Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
E stelle parked her car on the ferry. It was Tuesday at one in the afternoon, and she was one of only six vehicles, proof that tourism season had fully died. Upstairs in the little coffee shop, she sat by herself with a mug of coffee and considered the others traveling around her. Besides the twentysomething behind the counter, who wore braces on her teeth and a collared sheet with the brand name of the ferry on the left corner of her chest, Estelle was the only woman. The men looked rugged, as though they’d spent too much time in the elements: wrinkled from the sun, chapped from the cold. Their hands were worn as though they’d done too much hard labor.
Estelle liked to notice these details about people. She found that they often influenced her work. Once, she’d spied an older woman on an airplane who captured her attention so much that Estelle found a way to include her in her next novel.
The people who inspired Estelle never knew it, though. Estelle was always careful and discreet. She didn’t stare.
But she made sure to write notes in the journal she took with her everywhere she went. Now, so many years after her novelist career began, she’d filled seventeen journals.
Estelle drank her coffee and accidentally caught the eye of the twentysomething woman behind the counter. The woman watched her as she cleaned the coffee machine. Estelle pulled her lips into a smile and considered the fact that Estelle was usually the only one watching. She wasn’t used to being watched back.
The ferry reached Martha’s Vineyard a few minutes later. Estelle pulled her car off the ferry and drove from the harbor as her phone barked instructions back to her. Unlike her husband or Grant, Estelle didn’t know Martha’s Vineyard like the back of her hand. It was similar to Nantucket, but it was also a separate world with separate streets and families. It was the world Chuck Coleman had fled to when his life had fallen apart.
The Katama Lodge and Wellness Spa was built with glowing wood. It looked like a massive tree house tucked in lines of birch trees. On the opposite side of the fortress was the glowing Katama Bay itself. Estelle strode inside and said hello to the receptionist, who gave her a robe, a towel, and additional instructions. Her meeting with Henry was scheduled for four thirty, which gave her time to relax, unwind, and warm up.
It was rare that Estelle gifted herself afternoons like this. She started with a few minutes in the piping-hot sauna, where her tight muscles softened, followed by a massage and acupuncture from the lodge’s in-house acupuncturist, Carmella, who explained in soft tones that she, her sister, and their stepsister owned and operated the Katama Lodge together with her stepmother, Nancy. When she learned that Estelle had a meeting with Henry, she chuckled and said, “Henry’s my stepsister Janine’s husband. We just adore him. Oh, but you said you’re a writer? You should hear the drama of Janine’s first husband. He was a crazy rich and incredibly mean man from Manhattan, the heir of a fortune. He cheated on Janine with her best friend and then died not long after that.”
“That’s a terrible story,” Estelle breathed, looking down at the needles that poked out of her, glinting in the soft light.
“But now that Janine has Henry, she has a second chance at real happiness,” Carmella said, her eyes squinting as she focused on putting another needle in Estelle’s upper back.
Estelle said, “It feels like everyone on Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket has a big story like that,” thinking of Chuck, Roland, and their family’s drama. Carmella probably knew all about that, too, although Estelle hadn’t mentioned her last name or her connection with Chuck.
“It must help your writing process,” Carmella said. “You should work somewhere like the Katama Lodge for inspiration. People just tell us their stories right and left. It’s a place of communion, of shucking off the past in pursuit of a clean and better future.”
Before Estelle left Carmella’s acupuncture office, Carmella purchased three of Estelle’s books from an online retailer and said, “I can’t wait to dig in! I’ll have you autograph them when you come back next time.”
Estelle blushed and thanked her. The air shimmered with goodwill.
After a couple of hours of pampering, Estelle returned to the changing room to put back on her street clothes and prepare for Henry’s arrival. She got to the dining room ten minutes before their scheduled meeting but found Henry waiting for her with a mug of tea and a notepad. He was jotting notes to himself, muttering quietly. He probably looked a lot like Estelle did when writing notes about people she saw on the ferry.
She recognized him because she’d googled him and his work that weekend. She’d been impressed with his documentaries and his numerous accolades. However, she hadn’t been able to download or stream his documentary about lighthouses in New England.
“Henry?” Estelle smiled at him.
Henry got up to shake her hand warmly. He was handsome. His hair was brushed wildly behind his ears as though the Vineyard winds had tangled it up, and he’d tried to fix it badly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Estelle,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Estelle laughed and sat down. She couldn’t imagine Henry having read any of her romance novels; he was an intellectual and clearly uninterested in the Harlequin genre. But after she pressed him, he explained that his wife Janine had read many of Estelle’s novels and parroted the plots back to him. “She’s so jealous I’m meeting you today,” he explained. “She had to leave this island this week for a health conference.”
“Maybe we can meet another time,” Estelle said with a wave of her hand. She always liked meeting her fans, especially local ones.
A server wearing linen clothes came by to take their order. Henry got another cup of tea, so Estelle followed suit. Outside, a soft snow had begun to fall from the dark gray clouds above. With the glass window, it felt as though they sat in a big snow globe.
Estelle had a big list of questions for Henry about lighthouses in the area, about what he’d learned, about what he couldn’t show on the documentary, and, most specifically, about lighthouse keepers on the islands of Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. How had they lived?
Henry spoke with his hands flat across the table between them.
“I’m sure you know the dramatic history of whaling on these islands. Nantucket led the world in whaling for one hundred years,” he began. “And you must know that many ships sank around Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. For centuries, only a few lighthouses guided the way, which left vast territories of darkness on dangerous waters. It’s unclear why they didn’t continue to build to keep things safer.”
Estelle made notes in her journal, a shorthand that she would translate back to herself later. As she wrote, she tried to envision the lighthouse keeper in her story, living in his lighthouse, separated from society and perhaps going mad.
Soon after, Estelle got up the nerve to ask Henry why so many lighthouse keepers went insane. She hadn’t decided whether the lighthouse keeper in her novel would be like that or not. But her idea was that he was slightly mad as a result of his career—and the woman who fell in love with him helped him out of his loneliness and into the metaphorical light.
The idea was that her love was the strongest light of all.
“The lighthouse keepers were isolated from society,” Henry explained. “It was just them up in those towers, forced to keep the light going. If they failed, many, many people would die. It was a lot of pressure and enough to drive anyone a little crazy. Some of them got mercury poisoning. Some became obsessed with things like rat infestations or saw something out on the water that wasn’t there.”
“They imagined things?” Estelle asked, breathless.
“The mind plays tricks on us when we spend too much time alone,” he explained. “You’re a writer, which means you have a tremendous imagination. I’m sure your mind has played tricks on you, too?”
“Oh yes,” Estelle said, blushing. She looked down at her journal, trying not to remember the brief jolts of insanity she’d had when her babies were very young, and she hadn’t gotten enough sleep. But she didn’t want to get into that now. “I imagine the lighthouse keepers couldn’t sleep very much, either?”
“During the day, maybe,” Henry said. “But there were so many chores to take care of. So many ways of preparing for the night. Thousands of people on the seas relied on them for safety.” He sighed. “Lighthouse keepers are unsung heroes.” He snapped his fingers. “You must have heard of the 1982 shipwreck? It was autumn, I think. There wouldn’t have been any survivors if the lighthouse keeper hadn’t spotted the boat sinking and called the Coast Guard.”
“That wasn’t so long ago,” Estelle breathed. “Is the lighthouse keeper still around?” Maybe she can even interview him before she goes back to Nantucket , she thought, hopefully.
“I wasn’t able to track him down,” Henry said, his eyes shadowed as though it really disappointed him. “It seems he left the island. He might be dead by now. It’s hard for me to admit it, but 1982 was over forty years ago.”
Estelle winced and laughed. “You’re right. It’s hard to believe!” She jotted another note, then asked, “What’s the lighthouse keeper’s name? The one who spotted the shipwreck?”
“I’ll have to check my notes,” Henry said, touching the back of his neck. “But I believe his first name was Clarence.”
“That’s a nice name,” Estelle said. “You don’t hear it anymore.”
“It’s old,” Henry agreed. “But babies are being named Henry again these days. Maybe Clarence will come back?’
“Maybe Estelle will, too,” Estelle said, smiling.
Estelle and Henry continued talking about lighthouse keepers and the romantic ideas of long-ago Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard into the early evening. Sometimes Estelle got so swept up in the story that she imagined salt water splashing on her face. She imagined the tremendous darkness in which the lighthouse keepers lived and the hazardous waters onto which sailors adventured to pursue money and great whales.
It was important to Estelle that her stories feel as real—to her—as they could. It was only then that she could fully integrate the story into the pages of a novel.
The process could be alarmingly complex.
Estelle finished her final note at six fifteen and stood to shake Henry’s hand. “It’s been such a pleasure,” she said. “Thank you.”
Henry walked her to the foyer, where Estelle stepped into the swirling snow and hurried to her car. Her pulse was quick, and she couldn’t wipe the smile from her face. It had been a fabulous conversation. She was beginning to fill in the missing gaps of the world she wanted to create on the page.
Instead of heading directly to the ferry, Estelle drove slowly down spindly country roads back to Oak Bluffs. There, she ducked into the parking lot of Chuck’s retirement facility, cut the engine, and burst through the cold to get inside, where it was warm, far warmer than she kept her house at home. It was rare that she came to the retirement facility without Roland. She removed her gloves and hat and told the receptionist who she was there to see. “He should be home!” the receptionist said, bobbing her head so that her Santa hat bounced. “Go on in and say hello.”
Estelle entered the retirement facility, striding through cozy living rooms where fake fires crackled in fake fireplaces, and televisions played sports and old movies. Estelle greeted everyone as she went by and even spotted a few women reading the books she’d written.
Before leaving the living area, Estelle saw a woman who couldn’t have been much older or younger than Estelle. She sat in a wheelchair pointed toward a television that played You’ve Got Mail , but it was clear from her eyes that she wasn’t watching it. Estelle’s heart sank. What happened to this woman? Why was she already here at her age?
The woman gave Estelle pause. What if Estelle was just a few months or years out from living in a retirement home? What if her luck was about to run out?
She shook the thought from her mind. She knew she couldn’t give it power. Long ago, she’d concluded that fear of the future was a waste of time. Whatever will be, will be , she thought.
Estelle reached Chuck’s apartment and knocked on the door. The sound of the television came from the other side, probably a documentary. Chuck was obsessed with learning new things and maintaining his knowledge.
“Come in!” Chuck sounded chipper. Estelle hadn’t realized she’d been nervous about his mood, but now, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Chuck’s eyes widened with surprise when she walked in. “Hello!” He got out of his chair, his bones creaking, and reached for the remote to turn off the television.
“Don’t get up!” Estelle said, but it was too late. He was already coming toward her to give her a hug.
Estelle closed her eyes when she hugged him. When she’d first met him as a teenager, he’d terrified her.
“I think I mentioned I was here on the Vineyard chatting with a documentarian?” Estelle reminded him that she’d called him.
He sat back down with a nod. “That’s right. Henry. How did it go?”
Estelle went three steps over to the kitchenette to put the kettle on and make some tea for them both. In the cabinet were cookies she and Roland had brought by a few weeks ago, still in their plastic wrapping. Chuck didn’t normally have much of a sweet tooth, which had made his three slices of pie on Thanksgiving funny. He was obsessed with maintaining his health.
“It was great,” Estelle said of her time with Henry. “He studied lighthouses around here for years and years, and he gave me a code so I can download his documentary off the internet. Maybe I can download it for you, too? I’m not sure how it works.”
Chuck tilted his head. It was difficult to read his expression.
Yet again, Estelle wanted to pester him about the lighthouse keeper he’d known. Why was he being so cagey about that?
And then, Estelle had a eureka moment. She sped across the room to deliver his mug of tea and said, “Henry mentioned a shipwreck here in Martha’s Vineyard. He said it happened in 1982. An old lighthouse keeper was the one to see the sinking ship and call it into the Coast Guard.”
Chuck’s cheek twitched. Estelle still couldn’t read his expression.
“That was the year you moved to the Vineyard, wasn’t it?” Estelle asked. “1982?”
Chuck sipped his tea and leaned back in his chair. Estelle had the sense that she was speaking to a child who wanted to hide something. She was reminded of Charles when he was a boy, who’d stolen all the cookies from the cookie jar and lied about it.
“You must have heard about the wreck,” Estelle said. She knew she was bothering him, but she couldn’t leave without some acknowledgment from him. What is he hiding? she wondered.
She thought Chuck Coleman was done with having secrets.
She thought everything was out in the open.
Estelle’s thoughts were tangled with confusion.
“The lighthouse keeper was named Clarence, I think. At least, that’s what Henry told me,” Estelle said. “Did you ever meet him?”
Is Clarence the lighthouse keeper you refuse to talk about? Estelle wanted to ask.
Still, Chuck didn’t say anything. He looked contemplative.
“I’d really like to track him down for an interview,” Estelle said. “Do you know if he still lives on the island?”
Chuck shook his head ever so slightly. “I don’t know where he went.” His eyes were shadowed.
“But you knew him?” Estelle’s pulse quickened. “What was his last name? Maybe I can track him down or at least figure out what happened to him.”
Maybe I can model my main lighthouse keeper after Clarence , she thought. The time period was perfect. She’d already considered positioning her novel in the late seventies or early eighties; the idea was that the hero was the final generation of lighthouse keepers, carrying the torch until lighthouses operated by actual humans were obsolete. His heroine would save him from the sorrows of his family’s past and the trauma of being a lonely lighthouse keeper.
All the color began to drain from Chuck’s face. Estelle raised her eyebrows with alarm.
“Chuck, are you feeling all right?” She knelt beside him and kept herself from touching his forehead, as she might have one of her grandchildren. Chuck was a grown man; he deserved her respect.
But still, his health frightened her. He was ninety-three years old!
Estelle was flustered. “Do you want me to call the nurse?”
Chuck shook his head and sipped his tea. Still, he was as pale as snow.
“I’d really feel better if we called the nurse.” Stepping back, she tried to brighten her voice. She didn’t want Chuck to know how worried she was.
Chuck couldn’t look her in the eye. “Don’t waste their time. I’m just fine.”
Estelle sat across from him again and wrapped her hands around her mug. She remembered how this had all begun—when Chuck had asked her about her new novel. Chuck had pried into her creative process, and now, she was trying to pry into his dramatic history. But they were both closed-off and private. Who would break first? It seemed unlikely it would be him.
Estelle searched her mind for something else to say, anything to get his mind off Clarence, the lighthouse keeper, and 1982. Eventually, she just turned the television back on, and they finished watching a documentary about German immigrants coming in droves to the United States in the 1800s. Chuck already knew everything they said in the documentary and even shared a few more details they’d left out with her.
His brain is as sharp as a tack , Estelle thought. He’ll never let me in .