“How can I reach the woman who was just interviewed about the lighthouse?” he asked, propping himself up against the headboard of his bed.
“She’s still here,” the male voice on the other end of the phone told him. “Hold on.”
There was a thirty-second wait. He could hear voices in the background. Laughter.
“This is Nola Dillard,” a woman said.
“Yes, Ms. Dillard. My name is Paul Macelli and I just heard you talk about the Kiss River Lighthouse. I’d like to help.”
“Great!” she said. “The bottom line is money, Mr….?”
“Macelli. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you financially, but I have some spare time and energy. I’d be happy to help in some other way. I didn’t realize the lighthouse was in jeopardy.”
There was a silence. He had somehow stumbled, said something wrong.
When she spoke again, her voice had developed a barely perceptible chill. “Are you a new resident of the Outer Banks, Mr. Macelli?”
So that was it. He was an outsider. He thought of telling her about the summer he’d lived here long ago, the summer after he got his masters degree, but he stopped himself. He had told no one about those few months in the Outer Banks, not even Olivia.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m new here, but I work for the
Nola Dillard sighed. “Well, I tell you what, hon. We’re having a committee meeting Thursday night at the Sea Tern Inn. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.” Oh, yes. Two of his interviews with Annie had been in that restaurant. He’d avoided it since her death.
“Meet me out front about seven forty-five. I’ll talk to the committee first and clear the way for you a bit, all right?”
He thanked her and got off the phone. At least she hadn’t asked him what his interest was in the lighthouse. He would have said something about being a history fanatic, someone who couldn’t bear to lose the past. It would have been the truth.
Nola Dillard was a striking woman. Early forties, probably. Pale-blond hair pinned up in back, enormous gray eyes, and skin a little too lined from a tan she probably nurtured year- round.
She reached her hand toward him and he shook it. “We’re all set, Mr…. Paul, is it? I’m Nola. Come on in.”
He followed her through the familiar main room of the restaurant, with its heavy wooden tables and sea-lore accents, to a small room in the back. The committee members sat around one long table, and they looked up when he entered. There were three men and one woman besides Nola. He glanced at their faces and was startled when his eyes found Alec O’Neill at the head of the table. He recognized him immediately, from the glimpse he’d had of him with Annie, and more so, from the photograph of him in her studio—the black and white picture that had frightened him a little with its dark, unsmiling countenance and a threat in his pale eyes. Those eyes were on him now as Nola guided Paul toward the head of the table. He glanced quickly at the exit. Should he take off, make an absolute fool of himself? Nola’s hand was soft at his elbow, pushing him forward, as Alec rose from his chair.
“Paul, this is Alec O’Neill, our venerable leader. Alec, Paul Macelli.”
Alec O’Neill raised his dark eyebrows in Paul’s direction. Paul shook his hand, mumbling a greeting, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. He nodded his way around the rest of the group and took a seat next to Nola. A waitress came into the room and asked him what he’d like to drink. His first thought was something stiff and fiery, but a quick look around the room told him alcohol was out. Alec himself was drinking what looked like lemonade.
Paul ordered iced tea. He leaned back in the chair, loosening the collar of his shirt.
Alec looked at him with those riveting eyes and Paul felt totally exposed. Could he possibly know? Perhaps he recognized Paul’s name as the man who’d written the article about Annie in
“Nola says you’re a journalist,” Alec said.
“Yes. I work for the
Alec took a swallow of his lemonade. “Well, I think there probably is a way you can help us. We need to educate the public. I handle speaking engagements locally and around the state, but we need to shift our publicity to the national level. The Kiss River Lighthouse is a national monument, so it shouldn’t be up to the locals to support the preservation effort. We’re talking about putting together a brochure of some sort on the history of the lighthouse, something that would have wide distribution.” Alec leaned back in his chair. “Do you think you could help with that?”
“Of course.” Paul had dropped his eyes to Alec’s hands sometime during the last few minutes. Alec’s fingers were long, tanned, and angular. Paul thought of him touching Annie with those hands, pulling her close to him in their bed. Hands she welcomed on her body. Alec still wore his wedding ring. From this distance it looked like a plain gold band, but he knew that up close it would be inlaid with the same gold braid that had graced Annie’s ring. What had Alec done with her ring? She’d been cremated. What did they do…
“So, paper and printing will be donated,” Alec was saying, and Paul quickly returned his gaze to Alec’s face, to his eyes, ice-blue and unavoidable. “It’s the compilation of the facts and the actual writing that we need.”
“Is there a historical collection I can use?” Paul asked, and then he had a sudden, disconcerting thought. What if the old lighthouse keeper, Mary Poor, was still alive? She couldn’t be, he reassured himself. She’d been an old woman the last time he had seen her, and that had been many long years ago.
“There’s a private collection,” Alec said. “I’ll check into getting you permission to look at it. But for now, how about just covering our efforts in the
“Fine,” Paul said, and he sat back, glad to have the attention of the room off him as Alec shifted the topic to a silent auction. He would leave the moment the meeting was over.
