The Body in the Lighthouse Read Online Free Page B

right?”
    â€œYes, she is. Abbie Burgess’s ghost. Now, that would be interesting,” Ursula mused.
    Although the conversation had certainly taken an unusual turn and the two soul mates at herside seemed one step away from table turning and a Ouija board, Faith realized it was getting late, time for Ben to go to bed. His protest was stillborn as Ursula put a large molasses cookie in his hand and told him firmly to sleep tight.
    â€œI wonder what happened to Daddy?” Faith said as they mounted the stairs.
    She and Ben both stifled their laughter at the picture Daddy presented—sound asleep, while Amy was placidly turning the pages of Good Night Moon and “reading” to herself.
    â€œTom,” Faith whispered to her husband, gently shaking his shoulder. Getting no response except a snore that sent both kids into peals of laughter, she repeated his name more loudly and the gesture more firmly. He woke with a start, took in the scene, and said, “Guess I’ll go to bed.”
    After tucking Ben in and turning off the light in the tiny room under the eaves that he had chosen, Faith was almost glad they’d had to vacate their new house. This was turning out to be a wonderfully suspended time out from all the cares of her everyday life. Tom could get up at the crack of dawn and do whatever it was he was doing at the new place. She’d take the kids to camp, hang out with Ursula, read, and cook up a storm. The Pines kitchen sported not only a recent-model gas stove (circa 1965) but also a fully functional wood-burning Wood and Bishop, perfect for Saturday-night baked beans. Gert kept the behemoth blackened, its Victorian metal trim gleaming.
    From the window at the hall landing, she had afine view of the lighthouse. It was in good shape, except for the tangled mass of weeds and wild rosebushes that surrounded its base, creeping up the proud column in disorderly abandon. What was it about lighthouses that was so captivating, so romantic? People loved them, eagerly learned their histories, made pilgrimages to the famous—and not so famous—collecting these destinations the way others did the fifty states. West Quoddy Head, Minots Ledge, Cape Blanco, Barnegat, Manistee North Pierhead, Bolivar, Castle Hill. Much had to do with the tales of the people who had lived there, people like Abbie Burgess, and their many acts of courage. Keepers kept the lights burning, but they also rescued mariners, often at great peril. Perhaps the allure was the notion of perfect isolation—and isolation with a purpose. Or perhaps it was that the buildings were so beautiful—the perfect simplicity of their design, beacons of light jutting up into the sky from a rocky shore, a sandy beach, or some tiny outpost in the midst of the sea itself. They’d certainly given rise to a whole world of collectibles and home decor. You’d be hard put to find a home on the Maine coast that didn’t have at least a pot holder with one of these noble edifices brightly stamped on it—and more likely would find a lamp, lawn ornament, bedspread, and a bank calendar to match. Faith herself had succumbed to dish towels and a key chain.
    She went downstairs to say good night to Ursula, who had told her when she arrived that therewere no fixed rising or bedtimes at the Pines. Faith was relieved to hear she wouldn’t be expected to accompany Ursula on her early-morning swim, a family tradition that no one had had the good sense to break. Pix had explained it patiently to Faith. “We never thought it was cold water. It was just water, and the only water we ever swam in, so it always felt fine. If you’re not used to it, the trick is to jump in at once and swim like hell to get your blood flowing; then it’s warm as toast.” British toast, Faith surmised. The kind they put out in those toast racks, until the slices are the consistency of Stonehenge. She had never followed Pix’s advice,