Return of the Wild Son

N ATE ARRIVED at the lighthouse five minutes early. He parked his black truck next to the burgundy one with Shelton Contracting Services painted on the driver’s door. Mike was doing okay for himself. He was licensed, bonded and considered “no job too big or small.” Nate turned off his engine, took a deep breath and got out.

Since Mike was nowhere in sight, Nate leaned against his hood and stared. He’d seen the lighthouse from this angle as often as he had from the lake. The building was as familiar to him as the small two-bedroom cottage his dad had rented on the outskirts of Finnegan Cove, the house where Nate and Mike had grown up. Nate didn’t care if he ever saw the house again. He’d believed he’d feel the same way about the light station, but he wasn’t so sure now.

When he was young and Lighthouse Park had been meticulously kept, he’d come here on picnics. He came to the woods beside the light when he was a young teenager to do what the older kids did—drink, make out, raise a little hell away from the watchful eyes of parents. And he came to be alone during the difficult period after his mother died, and Mike left, when Harley was becoming the man who would eventually murder someone.

Nate escaped to this very property, ironically—within the hallowed walls of a building originally intended to guide seamen along the coast, and save lives. After Harley was taken away in handcuffs, Nate had never been back. Now, standing in front of the lighthouse that had shaped their lives, looking up at the peeling walls of the tower, he felt only a familiar peace.

A tall, broad-shouldered man came around the side of the building. Nate found himself having to squint to bring the face of his brother into focus. Mike’s back was stiff, as if he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. About ten feet away, he ran his hand over his thick hair, which was a few shades darker than Nate’s.

Nate pushed off the truck’s hood, waiting—for what he didn’t know—his hands in his jeans pockets.

Mike crossed his arms over his chest. “How you doing?” he said.

“Good. You been here long?”

“About ten minutes.” His brother glanced at the tower. “Guess you can tell she’s not in the best of shape.”

So they were getting right down to business. “The keeper’s cottage doesn’t look too horrible,” Nate said. “What about the lighthouse itself? How bad is it?”

“It’s still standing,” Mike stated. “The lock was broken on the back door, so I was able to go inside. At first glance I’d say it’s sound. But cosmetically it’s pretty much a mess. You won’t be able to reach the beacon room without major restoration to the stairs. The entire place needs new windows and doors. The floors are shot. The heating system—forget it. Electrical, well…”

Mike’s litany of problems should have discouraged Nate. Oddly, it didn’t. He was intrigued. “So how much would it take to make it livable?” he asked.

“Just livable? Without fixing everything that needs attention?”

He nodded. “Dad wants to move in a few weeks from now. He can do a lot of the work himself.”

Mike frowned. “Still can’t believe it. But anyway, maybe between five and ten grand, if you’re not picky and you hire cheap help, or do it yourself.” His mouth lifted at the corners, something between a sneer and a grin. Nate couldn’t tell. He didn’t know this man anymore.

“Did you ever learn how to swing a hammer?” Mike asked.

“I guess you forgot. Dad taught me the same carpentry skills he taught you.” Nate extended his left arm, flexed his muscles. No atrophy there. What brawn he had might come from a gym membership, but he was still capable of manual labor.

Mike scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot. “Yeah, but I never thought it took with you. You seemed to prefer a pen to a drill.”

Nate smiled. “Still do.”

“To really modernize, make the place comfortable and restore some charm, you’ve got to be looking at twenty thousand.”

Nate nodded. The project was doable, if their dad wanted to tackle it. “I don’t see any Condemned signs.”

“No. There’s access to all the rooms except the tower. But I’d say the only things living here for a lot of years have been birds and insects.”

Friday night, after he’d had time to contemplate his father’s phone call, Nate had done an Internet search on the Finnegan Cove, Michigan, lighthouse and been rewarded with a picture of the place. The photo had been taken ten years ago, and even then it was showing signs of significant decay. That had been the point of the photograph. A concerned lighthouse enthusiast had chosen the Finnegan Cove Light to illustrate the desperate need to restore the old buildings.

“So, you think the old man’s off his rocker?”

Nate scrubbed his hand over his nape. If he was, then Nate wasn’t too far behind him. “I gotta admit,” he said, “I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to come back here.” For some reason, certainly not because he thought his brother was interested, Nate added, “I just had a sample of the way folks feel about us coming back to this town.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asked.

“There’s a bakery on Main Street. I stopped there to get a cup of coffee, and you won’t believe who’s running the place.”

Mike waited.

“Marion Malloy and her daughter, Jenna,” Nate told him.

“That’s an interesting bit of news,” Mike said. “I figured rather than relive that night over and over every time they passed the lighthouse those two would get out.”

“I know. After I gave Marion the twelve grand, I thought she might start over somewhere else. The trial was hard on both of them, especially Jenna. She was so young to go through something so terrible.”

“Getting out is more our style, don’t you think?” Mike spat in the dirt, then rubbed his fingers down his jawline. “I have to say, though, dividing up the proceeds from the sale of that fishing boat was the best thing the old man ever did for us.”

They remained silent, each lost in his own thoughts, until Mike suddenly said, “So, did you see the daughter?”

“Yeah, she was there this morning.”

“She married?”

“I don’t know. But I didn’t see a ring.” He wondered why he’d noticed that detail.

“And I guess she didn’t treat you like her favorite person?”

“Person. Creature. Primate.” Nate managed a smile. “I’m not high on her list of living beings.”

“Was she openly hostile?”

“Oh, yeah. Looking into her eyes, I felt the past twenty years slip away. I was suddenly bad boy Nathaniel Shelton again, only Jenna’s contempt was worse than any aimed at me before.”

“Hell, Nate, you didn’t kill her father.”

That simple truth should have put the tragedy in perspective. Sadly, it didn’t for Nate.

And he resented his brother’s attitude. He always had. Two years older, Mike had taken the brunt of punishment for Harley’s erratic behavior after their mom died. It had been Mike who’d bailed Harley out of jail, Mike who’d taken criticism from neighbors and Mike who’d stood up to Harley and argued back when it only pushed the two men further apart. But then Mike left, and at sixteen, Nate had taken over the job of managing the drunken, abusive man his father had become. And Nate couldn’t look at his brother today without feeling that Mike had let him down.

Ironically, before the murder, Nate had begun to see a change in their father. Harley had started to resemble the calm, rational, even loving man he used to be. So once Harley went to prison, Nate made strides in reconnecting with him, in time forging a fragile but reassuring bond.

He glanced at Mike, saw him focus on the lighthouse. As in the past, it was impossible to know what was going on in his brother’s mind. The only contact Nate had had with Mike over the years was a few notes from his wife, a woman Nate had never met. They’d just shared what Nate told himself was a companionable moment. Could this meeting be the start of a reconnection for them?

Mike turned to him and said, “I haven’t got all day, Nate. You want my opinions on this building or not?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” he replied. They started walking toward the lighthouse.

“Just out of curiosity,” Mike said. “Did Harley give you a good reason for wanting this place?”

“He gave me a reason. I don’t know how good it is. He said Finnegan Cove is the only home he’s ever known.”

Mike frowned. “Not true. He’s spent the past two decades in Foggy Creek.”