Chapter 2
two
The microfiche machine at the Westerly Cove Library wheezed every time Lily advanced the film.
She hunched over the viewer for three hours, squinting at yellowed newspaper pages that flickered past in a parade of local advertisements, church socials, and fishing reports.
Her neck stiffened, and the ancient fluorescent bulb cast everything in a sickly green light that made her eyes water.
“This whole system. How did people research anything before computers?”
“Very slowly and with great patience.” Sarah set down her stack and pulled out a chair. “Which you’re not exactly famous for.”
Lily shot her a look but couldn’t argue.
Patience had never been her strong suit, whether she waited for darkroom chemicals to develop her photographs or for sources to return her calls for the school newspaper.
But this project demanded different persistence—the methodical, exhausting work of sifting through decades of documentation with no search function to guide her.
“Find anything interesting?” Sarah opened the top book, a leather-bound volume titled “Westerly Cove: A Maritime History.”
“Bits and pieces. Did you know that the lighthouse keeper in 1922 made a formal request to the town council for ‘additional winter provisions’? Not food or fuel—provisions. What’s a provision?”
Sarah pulled out her notebook and colored pens. She had started creating visual timelines to help organize Lily’s research, claiming that patterns became clearer when you could see them spatially. “Could be anything. Maybe special equipment for storms?”
“Maybe.” Lily made a note and wound the film forward. “But he made the same request three more times over the next year. Always the same vague language.”
“Want me to look up what lighthouse keepers usually needed?” Sarah sketched a timeline across the top of her page.
“That’d be great.”
They worked in comfortable silence for the next hour, Lily making her way through 1923 while Sarah cross-referenced lighthouse equipment lists and created detailed charts.
The friendship had developed this rhythm over the past three years—Lily diving headfirst into whatever had caught her interest, Sarah providing the organizational framework that kept her from drowning in information.
“Hey, Lily.” Sarah’s voice was quiet, but her tone made Lily look up from the viewer. “When did you say the lighthouse keeper died?”
“Edmund Hawthorne. October 14th, 1923. Why?”
Sarah turned her book toward Lily, pointing to a passage about lighthouse maintenance schedules. “According to this, October was when keepers did most of their major repairs. Painting, weatherproofing, equipment maintenance. The work that couldn’t be done during winter storms.”
“So he died doing routine maintenance.”
“Right. But look at this.” Sarah flipped to another page. “This says lighthouse keepers typically worked in pairs during dangerous maintenance. One person never worked alone at heights, especially during storm season.”
Lily felt a small flutter of interest. “The newspaper said he fell from the lighthouse gallery during routine maintenance. No mention of anyone else being there.”
“Could be nothing. Maybe the safety rules were different back then, or maybe they just didn’t report those details.”
“Could be.” But Lily wound the film forward, looking for follow-up articles about the accident.
She found a brief mention in the next week’s paper—just a notice that Thomas Aldrich had been appointed as the new lighthouse keeper, effective November 1st. No investigation, no inquest, no details about the accident itself.
“That’s weird,” she said. “When Principal Hayes had his heart attack last year, the newspaper ran three different articles about it. But a lighthouse keeper dies in an accident and they barely mention it?”
Sarah glanced up from her timeline. “Maybe newspapers covered things differently in the 1920s. Less sensational.”
“Or maybe nothing sensational happened to report.” Lily printed the article anyway, adding it to her growing collection of documents. “I should probably interview some of the older residents. People who might have heard family stories about the lighthouse.”
“Good idea. Mrs. Pennington at the historical society would be perfect. She’s been here forever.”
“Think she’d talk to me?”
“Are you kidding? She loves talking about local history. My mom says she’s been trying to get someone to write a proper history of the town for years.”
Lily added “Interview Mrs. Pennington” to her growing to-do list. The research expanded beyond her expectations, but in a good way. She started to feel less like a student and more like a real journalist, following leads and building a story from scattered pieces of information.
That evening before dinner, Lily spread her materials across the kitchen table while her parents finished cooking. The Morgan family enforced a rule about homework during meals, but research didn’t count as homework—research had become more like a hobby spiraling out of control.
“How’s the lighthouse project coming along?” Martha stirred the rice and beans that would accompany tonight’s grilled chicken.
“Really well. I’m learning so much about the town’s history.” Lily glanced up from Sarah’s timeline, which now covered three pages and included color-coded entries for different types of information. “Did you know the lighthouse had four different keepers between 1920 and 1925?”
Robert flipped the chicken on the stovetop. “That seems like a lot.”
“That’s what I thought. Lighthouse keeping was supposed to be a stable job, but these guys kept leaving after a year or two.”
“Maybe the position demanded too much,” Martha suggested. “Isolated, dangerous work.”
“The pay probably didn’t help either,” Robert added. “Young men might have taken the job temporarily while looking for something better.”
“Maybe.” Lily consulted her notes. “But Edmund Hawthorne stayed for three years, and according to the records, he seemed to be doing well. He made improvements to the cottage, requested additional supplies, and participated in community events. Then he died in an accident, and his wife left town immediately.”
Robert set down his spatula. Martha stopped stirring. They exchanged a glance—subtle, but Lily caught it.
“Accidents happen,” Martha said carefully. “Especially in dangerous jobs. His wife probably felt devastated. She might not have wanted to stay in a place with so many painful memories.”
“Of course.” Lily turned back to her timeline. “I’m just trying to understand the full picture. You know, the human element behind the historical facts.”
“Academic papers need documented sources,” Robert said. “Employment records, government files, newspaper articles. The Coast Guard keeps maintenance logs going back decades. Those archives won’t steer you wrong.”
“I know. That’s why I want to interview some of the residents who have lived here forever. Get their perspective on what really happened.”
Martha set down her spoon and leaned against the counter.
“Interview questions work best when you already know the facts. Ask Mrs. Kowalski about daily life in the twenties. Ask Mr. Warren about his grandfather’s fishing business.
Focus on what people did, not what they might have seen or heard or suspected. ”
“Family stories change over time,” Robert continued. “What starts as fact becomes legend after a few generations. Your journalism teacher would tell you the same thing—verify everything independently.”
“I will,” Lily promised. “I’m planning to stick to verifiable information.”
After dinner, Lily organized her materials in her bedroom, her parents’ reaction replaying in her mind.
Robert had pushed her toward official sources with unusual insistence.
Martha had steered her away from folklore and speculation with careful precision.
Both responses felt more calculated than their usual parenting style warranted.
This was local history, not investigative journalism. The lighthouse operated as a public building, its functions documented in official records. Whatever stories people told about the keepers probably amounted to harmless folklore that accumulated around old buildings.
Still, she wrote a note to ask Mrs. Pennington about local stories and legends. Even historically inaccurate tales might provide insight into how the community had processed these events.
Two days later, Lily sat in the historical society’s cozy office, surrounded by photo albums and document boxes that Mrs. Pennington had pulled from their archives.
Helen Pennington was seventy-eight years old, sharp in mind, and had been volunteering at the society for thirty years.
She agreed to the interview immediately, clearly delighted to have someone take a serious interest in the town’s maritime history.
“I’ve been hoping someone would research the lighthouse properly,” she said, pouring tea from a china service that looked like it belonged in a museum. “It’s such an important part of our heritage, but most people just drive past it without thinking about the families who lived there.”
“That’s exactly what I want to explore,” Lily said, pulling out her notebook. “The human stories behind the historical facts.”
“Wonderful. Where would you like to start?”
“Well, I’ve been reading about the lighthouse keepers in the 1920s, and I noticed the position seemed to have a lot of turnovers. Do you know anything about that?”
Mrs. Pennington settled back in her chair, her eyes taking on the distant look of someone accessing old memories. “Oh, the twenties were a difficult time for lighthouse keeping. The job was changing, becoming more technical. Some of the older keepers couldn’t adapt to the new equipment.”
“What about Edmund Hawthorne? He seemed to be doing well, but then he died.”