Page 6 of Escape to Lighthouse Cove

“Pretty cool, huh?” Grace remarked as they studied the streak of quartz. She lifted her gaze to follow the streak to the top of the cliff, surprise jolting through her when she glimpsed above it what looked like the crenellated towers of an honest-to-goodnesscastle.

Grace stepped back to take in a fuller view, and yes, there, looming above the clifftop, was a massive house perched on a rocky crag, looking like something out of a fairy tale, and not necessarily the nice kind. She hadn’t seen it in the dark last night, and it wasn’t visible from the warden’s lodge, but standing here now she had the sense that the huge house loomed over the little island like a large, dark shadow, or a bird of prey. It had to belong to the Lawrences, but Ned had said they didn’t live on the island. So did anyone live there?

“Shall we keep going?” she suggested, and they walked on, down the little lane toward the jetty where they’d first landed. They’d just reached the little cluster of fishing cottages when a woman came out on the back porch of one, the screen door banging shut behind her. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, amply built with a full head of curly dark silver-streaked hair, her hands planted on her hips. Even before the woman spoke, Grace was faltering in her step, wondering if she should call out a greeting.

“Hel—” she began uncertainly, only to have the woman cut her off.

“You’rethe new warden?” Her Maine accent was thick, her tone incredulous, her narrowed gaze sweeping Grace from head to toe and back again.

“Ye-es…” Grace wished she didn’t sound so hesitant. Twelve years of marriage had turned her timid, and she hated that about herself. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, I am.”

“Well, then,” the woman said, turning around to disappear through her back door, “you’d best come in and get acquainted.”

Again Grace hesitated. Did the womanreallywant her to come in, as in rightnow? Or had it been more of at-some-point kind of thing? She glanced at Jacob, who was watching her wide-eyed, clearly waiting for her to decide what to do.

Decide, Grace.

“All right, then,” she called back, her voice faltering a little, and squeezing her son’s hand in encouragement, she headed across to the porch steps, and then inside to the woman’s kitchen.

The cottage was small, the kitchen cramped, with a table covered by an oiled wax cloth taking up most of the space. Unlike the warden’s lodge, which was up to date and felt like a fairly upscale Airbnb, this humble abode was far more modest. The kitchen was straight out of the 1970s, with mustard-yellow appliances and a floor of peeling linoleum, every surface cluttered with a variety of items—papers, old magazines, fishing lures, spools of thread.

The woman was standing at the sink, filling a kettle which she banged on the stove with decision. “I’m Margaret Babcock,” she told her. “But everyone calls me Bab. I’ve spent my whole life on this island.”

“Oh, I… I see.” Grace tried to smile although the woman—Bab—was giving her a rather belligerent look. “How lovely.”

Bab snorted. “I wouldn’t say so,” she replied frankly. “But when you’ve spent your whole life in one place, well, nothing beats the familiar.”

“No, I suppose not,” Grace agreed, and Bab snorted again.

“And where did you wash up from?” she asked with another frank inspection. “You look like a mighty fancy flatlander to be tramping through these woods and beaches.”

“Oh, well.” Grace glanced down at her outfit, one of her most lowkey ones—designer jeans and a cable-knit sweater in soft blue cashmere. Plus the Prada boots, which were probably a giveaway.

“I came from New York,” Grace told Bab. “And you’re right, I need some better boots.” She gave her a self-effacing smile. “I didn’t really think about the kinds of clothes I’d need up here.”

“Hmm.” Bab folded her arms across her ample chest, looking unimpressed by this admission. “The last warden backpacked solo through South America, andheonly lasted a week. Do you think you’ll do better?”

“I hope so,” Grace replied as cheerfully as she could, trying not to be stung by her new neighbor’s seemingly complete lack of faith in her. “So far, we really like it here.” She drew Jacob forward, just a little. “This is my son, Jacob.”

“How do you do, sonny?” Bab gave him an encouraging smile while Jacob stared unblinkingly back. Grace saw the exact moment when the thought crossed the older woman’s face—what’s wrong with him?—before she ironed out her expression and turned back to Grace.

“Why’d you take this job, then?” she asked as she spooned instant coffee granules into two cracked cups. “Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing I’d imagine a woman like you would want at all.”

Grace did her best not to prickle atthatassumption. “Well, it is,” she replied a little repressively, and Bab arched an eyebrow, clearly noting her tone.

“Hmmph,” she remarked, and after the kettle had boiled, poured hot water as well as some milk and several spoonfuls of sugar into Grace’s cup without asking before thrusting it at her.

“Th—thank you,” Grace stammered, a little startled by the older woman’s abruptness, as she put both her hands around the cup. She decided this might be as good a time as any to get to know her new community, just as Bab seemed to want to get to know her, although what she’d learned so far didn’t seem to count for much. “That house on the clifftop,” Grace ventured. “Is it owned by the Lawrences?”

Bab gave her a suspicious look. “Grayhaven? The whole island is owned by the Lawrences.”

“Yes, but I meant… do they live there? At Grayhaven? I thought maybe I should say hello, now that I’ve arrived.” The idea had just popped into her head, but it seemed like the polite thing to do, and she realized she was curious about the family no one seemed willing to talk about. Maybe they were a mystery she wanted to solve, or at least learn about, after all.

Bab’s dark eyebrows drew together. “They haven’t come up here for a long time,” she said in a tone that did not invite further questions. “Alongtime. If you want to say hello to anyone, you can come up here.” She inclined her head, indicating, Grace supposed, the general vicinity of the fishing cottages and whoever, besides Bab, inhabited them.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” she murmured and took a sip of the too-sweet coffee. Why, Grace wondered, did she get the sense from everyone she’d met that the Lawrence family was a no-go area?

And why should she care?