“So, here’s what we’re thinking,” Alicia said, making a sweeping gesture around the former front parlor. “We take down this wall, combine the space with the smaller drawing room next door, and make this whole area the bar and restaurant.”
“It’s not very large,” I pointed out, comparing the blueprints in my hand to the existing floor plan.
“It doesn’t have to be. There will be at most ten overnight guests, so only five small tables are required for their meals—or we might just do one big table and serve everything family-style, I haven’t decided yet. And visitors won’t be that frequent—there aren’t that many people who stop in at the yacht harbor, and even with our boat ferrying people over from the mainland, it will still take some planning to come to the island. It’s not as though we have to take into account foot traffic! So I’m thinking we’ll be at capacity with about twenty guests for drinks and dinner. But for those that make it, we’ll be a gorgeous little oasis in the bay.”
Alicia sighed with happiness.
I was pleased for my friend, but experienced enough to be a wee bit jaded. At this point in a renovation, most clients couldn’t see past the stars in their eyes and the longing in their hearts. Starting a historic renovation was a lot like falling in love: a blissful period of soaring romantic hope and infatuation that lasted until the grueling realities of sawdust and noise and confusion and delays—not to mention mounting cost overruns and unwelcome discoveries in the walls—brought a person back to earth with a resounding thud.
“We’ll keep the bare bones of the kitchen, but include updated fixtures and some expansion, of course. But we’ll make the study and part of the pantry into a first-floor suite for the live-in manager—”
“That would be you?”
“Oh, I dearly hope so, if I can find a replacement to serve as Ellis’s assistant. I can’t leave him high and dry.”
“But he wants this for you, right? Isn’t that why he’s bankrolling the project?”
Alicia blushed. “Yes, he does. Ellis is very . . .”
“Sweet,” I said when she trailed off.
She nodded but avoided my eyes. Now that she had loosened up a little and was no longer the tight-lipped martinet I had first met, Alicia was charming. The scar on her upper lip and another by one eye—relics of difficult times at the hands of her abusive (now-ex) husband—only served to make her pretty face more interesting. The wounds on her psyche were another matter altogether, but through therapy and a whole lot of emotional hard work, Alicia had made great strides toward healing.
And now, unless I was mistaken, she had developed a serious crush on Ellis Elrich, her boss and savior. Ellis was a good guy, surprisingly down-to-earth for a billionaire. Still, the situation seemed . . . complicated.
Oh, what tangled webs we weave.
“Anyway, that will leave three guest suites upstairs, each with an attached bath. And one in the attic, awaiting renovation. Oh! Did I tell you? The attic is full of old furniture, and there’s a trunk of old books. There are even the original keeper’s logs!”
“Still? No one took them after all this time?”
“I suppose that’s the advantage of being on an isolated island. Can you imagine? We can put some on display to add to the historic maritime ambience!”
I smiled. “Of course we can. I can’t wait to look through everything. You know me and old books.” Me and old everything, actually.
“We might be able to create one more bedroom in the foghorn building, unless we decide to turn that into a separate office. The problem, though, is the noise.”
“What noise?”
“The foghorn still sounds on foggy days. It’s not the original horn; it’s an electronic version. But still, it’s loud.”
“How loud?”
“Really loud.”
“That could be a problem. So, what do you want to do with the tower itself? The architect hasn’t specified anything here.”
“That—” She stopped midsentence and her face lost all color.
“Alicia?” I glanced behind me, but didn’t notice anything out of place. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I saw . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her auburn hair.
I turned back to scan the scene, paying careful attention to my peripheral vision. Fervently hoping not to see a ghost. Or a body. Or both.
Because I tend to see things. Things that would make many people scream, run, or faint dead away. Not all the time, but often enough for it to make an impression. Due to my profession I spend a lot of time in historic structures, so it probably isn’t surprising—for the open-minded, anyway—that I’ve been exposed to more than a few wandering souls who aren’t clear on the veil between our worlds.
The fact that I trip over dead bodies, on the other hand, is . . . disturbing.
For me most of all, I should add.
Happily, in this moment I saw only the debris-filled main parlor of the old Keeper’s House. My mind’s eye began to imagine the space filled with vivacious guests sharing meals and stories, children holding cold hands up to the fire in the raised stone hearth, perhaps a calico cat lounging on the windowsill. The visitors warm and happy, safe from the chill winds blowing off the bay, the occasional mournful blast of the foghorn or flash of the lamp atop the tower adding to the dreamy atmosphere, to the sense that they were a world away from a major metropolitan area, rather than minutes. Alicia was right; with Ellis’s deep pockets and Turner Construction’s building skills, the inn could be magical. Would be magical.
Who’s the romantic now, Mel Turner?
“Let’s . . . I think we should go, Mel,” Alicia said, her voice tight.
“What’s wrong, Alicia? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She walked toward the front entry, its charming beadboard paneling buckling in the center, and led the way out to the deep wraparound porch. Thick wooden boards had been laid over rotten sections of the porch floor to allow safe passage to the steps. “I think I’m just spooked.”
“Did you see something . . . ghostly?” I asked, surprised. Alicia had never mentioned being sensitive to the supernatural.
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s— Well, I’m a little jumpy. I received a letter not long ago.”
“And?”
“It was from Thorn.”
“Thorn?”
“Thorn Walker. He’s . . . he was my husband. Thorn’s my ex-husband.”
“How did he find you? I thought you changed your name, covered your tracks.”
“I did,” Alicia said with a humorless laugh. “Ellis hired a lawyer and a skip tracer, and they helped me to create a new identity. But . . . it’s all my fault. I haven’t been as careful as I needed to be, and have let my guard down lately. When Ellis bought this island and announced plans to renovate the buildings and open an inn, I was photographed next to him. The photo appeared in several news outlets—it seems everyone loves stories about historic lighthouses! What was I thinking? Thorn’s not stupid. I should know better than anyone that when he puts his mind to something, he can be quite determined.”
“What did Ellis’s security team suggest?”
She didn’t answer.
“Alicia? Did you show Ellis the letter?”
She remained silent, heading down the shored-up porch steps, past an old NO TRESPASSING sign, and into a cement courtyard that had been built on a slight incline to funnel rainwater into the underground cistern. Back when these buildings were constructed, access to freshwater would have been a priority. Living on a virtually barren rock wasn’t easy, and similar challenges had ultimately closed down Alcatraz, the famous federal penitentiary that still held pride of place on another island in the bay, much closer to San Francisco. When everything had to be brought in by supply boat, priorities shifted.
There would be no pizza delivery while on this job.
In fact, any and all construction supplies—lumber and concrete, nails and screws, equipment and tools—would have to be brought to the dock by boat and hoisted up with a winch.