The Body in the Lighthouse by Katherine Hall Page

especially partial to Ron Savenor’s crown roasts, and Ron himself, who had a smile like that of his father, Jack, wasn’t bad, either.
    Feeling like Scarlett, Faith firmly pushed the thought of the play to the “I’ll think about that tomorrow” part of her brain and concentrated instead on the beauty of the scene before her. They’d eaten early—she’d succumbed to beef, too, and had marinated a flank steak, which Tom grilled on the barbecue. She’d bought some imported corn—the sign said FROM RHODE ISLAND , not exactly her notion of the Corn Belt. Since it wasn’t fresh, she’d scraped the kernels from the cob and made corn pudding, a rich, delectable southern version, steamed in the oven (see recipein “CORN PUDDING”). Now the sky was still bright with the end-of-day, long, flat light that made everything look like a stage set. It was her favorite time. A time that offers endless possibilities, Janus-like facing day and night. The lighthouse stood in sharp relief, the simple unpainted solid stone column capped by its powerful lens, with only a small catwalk around the outside of the room to interrupt the lines of its square blocks—blocks of the same granite that were scattered helter-skelter at the base, without a single straight edge.
    Her family was close to shore and she could see Ben concentrating hard. She never wanted to forget this minute, or the other minutes like them. Minutes when it was possible to block out everything except the people and place in front of one’s eyes. Minutes when the world seemed safe.
    â€œHe might do better standing up,” Ursula observed. “I still row that way sometimes. It might be easier for him.”
    Pix had tried to teach Faith to row once, but after retrieving an oar for the fourth time, she gave up. Faith had remained seated throughout. Ben seemed Olympic material in comparison.
    â€œAren’t there more boats than usual?” she asked, eager to add anything remotely nautical to the conversation.
    â€œMackerel are running in the Reach, and a lot of local people leave their skiffs tied to our dock. They know they don’t need to ask. Kenny Sanford and Lyle both brought theirs over yesterday.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have thought they’d have time to fish,” Faith remarked, slightly dismayed at the possible incursion into their work schedule.
    â€œThere’s always time to fish. We should be out there now ourselves. Gert said you can practically scoop them out of the water with your bare hands. Mackerel is one of my favorites.”
    It was one of Faith’s favorites, too—lightly floured, then browned to a crisp in plenty of butter. Or smoked. Or filleted. Or served with scrambled eggs. Or…The phone rang, and both women gave a start at the unaccustomed sound.
    â€œIt may be Pix. She said she’d call tonight. I’ll get it.” Ursula went into the living room, where one of the house’s two ancient black dial phones resided. The other was by Ursula’s bed.
    Faith continued to watch the little boat. Ben learning to row. It seemed he had just learned to walk.
    Ursula was back almost immediately. It couldn’t have been Pix.
    She sat down. Looking at Ursula, Faith was alarmed. This was not the woman who had led the Aleford Historical Society contingent in last April’s six-mile Patriots’ Day Parade with her usual vigorous stride. She was visibly pale and shaken.
    â€œWhat is it? What’s wrong?”
    â€œThat was Serena. Seth’s doing that big house off the old quarry road. He went back to take some pictures for the owners after he’d had his supper. The window of the little office he put upwas smashed in, the door wide open, and someone had poured kerosene all over everything. He saw the flames right away. Fortunately, he had a fire extinguisher in his truck and was able to save most of it.”
    â€œThank goodness for