Shining Sea Read Free Page B

felt as if I were inside my own spacious—and private—cloud.
    That’s when I got the brilliant idea that my bedroom should be in the lighthouse. Not actually in the lighthouse; technically the room I chose is in the vestibule house, at the top of the great granite rectangle. But since the spiral stairway inside the lighthouse tower is the only way to get there, it feels as if my bedroom is in the lighthouse.
    I consider turning around and climbing the winding stairs—only partway this time—and going to my room. Instead I hurry through the pouring rain along the path and down the cement steps, using my hands as an ineffectual shield against the water.
    A light glows yellow in the picture window of the keeper’s cottage and, as usual, the door is unlocked. I step into the little foyer, then down the narrow hall to the tiny living room. Empty. Hmm. Dad’s usually here at dinnertime, but he isn’t in the miniature kitchen either.
    The restored wood-shingled cape with its low ceilings and small doorways sits crooked on the uneven granite-topped bluffs, and as the ocean crashes against the seawall out beyond the white curve of Crescent Beach and thunder shudders across the sky, I have to remind myself that the cottage has been here since the late 1700s. It isn’t about to wash away.
    Still, I jump when the phone rings.
    “Hello?” Dial tone. Yet somehow the ringing continues. No cell towers on Rock Hook, so I rule that out; besides, my cell is up in my room, probably dead at the bottom of my backpack.
    The front door opens with a whoosh —
    Dripping wet, Dad rushes across the room to grab a receiver buried in a nest of tangled USB cords, wires, and hard drives on his desk—the Coast Guard radio. He flips a switch, and static fills the room along with an unfamiliar voice.
    “George? Is that you?”
    “Skip here,” Dad corrects. Dad’s nickname suits him better than “George” or “Dad,” but “Captain Rush” fits him best. Even now, the look he casts toward the window and the sea beyond is one of longing.
    “Right. Skip. It’s Wagner. Henry Wagner, Coast Guard.”
    “Hank! I wasn’t expecting to hear this contraption ring. Great to hear your voice.”
    No surprise that Dad knows the man on the other end of the line; he grew up in this place and still has lots of friends here: fishermen, lobstermen, people who work at the marine labs. When the light station became available just as my parents were desperate for a fresh start, I took it as some sort of sign. I realize now that Dad’s boating buddies must have rigged things for us. Maybe he’d been talking to them about his troubles with Mom.
    The radio buzzes.
    “Hank?” The interference grows louder, and Mr. Wagner’s voice becomes unintelligible. “Hank, what can I do for you? Besides get a new radio installed out here.”
    Dad had slipped easily into his role of lighthouse keeper. He knows all about weather, wind, and water—although it probably wouldn’t matter if he didn’t. All of the lighthouses in the United States are automated now. The only real responsibility we have is to contact the Coast Guard if we see a boat in distress.
    Mr. Wagner’s voice suddenly comes through clear again, sounding tense. “I’m not sure if there’s anything anyone can do, especially with this unexpected weather. We’re looking for a boat up from Portland. One of our boys picked up an SOS signal not too long ago. Thinks the Portland boat sent it from your neck of the woods.”
    “ Thinks they sent it?” Dad grimaces. “Didn’t the vessel identify itself?”
    “The signal was garbled. I’m betting the boat doesn’t have the best equipment. It’s a rental, small fishing boat, out of Bay Place. You know how they are.”
    “Sloppy.”
    “Yup. They’ve got two other boats out in this soup, both on their way in, but the Lucky is unaccounted for. She was up around the end of the peninsula when she signaled.”
    “Damn. Then what? She disappeared off