Nora Vance stepped off the gently rocking Whaler and onto the dock, her tool belt slung over one shoulder. Ben Carter tethered the boat with three quick hitches and nodded toward the cottage.
“You’ve seen it from the water.”
“I have.”
“Up close, it’s rougher.”
“Rough is what I do.” She pulled her leather work gloves from her back pocket. “Show me.”
“Follow.”
They walked the twenty yards from the boathouse to the cottage’s back door. The path had been gravel once; now it was a strip of crushed shells and wiry grass.
“Shells and grass. The gravel is long gone.”
“Tide washes it out.”
“I’ll replace it with crushed oyster shell.”
“You’ve got plans already.”
Ben pushed the door open. The hinges ground against rust.
“Those hinges have more rust than metal.”
“They’ll hold a little longer.”
“Not if I swing a hammer near them.”
“Then you’ll replace them too?”
“It’s on the list.”
Inside, the air smelled of dried salt and old timber. Light fell through a cracked window, illuminating a stone fireplace built into the far wall. Nora knelt and tapped the hearth with a chisel from her belt.
“Hand-laid granite.”
“Captain Finch insisted on local stone.”
“Below the waterline?”
“That’s the story.”
“Smart man.”
The mortar flaked but the stone held. She stood and ran her palm over a horizontal beam.
“Sill’s spongy on this side.”
“How do you know from a tap?”
“Sound changed. Hollow.”
“So three feet?”
“Give or take a foot. I’ll open it up and see.”
She moved to the next beam.
“This one’s solid as a bone.”
“That’s lucky.”
“More like good timber.”
Ben leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Nora wiped dust from her hands and gestured at the ceiling.
“Joists have sagged, but the tie beams look sound.”
“Roof’s bad, you said.”
“Missing shingles on the water side. Pitch is still true, though.”
“That’s something.”
“What’s it cost to fix what you’re seeing?”
“Foundation and framing, maybe thirty thousand in materials and my labor.”
“That’s a chunk.”
“Plumbing and electric will double that. Windows, siding, insulation—I’ll know more after I map every wall.”
Ben straightened.
“Sleep here? Tonight?”
“I brought a sleeping bag and a camp stove. My thermos is full of coffee from the Chart & Compass.”
“Strong enough to strip varnish?”
“You’ve had it.”
“I know the cook.”
“I brought a Whoopie pie for dessert.”
A corner of his mouth lifted.
“Reckon you’ll fit in fine.”
She spent the next hour room by room, Ben trailing with a clipboard. In the kitchen, she pointed to a bulge in the ceiling.
“That’s a plumbing leak from the upstairs bath.”
“You can tell from down here?”
“Water follows the joist. See the stain? The subfloor will need to come up.”
In the parlor, she counted missing windowpanes under her breath. In the small study off the main hall, she found the pile of books. They were stacked against a wall, pages foxed and spines loose. Nora lifted a thick almanac with a faded cover. The binding crackled.
“What’s that?”
“Farmer’s Almanac. 1923 edition.”
She opened it gently. A folded sheet of heavy paper slipped from between the pages and landed on the floor.
“That didn’t come from the almanac.”
Nora bent and picked up the paper.
“It’s a nautical chart.”
“Hand-drawn.”
She held it toward the light.
“The scale is local. That’s the harbor inlet, and this headland—is that the point beyond the island?”
“That’s Griffin’s Ledge. And those numbers mean fathoms. Someone mapped the shoals with a lead line.”
“Old-school work. Before sonar.”
“Why would a chart like this be tucked in an almanac inside a cottage on an island?”
Ben didn’t answer right away.
“Lots of old-timers kept charts in almanacs. Tide tables were in the back. But these soundings are precise. Not just a fisherman’s notes.”
“Mind if I hold onto this? I’d like to compare to a modern chart later.”
“Your house, your almanac.”
Nora refolded the paper carefully and tucked it into her shirt pocket.
“About the house. I need someone who knows these waters, has a boat, and can help me haul lumber. You interested in the job?”
“You haven’t asked my rate.”
“I pay twenty-five dollars an hour, plus fuel for the boat and a hot lunch at the Chart & Compass once a week. Twenty hours a week to start, more if the weather holds.”
“That’s generous.”
“Is it a yes?”
“Reckon so.”
They walked back outside. The sun had dropped behind the pines on the mainland, and the wind had a new bite. Ben untied the Whaler.
“Tide turns in twenty minutes. You sure you want to stay? Forecast says fog by midnight.”
“I’ve got a weather radio and two flashlights.”
“What if the ceiling falls in?”
“I’ll sleep in the boathouse.”
“There’s no lock on the cottage door.”
She pulled the boathouse key from her pocket, the brass catching the last light.
“I have this. And a hammer next to my sleeping bag.”
Ben nodded slowly.
“I’ll be back at seven to start on that rotted sill.”
“I’ll have coffee waiting.”
As the Whaler’s motor puttered away across the darkening water, Nora turned and walked up the shell path to the cottage’s front porch. She stopped and looked back at the mainland. For a moment, only the cry of a gull and the lap of waves against the dock. Then, atop a rocky rise a mile to the west, a tiny flash winked at her. It came again. Steady. Refracted.
“Someone’s out there,” she murmured.
She stood and watched the glint until the boat’s running lights disappeared behind the point, and then she went inside and shut the door.
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