming lost in her long, loose blouse and patterned skirt.

  She said something to Digger, interrupting one of his magic tricks. Digger nodded at her. Then he smoothed down his long beard and took a small bow for his audience. As the children applauded, he left them to follow his daughter.

  Digger, a widower, lived with Grace, who owned the Bramble, an antique shop in town. The old man had a long-standing heart problem, and lately he tended to get confused and forgetful. Grace kept a close watch over him. Sometimes perhaps too close, Ben thought.

  Work might be good for him, Ben told himself. If his daughter lets him take the job, this idea of Harry’s might be good for all three of them.

  After Harry picked up his ever-present Red Sox cap and left to get coffee, Carolyn moved her chair closer to her husband.

  She had more news for Ben—news she was bursting to share. But she’d been waiting until Harry left. Now she wondered if she should wait until they got home.