Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
Trixie seemed to go a little glassy-eyed, prompting Woodbine to cut to the chase. "The lighthouse is
clearly
a cone form."
That made everyone perk up.
"The tower is a form with power? Power to do what?" asked Maddie.
Like a professor summing
up a lecture, Woodbine said, "
The lighthouse is a powerful symbol, not only to sailors but to the populace in general. Whether the lighthouse is more than that remains to be seen. I came because I was intent on touring the tower—to get a feel for it, as it were."
"How very interesting," said Trixie, stopping a waiter and lightening his load by three more hors d'oeuvres. "And did you pick up any weird vibrations when you were in it?"
He smiled and said, "I would not call them 'weird.' But did I detect an aura of significance? Oh, yes."
"Great! I'll put all this in the
Crier."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm editor of the
Sandy
Point
Crier,"
Trixie explained between bites. "It's a little community newsletter I publish. There are lots of prominent guests here tonight, but you're the only one I've talked to who has a different
angle
on the lighthouse," she explained, wiping her fingertips daintily on a napkin. "I like that. I'm going to use it."
"I wish you wouldn't," Woodbine said at once, catching them all by surprise. "It's
so easy to make a joke of para
psychological phenomena, easy—even with the best of intentions—to distort those truths."
"Oh, I won't distort anything, don't you worry," said Trixie with a cheerful grin. "Cone
... lighthouse
... psychic. Got it. Well—must mingle," she said, flapping her fingertips at them. "Ta-ta."
She waddled off and the director turned to Michael. "Is she serious?" he asked, clearly incredulous.
Michael didn't hear him. He was watching Dan with a steady, unblinking look.
It was left to Maddie to answer the director's query. "Trixie pretty much does what she wants; she's an institution in
Sandy
Point
. But I'm sure you have nothing to fear, Dr. Woodbine. After tonight, she'll have much more material than she can possibly fit in the
Crier.
Besides, your theory might be a little too
... esoteric for her readers," she added diplomatically.
He gave her a tight-lipped smile and said, "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll try to impress on her the impossibility of condensing my theories into a glib sentence or two."
That left Maddie with Michael and Dan. She glanced from one—tall, blond, and hostile—to the other, with his dark brooding eyes and hawkish nose. The air between the three of them crackled with tension. Maddie didn't have a clue whether a cone was a form with power, but she understood perfectly how a triangle could be. Talk about vibrations.
Michael broke into a sudden, ugly grin and said, "So! Here we all are. Gosh. We haven't been together like this since—when, honey? College, would it be? Your junior year—am I remembering it right?"
"Please don't, Michael."
He ignored her and turned back to Dan, punching him with vicious playfulness on the shoulder. "And you were a senior. Hey, man, did you ever finish up that degree?"
Dan said quietly, "It became a little irrelevant."
"
You mean—? Well, sure, I guess it would, what with the arrest and all."
"I mean, because it was irrelevant. I didn't need a degree in journalism to carry a camera into a war zone. I just needed to be able to watch my back."
"A useful skill to have," said Michael, in a low, menacing voice. In a lightning change of tone he added, "But you're being too modest, Daniel! You stepped out in front of the camera quickly enough, and you've never really
had
to look back, have you?" he joked.
"I've looked back plenty, Michael. Believe me," said Dan evenly. All the while, his burning gaze was fixed on Maddie.
As much as she tried to control her emotions, Maddie could not keep the color from flooding her
cheeks. Flustered, she said, "
Michael, did you get a chance to talk with Tracey? I checked before we—I—came here, just to make sure she went straight home after the fireworks. She's there, but of course she's still not speaking to me."
Somehow the word "Tracey" cut through to him. He looked like a man stepping out of a trance as he said, "Yeah, I talked with her. In fact, I promised I'd stop in at
Rosedale
after this. I said it to keep the Kevins away, but I guess I should follow through on it. You don't have a problem with that, do you?" he added with a sneer.
Definitely, Maddie did. She was afraid that Michael would tell her mother about Dan before she had the chance to, but she was forced to say, "Of course I don't, Michael. For heaven's sake—"
Suddenly his expression changed again, from sarcasm to one of anguish. "Consistent. Isn't that what you said we had to be? Consistent?"
It was a direct plea, but Maddie didn't know for what. Michael was sometimes whipped around helplessly by his emotions, and this clearly was one of those times. In an old, odd way, her heart went out to him.
"Michael, do what you want," she said gently. "I can't make those decisions for you."
She watched in dismay as his emotions turned on a dime one more time. "You're damned right you can't," he said bitterly.
He left without another word. Maddie realized that her head was pounding and her knees were shaking from the encounter. She hadn't known how afraid she was until he turned his back on them.
"I'm glad we got that over with," Dan said calmly.
"How can you possibly say that?" she asked in amazement. "Nothing's over with!"
"Every encounter will be easier now," he argued. "The first one is always the worst."
"Is that what they taught you at CNN? Were you listening to him? He basically told you to watch your back."
"Come on, Maddie. You don't believe he's dangerous," Dan pointed out.
"Or I wouldn't trust him with Tracey?" Maddie sighed and said, "I guess you're right
.
I know he would never, ever, hurt a hair of her head. You might not be safe
--
maybe even I'm not
--
but I think he'd give up his life for Tracey. I really do."
"Be grateful for that," Dan said softly. "I've seen so much worse out there. Infinitely worse."
"I know. I know." She shook off her uneasiness with an effort. They were at an elegant fund-raiser, surrounded by successful and generous patrons of a worthy cause. The evening was a success. She was with the only man in the world she wanted at her side right now. Norah had agreed to give her the space she needed. And finally, Dan was right: the next encounter between the three of them couldn't possibly feel as awkward.
And yet Maddie felt a pall weighing as heavily on her spirits as a fog in July.
Dan was watching her closely. "I'd accuse you of having pre-presentation jitters," he said, smiling, "but I know you're a dynamite speaker. How 'bout it, tiger? Ready to knock their socks off?"
Her eyes widened. "My
speech! I forgot. Ohmyg
od."
Dan laughed and said, "Son of a gun, I was wrong. You're just like the rest of us, after all."
Very shortly and ready or not, Maddie found herself positioned alongside a slide projector, making a pitch to save the lighthouse and its tower.
"I promise to be brief," she told the assembled guests, "because I know that most of you have been to Sandy Point Light and have seen for yourselves how much the beach has eroded recently. In the last
three years, we've had five so-
called 'storms of the century.'
"Whether it's the greenhouse effect or the whims of Neptune, the storms that keep battering the
Cape
and islands are gnawing huge chunks of beach and swallowing houses like Pac-Man. Sandy Point Light is living on borrowed time.
"Our lighthouses are a national treasure,"* she said earnestly. "They're part of the history that marks us as a great maritime nation. Sandy Point Li
ght, like Nauset Light in East
ham and Sankaty Light on
Nantucket
, can and will be saved from the ravages of the ocean.
We're lining up the permits
and sizing up
engineers
who can
do the job of moving it
farther
inland. The one thing we need—the only thing we need—is money.
"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where you come in. Your response so far has been overwhelming; our pledge drive is off to a wonderful start. What I want to show you tonight are before and after slides of other lighthouses that have been restored or moved. We've also been able to assemble an impressive archive of historic photographs of Sandy Point Light—the way it looked in almost every decade from the 1890's right through last week. You'll see for yourself how voracious the ocean is. You'll see for yourself why we have to act now, why you have to open your hearts and your wallets
."
Michael wanted to hurt her, but he didn't know how. Pain, humiliation, anguish—that's what he had felt on the beach, and that's what Maddie deserved to feel now. He drove to
Rosedale
in a black mood, determined to find the single best way to even the score.
It was Sarah Timmons who opened the door to him. Her greeting was brief; the two had said their summer hellos earlier at the fireworks show.
"Tracey's watching TV," Sarah said, nodding in the direction of the parlor. "It's a little late for a visit, Michael," she added in a gentle scold. "I'm about to go to bed. You'll keep it down, won't you? My bedroom is downstairs in Ed's study now."
Michael flashed his ex-mother-in-law a good-natured grin. "We'll be like mice," he promised, edging past her.
He found his daughter curled on her side in the loveseat, her arm dangling listlessly over the cushion as she watched TV. She was a picture of teenage boredom. He dropped into an old slipper chair and felt a nostalgic surge of discomfort from the coiled springs poking through the flattened down cushion.
"That was a heckuva fireworks show," he said.
Tracey flopped over on her back and lifted a throw pillow from the floor to hug. "It was okay. Not as good as
Boston
's," she told the ceiling.
"That's because
Boston
's a much bigger town."
Sighing, she said, "Tell me something I don't know." She reached over for the remote and hit the mute.
"You're really fed up with
Sandy
Point
, aren't you?" he volunteered.
"Like, totally," she said, tossing the throw pillow and catching it in her arms.
"I can't blame you. A person could easily die of boredom here."
"Here I am, on my deathbed."
He laughed indulgently. A plan had sprung up in the trough of their shared resentment against Maddie.
"It's a shame you're not in
Boston
for the summer," he began. "You could earn some decent money in
Boston
—not like here, where there's nothing but babysitting for you to do."
"I can't even do that while I'm grounded."
"It's a tough situation," he agreed. "Just the other day I learned about a great opportunity for you. Fascinating work; good pay; and very few are qualified. You would be, although—"
He let the unfinished thought hang there, like bait. Tracey snapped it up.
"Although what, Dad?" she said, sitting up now.
He shrugged. "Although I doubt that your mother would go for it."
"Well
... she might. What kind of job is it?"
He chose his words carefully. "I wouldn't call it a job, exactly. It's more a series of tests that you'd have to undergo. You know how I've been working with those re
searchers in
Brook
line
for the past year or so? Well, they're looking for someone your age to do the same things that I've been doing."
Tracey looked intimidated. "Me? Oh, Dad—I couldn't! I don't know anything! Not like you!"
He laughed and said, "It's not as if you have to be a nuclear scientist or anything. It's easy, really. You do simple things, like trying to guess which playing card is being held up in another room. It has nothing to do with how much school you've had, or even how smart you are—and you're damned smart, bunchkins. These researchers simply test your natural abilities: how good you are at guessing thoughts and that sort of thing."
"That's all you do? Huh! You never said." Reassured now, she allowed herself to become enthusiastic. "And they would pay me for that?"
"They'd pay you very well."
"How often would I have to do this?"