of red hair fall over her left eye, cutting him out. He wouldn’t push her. Not now.
“I signed you up for summer school. Biology and Algebra.”
“Only losers go to summer school.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice.”
She looked up at him with her one exposed eye. “Are you going to ground me?”
“ Ground you? Of course not.” He’d never grounded his kids. “But I want you to promise me that if you start having that much trouble with school again, you’ll let me know.”
“Okay.” She swept her hair back over her shoulder and turned to leave the room. In the doorway, she hesitated and looked back at him. “I’m sorry, Dad. I just haven’t been able to do my work this year.”
“I know what you mean, Lacey,” he said. “I haven’t been able to do mine, either.”
C HAPTER S IX
Paul was still in bed when he heard the interview on the radio. They were talking about the Kiss River Lighthouse. At first he thought he was dreaming, but the voice began to make sense, to clear his head. He opened his eyes to the blue and gold light streaming through the stained glass panel hanging in his bedroom window. He lay very still, listening.
The woman’s name was Nola Dillard and she was talking about the Save the Lighthouse Committee. “We’re going to lose the Kiss River Lighthouse within three years if erosion continues at its current rate,” she said.
Paul rolled onto his side and turned up the sound as Nola Dillard continued to speak of the disaster facing the tallest lighthouse in the country. When she was finished, Paul pulled his phone book out of the nightstand and dialed the number of the radio station.
“How can I reach the woman who was just interviewed about the lighthouse?” he asked, propping himself up against the headboard of his bed.
“She’s still here,” the male voice on the other end of the phone told him. “Hold on.”
There was a thirty-second wait. He could hear voices in the background. Laughter.
“This is Nola Dillard,” a woman said.
“Yes, Ms. Dillard. My name is Paul Macelli and I just heard you talk about the Kiss River Lighthouse. I’d like to help.”
“Great!” she said. “The bottom line is money, Mr….?”
“Macelli. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for you financially, but I have some spare time and energy. I’d be happy to help in some other way. I didn’t realize the lighthouse was in jeopardy.”
There was a silence. He had somehow stumbled, said something wrong.
When she spoke again, her voice had developed a barely perceptible chill. “Are you a new resident of the Outer Banks, Mr. Macelli?”
So that was it. He was an outsider. He thought of telling her about the summer he’d lived here long ago, the summer after he got his masters degree, but he stopped himself. He had told no one about those few months in the Outer Banks, not even Olivia.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m new here, but I work for the Beach Gazette. Surely there’s some way I can help.”
Nola Dillard sighed. “Well, I tell you what, hon. We’re having a committee meeting Thursday night at the Sea Tern Inn. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.” Oh, yes. Two of his interviews with Annie had been in that restaurant. He’d avoided it since her death.
“Meet me out front about seven forty-five. I’ll talk to the committee first and clear the way for you a bit, all right?”
He thanked her and got off the phone. At least she hadn’t asked him what his interest was in the lighthouse. He would have said something about being a history fanatic, someone who couldn’t bear to lose the past. It would have been the truth.
Nola Dillard was a striking woman. Early forties, probably. Pale-blond hair pinned up in back, enormous gray eyes, and skin a little too lined from a tan she probably nurtured year-round.
She reached her hand toward him and he shook it. “We’re all set, Mr…. Paul, is it? I’m Nola. Come on in.”
He followed her through
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