“One and the same. After Skip bought the lighthouse and began renovating, he found this in a concealed storage area under a loose floorboard. I came across it in the closet in his spare bedroom, along with notes he’d made after researching its history.”
“Was there anything inside when he found it?”
“A few crumbling letters and some rusted, corroded costume jewelry. Nothing he could salvage—until he discovered the box had a false bottom.”
“Ooh. A secret compartment. I love this!” Her face lit up and she clapped her hands. “Was there anything inside?”
“A love letter Captain Masterson was in the process of penning to his wife, dated 1892—during his last voyage.”
“Why didn’t he finish it?”
“I haven’t a clue. Maybe a storm sidetracked him. Or he arrived home faster than expected. But the half-finished letter remained in the box. The daughter may not even have known about the secret compartment.” He opened the lid to reveal a folded piece of parchment paper. “Go ahead and read it.”
Marci carefully lifted out the antique sheet of vellum and opened it.
Over her shoulder, he skimmed the document again.
My dearest Priscilla,
I don’t know when I shall have a chance to send this letter on its way to you. Soon, I hope. I want to know that your fingers have held these same pages, and that we are connected if only through mutual touch. For as my years have lengthened, my days at sea have begun to grow long and wearisome. I wish now only to be with you, my love.
You wondered when last we were together if I would miss the sea. I told you no, but I am not certain you believed me. My darling, it is true. I have loved the sea . . . but I have always loved you more, and my heart longs for you each day we are apart. Here on the ship, the sextant guides my course. But you have always guided my life with your sweetness and grace and kindness—and I miss you more than words can say. I long to feel your soft cheek against mine, and to walk with you on the sand and watch the sun set. You are my everything, and one day soon we . . .
The letter ended there.
Marci looked up at him, eyes glistening. “This is beautiful.”
“He did have a touch of the poet in him.”
“Why would his daughter leave this in the lighthouse?”
“According to Skip’s notes, in their later years she and her husband took a trip east to visit family, and while they were there, he died. She never returned here. Their belongings were boxed up and sent to her . . . but since this was hidden, it must have been overlooked.”
“Well, now that it’s come to light again, it will have a place of honor in our home.”
“You should put this inside too.” Balancing the box in one hand, Ben extracted a folded piece of paper from his tux jacket and handed it to her. “I can’t hope to compete with Jeremiah’s poetic language, but I thought it fitting to add a note of my own to the box.”
She opened the sheet, but he didn’t have to read along on this one.
The words he’d penned were etched in his mind.
My dearest Marci,
The sentiments Jeremiah wrote to Priscilla almost 125 years ago are timeless—and it would be hard to improve on them. Which goes to show that love isn’t bound by eras or social norms or chronological age. It’s universal and unchanging.
I feel about you exactly as Jeremiah felt about Priscilla.
Although this box once housed navigational tools, I don’t need a compass to find my destination—for I arrived at it a few hours ago when we exchanged vows and I became your husband. And every single morning from this day forward I will thank God for the gift of your kind, caring heart and contagious enthusiasm. You have brought me a joy I never knew existed, and my life is brighter because you fill it with laughter and love.
When I came to Hope Harbor and discovered Skip had bequeathed me a lighthouse, I considered it a yoke around my neck. But today, as we stand man and wife in the shadow of this structure that for more than a century guided lost souls home, I recognize it for what it really was.
A beacon of hope that led me home to you.
I love you, Marci—and I always will.
Sniffing, she refolded the letter and nestled it in the box beside its antique counterpart. “You’re ruining my mascara, you know. And I paid big bucks for this professional makeup job.”
He closed the lid, set the box on one of the new benches that lined the walkway, and took her hand. “I’ll love you even if you have raccoon eyes.” He handed her his handkerchief.
“That’ll look great in the photos.” She dabbed around her lashes as Rachel stepped out of the tent and waved to them.
“That must be the cue for our first dance.” Ben acknowledged the other woman with a lift of his hand. “It will be fun to see which comes first with her—the baby or her degree. I predict a photo finish.”
“That’s what Greg says—with a big grin every time he mentions the subject. I’m happy for both of them.”
“So am I. But today is about us.” Ben took both her hands. “And I have one other item on my agenda before we rejoin the festivities.”
He started to bend down, but she leaned back.
“Wait. I need to say . . . Your letter is . . . The box was so . . .” She blew out a breath. “You know, despite the fact that I work with words every day . . . and as fast as my emotions can bubble to the surface . . . and as easy as it is to trigger my temper . . . I’m not very good at sappy stuff.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know what’s in your heart.”
He leaned down again to claim his kiss.
Once more, she held him off, her expression as earnest—and determined—as he’d ever
