I—along with much of the population of the Bay Area—had watched over the years as the historic Victorian-era lighthouse descended into greater and greater decrepitude. Every time my family drove over the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, my father would shake his head and grumble, “It’s a damned shame.” Mom would shush Dad for swearing in front of the children—“Little pitchers have big ears, Bill”—but, craning her neck to watch the sad little island as it receded from view, she would add, “You’re right, though. Someone really ought to save that place.”
Never did I imagine that, decades later, I’d be that person.
But historic renovation was my business, and Alicia’s boss was filthy rich. Which was a very good thing, because this lighthouse was in need of a serious infusion of cash. I already had in hand the architect’s detailed blueprints, as well as the necessary permits and variances from the city and county, which had also promised to fast-track the code inspections. The Bay Light’s renovation would be a highly unusual public-private partnership that cash-strapped local officials had agreed to in the interest of saving the historical structures. I was impressed at the city’s eager participation but didn’t ask too many questions. Ellis Elrich had a way of making things happen.
“So, here’s what we’re thinking,” Alicia said, making a sweeping gesture around the former front parlor. “We take down this wall, combine the space with the smaller drawing room next door, and make this whole area the bar and restaurant.”
“It’s not very large,” I pointed out, comparing the blueprints in my hand to the existing floor plan.
“It doesn’t have to be. There will be at most ten overnight guests, so only five small tables are required for their meals—or we might just do one big table and serve everything family-style, I haven’t decided yet. And visitors won’t be that frequent—there aren’t that many people who stop in at the yacht harbor, and even with our boat ferrying people over from the mainland, it will still take some planning to come to the island. It’s not as though we have to take into account foot traffic! So I’m thinking we’ll be at capacity with about twenty guests for drinks and dinner. But for those that make it, we’ll be a gorgeous little oasis in the bay.”
Alicia sighed with happiness.
I was pleased for my friend, but experienced enough to be a wee bit jaded. At this point in a renovation, most clients couldn’t see past the stars in their eyes and the longing in their hearts. Starting a historic renovation was a lot like falling in love: a blissful period of soaring romantic hope and infatuation that lasted until the grueling realities of sawdust and noise and confusion and delays—not to mention mounting cost overruns and unwelcome discoveries in the walls—brought a person back to earth with a resounding thud.
“We’ll keep the bare bones of the kitchen, but include updated fixtures and some expansion, of course. But we’ll make the study and part of the pantry into a first-floor suite for the live-in manager—”
“That would be you?”
“Oh, I dearly hope so, if I can find a replacement to serve as Ellis’s assistant. I can’t leave him high and dry.”
“But he wants this for you, right? Isn’t that why he’s bankrolling the project?”
Alicia blushed. “Yes, he does. Ellis is very . . .”
“Sweet,” I said when she trailed off.
She nodded but avoided my eyes. Now that she had loosened up a little and was no longer the tight-lipped martinet I had first met, Alicia was charming. The scar on her upper lip and another by one eye—relics of difficult times at the hands of her abusive (now-ex) husband—only served to make her pretty face more interesting. The wounds on her psyche were another matter altogether, but through therapy and a whole lot of emotional hard work, Alicia had made great strides toward healing.
And now, unless I was mistaken, she had developed a serious crush on Ellis Elrich, her boss and savior. Ellis was a good guy, surprisingly down-to-earth for a billionaire. Still, the situation seemed . . . complicated.
Oh, what tangled webs we weave.
“Anyway, that will leave three guest suites upstairs, each with an attached bath. And one in the attic, awaiting renovation. Oh! Did I tell you? The attic is full of old furniture, and there’s a trunk of old books. There are even the original keeper’s logs!”
“Still? No one took them after all this time?”
“I suppose that’s the advantage of being on an isolated island. Can you imagine? We can put some on display to add to the historic maritime ambience!”
I smiled. “Of course we can. I can’t wait to look through everything. You know me and old books.” Me and old everything, actually.
“We might be able to create one more bedroom in the foghorn building, unless we decide to turn that into a separate office. The problem, though, is the noise.”
“What noise?”
“The foghorn still sounds on foggy days. It’s not the original horn; it’s an electronic version. But still, it’s loud.”
“How loud?”
“Really loud.”
“That could be a problem. So, what do you want to do with the tower itself? The architect hasn’t specified anything here.”
“That—” She stopped midsentence and her face lost all color.
“Alicia?” I glanced behind me, but didn’t notice anything out of place. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I saw . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said with a shake of her auburn hair.
I turned back to scan the scene, paying careful attention to my peripheral vision. Fervently hoping not to see a ghost. Or a body. Or both.
Because I tend to see things. Things that would make many people scream, run, or faint dead away. Not all the time, but often enough for it to make an impression. Due to my profession I spend a lot of time in historic
