The prospect was daunting, but exciting. I had been running Turner Construction for a few years now, and while I still enjoyed bringing historic San Francisco homes back from the brink, I had been itching for a new challenge. For something different.
And this was a lighthouse.
Still, one aspect of this renovation gave me pause: The lighthouse tower was several stories high, and ever since an altercation on the roof of a mansion high atop Pacific Heights, I had found myself dreading heights. Where once I wouldn’t have given a second thought to scrambling up a tall ladder or hopping out an attic window to repair loose shingles, now the very idea made me quail. I told myself I was being silly, and that these feelings would dissipate as the memory of the attack faded. I would not let fear stop me.
If only my vertigo were subject to my stern general’s voice.
Because this was a lighthouse. What was it about lighthouses that evoked such an aura of romance and mystery? Was it simply the idea of the keeper out here all alone, polishing the old lamps by day, keeping the fires burning at night, responsible for the lives of the equally lonely sailors passing by on the dark, vast waters?
“Alicia, I—”
My words were cut short when I realized she had frozen, a stricken look on her face.
A man stood in the greenery just past the edge of the courtyard. Smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes.
At least it isn’t a ghost, was my first thought. My second: Aw, crap. Is this Alicia’s ex? And he tracked her here, to a secluded island?
A ghost would have been a better bet.