The pen felt solid in Nora Vance's hand as she signed the last of the closing documents. The lawyer watched her from across the oak desk.
“That’s the last of it, Mrs. Vance.”
“Thank you.” She slid the papers back.
“I’ll file these with the county this afternoon.” He reached into a drawer and produced a single brass key on a plain ring. “This opens the boathouse. Ben Carter has the cottage keys. He’ll take you out to the island when you’re ready.”
“The boathouse?” Nora asked. “How extensive is the outbuilding?”
“Couldn’t say. I deal in deeds, not dry rot.”
“Is there a survey? A plat map, anything that shows the dimensions?”
“Only what’s on file with the assessor. One-room structure, stone foundation. That’s all I’ve got.”
“And just the one key?”
“That’s all that came with the estate.” He pushed the key across the desk. “Ben’s dock is slip seven. You’ll find him there before the tide turns.”
She picked it up. It was cold and heavier than she expected.
The office smelled of lemon polish and old paper. A wall calendar from Port Blossom Savings Bank showed a glossy photograph of a lighthouse. May 28 was circled in red ink. She thanked the lawyer again and stepped out onto Main Street.
Cold air hit her face. The temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, and a raw wind funneled between the buildings. She pulled her jacket tighter and walked toward the harbor, passing The Chart & Compass diner where a hand-lettered sign advertised lobster rolls for $22.95. The smell of fried haddock drifted through the open door.
A stooped figure stepped out from the doorway of Blackwood’s Maritime Antiques. He wore a thick wool cardigan, and his white beard was trimmed as precisely as a ship’s rigging.
“You’re the woman who bought the cottage.”
Nora stopped. “I am.”
“You’ve made a mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
The old man took a step closer. “That cottage isn’t yours to have.”
“I have the deed. It’s legally mine.”
“Papers don’t change what’s right.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “The fact of the matter is, you’re an outsider anchoring in the wrong current.”
“Who are you?”
“Silas Blackwood. My family’s been in this town since before the streets were paved.”
“I still don’t understand why that matters to my property.”
“The cottage holds things that don’t belong to strangers.”
“What things?”
“Just know you’ve bought trouble. The kind that doesn’t wash out with the tide.”
Nora’s fingers tightened on the key in her pocket. “Thank you for the warning, Mr. Blackwood.”
“It’s not a warning. It’s a fact.”
“What fact, then?”
“That you don’t belong out there.”
“Facts I can manage.” She held his gaze. “I’m an architect. Facts are what I work with.”
He stared at her a long moment, then turned and retreated into his shop. The door swung shut with a rattle of old bells.
She stood on the sidewalk, the wind plucking at her hair. Then she walked on.
Slip seven was at the far end of the harbor, past stacks of lobster traps and a power washer humming outside a bait shack. The dock smelled of salt and diesel. A lobster boat named Graceful bobbed against its fenders, its hull a faded white with green trim. A man in a flannel shirt and stained work boots was coiling a line on the deck.
“You must be Nora.”
“And you must be Ben Carter.”
“Reckon so.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “You caught me just in time. Tide’s about to turn and the wind’s picking up.”
“Thank you for doing this on short notice.”
“No trouble. I was headed out anyway to check my traps.” He gestured toward the boat. “Watch your step. Gunwale’s a little slick.”
She climbed aboard, finding her footing on the damp deck. Ben cast off the lines and started the engine.
“How long is the ride?”
“Fifteen minutes, weather willing.” He throttled up and eased the Graceful out of the harbor. “You restore old places, the lawyer said. That right?”
“I do. Architectural salvage and restoration.” She steadied herself against the cabin as the boat met the first swell. “What can you tell me about the cottage?”
“Know it well. It’s a mess. Roof’s half gone. Porch is worse. Nobody’s lived there since before I was born.”
“Can the structure be saved?”
“Maybe. Depends on the sills and the footing. Salt air eats everything eventually.”
“Has it been abandoned the whole time you’ve been around?”
“Sixty years, give or take. Finch’s kin never came back after the captain disappeared. Place just sat out there, taking the weather.”
“Finch?”
“Captain Alistair Finch built it. Supposed to be a hero. Saved a schooner crew once, so the story goes.”
“What else did he do?”
“Not much, far as I know.” Ben squinted at the horizon. “Town put up a plaque by the wharf. That’s about it.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Silas Blackwood will tell you all about it if you let him.”
“I’ve met him.”
“That so.”
“He wasn’t welcoming.”
“He never is.”
The harbor shrank behind them. Gulls wheeled overhead, and the gray chop of the Atlantic stretched wide. Tern Island emerged from a thin band of fog: a rocky hump of stone and spruce, waves foaming white at its base. And there, perched above the seawall, stood the cottage.
It was a beautiful, heartbreaking ruin. The roofline sagged in the middle. Half the balusters on the wraparound porch were missing. One chimney leaned at an angle that defied gravity. Gray shingles curled away from the walls, and a tangle of rugosa roses climbed over what remained of the front steps.
Ben cut the throttle. “There she is.”
Nora studied the lines of the structure, the pitch of what was left of the roof, the stone foundation disappearing into the undergrowth. “The stonework—that’s hand-laid. Look at the base.”
Ben glanced at it. “Old-timers knew what they were doing.”
“How deep do you figure the footings go?”
“Deep enough to hold this long. Whether they’ll hold another winter, that’s the question.”
“She’s still standing.”
“Reckon so. For now.”
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