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Faye mimed the look of disapproval.
“I had committed the cardinal WAG sin,” Faye continued. “I was going to give birth during the season.”
“Shameful,” Pat said. “How dare you? I shouldn’t laugh, but...”
“You can laugh. Will did. He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out of his head. He told me...” Faye paused, caught her breath. “He told me he would quit baseball before he missed the birth of our child. And he would never ever forgive me if I let his dreams get in the way of my own. He said the day I put down my camera, he would put down his bat and glove. He made me promise I would never give up my work for his. And if you were wondering why I said he was the best man who ever lived, that’s the reason.”
“He’s giving Carrick a run for his money.”
“There are no words for how happy Will was, how happy we both were. Then I went to shoot some pictures for a project I was working on, and Will went out to buy flowers to surprise me when I got back. On the way home, he sees two guys on the side of the road trying to change a flat. This was Will’s area. Son of a mechanic. He helped more stranded drivers than AAA. But they weren’t stranded drivers. They were a carjacking team. They went for the car, and Will tried to stop them. One of them hit him in the head with the tire iron. He died on the operating table from a rapid intracranial hemorrhage. They killed my beautiful husband for drug money and a 2005 Ford Focus.”
Faye exhaled and leaned back on Pat’s sofa, her hands on her face, trying to stifle the animal howl of grief welling up within her. A gentle hand touched her knee, and she grabbed Pat’s hand and held it like her life depended on it. She breathed through it—In and out, babe. The world’s not ending—and slowly found her voice again.
“He’d been in the majors all of one month. Batted .364. Best September of our lives. I’m always a wreck in September now. And I can’t even watch baseball anymore.”
Pat bowed his head and she wondered if he were praying for her. She’d take any help she could get.
“The police got the guys who killed him. Even got the car back. But they couldn’t bring me my husband back. I had that car, though. That stupid car.”
Pat clasped his hands between his knees and sighed. “If there’s anything fifty years in the priesthood taught me, it’s that I can’t say a damn thing to make you feel better right now.”
“At least you know that. ‘Everything happens for a reason’ sure doesn’t cut it.”
“Everything does happen for a reason. Sometimes it’s a bad reason.”
“Sounds like my second marriage,” she said, sitting up again, wiping at her face and then giving up. Too many tears, not enough tissues in the world. “After the funeral, Will’s best friend from college, Hagen, started hanging around our place all the time. It was nice. It helped, it really did. He said it was what Will would have done. And then a couple weeks later, he sat me down and told me he thought we should get married. It wasn’t much of a proposal. More like an escape plan. Like this would solve all my problems. I thought he’d lost his mind. Then Hagen said the magic words again—‘It’s what Will would have done.’”
“Was it?” Pat asked.
“If it had been Hagen who’d died, Hagen with a pregnant wife left behind, Will would have stepped in and been a father to that kid. So Hagen and I got married. Hagen had money, a big house. He told me I could have my own room, that he wouldn’t expect me to act like his wife until I was ready for it. Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful romance, doesn’t it? Hollywood thought so, too. A story ran in the Boston Globe about Will and me and Hagen, and the next day a producer called and said he’d already talked to a screenwriter about putting Will’s Cinderella story on the big screen—nobody kid from Nowhere, Mass, drafted in the forty-first round, ends up playing for the Red Sox. And it would end with me giving birth to Will’s baby. Triumph out of tragedy. Whatever. I talked to them because you go crazy when you’re grieving like that. And I just wanted Will to be remembered. Then I lost the baby at sixteen weeks and they stopped calling. Not even Hollywood could give me a happy ending.”
She didn’t tell Pat about the years of trying to get pregnant that came after losing Will’s baby. She could barely face her grief over losing Will. If she had to grieve for those lost years, she’d never make it out of this house in one piece. And Hagen? She couldn’t talk about Hagen, how once she’d lost the baby, he’d turned into a ball of quiet anger, like it had been her fault she’d lost the last part of Will left in the world.
Faye took a shuddering breath and forced herself to drink her tea. Crying so hard had given her dry mouth, and her throat felt like it had been dragged down a gravel road.
“I promise I’m not vomiting this whole story onto you for the fun of it,” Faye finally said, carefully lowering her glass to her knee. It left a wet ring on her white jeans, but she didn’t care. “I’m just so...freaked out, I guess. And I don’t even know why. So what? So Will and Carrick Morgan looked alike. What does it mean? Nothing. I know it means nothing. I’ve seen those internet clickbait stories where they show celebrities who look like people who’ve been dead for a hundred years. It happens. There are only so many faces in the world, I guess. But it feels like it means something. Do I sound crazy? You can tell me if I do. I can take it. Oh, and I think a stork is stalking me. Yeah, I sound crazy. I can hear it.”
“My job entailed me turning wine into God’s blood, so I don’t think I can judge you too harshly. I’m an open-minded spiritual man by trade.”
“I appreciate you listening to me. I can’t talk to anyone about Will. Hagen and I are divorced, and we can’t talk about anything anymore without it turning into a fight. Will’s parents are doing better than I am. They have grandkids from Will’s sister, and those kids are their whole life now. Every time I visit them, his mom has a breakdown and it takes weeks for her to get back on her feet again. I stopped talking to Will’s family two years ago. Too hard on all of us.”
“And your parents?”
“Dad died. Mom has dementia. I was an oops baby when they were both forty.”
“Friends?”
Faye shook her head. “I had friends. They were great until the funeral. After that, they had their own lives, and nobody knows what to say to a twenty-six-year-old widow. Will’s friends and teammates weren’t thrilled with me for getting married again so soon after he died. The medical bills and funeral expenses wiped out the life insurance. There I was, almost broke with student-loan debt up to my eyeballs and pregnant. I ran out of shoulders to cry on a long time ago.”
“You’re Lady Job,” Pat said with a sorrowful smile.
“Who?”
“Job, in the Bible. A very old Jewish story, very strange and mystical. You’ve heard the phrase ‘the patience of Job’?”
“Oh, that guy. Yes, I’ve heard of him. I don’t know if I’ve ever read the story.”
“Odd little book, but some of the loveliest poetry in the Bible. A man named Job has a wife, children and wealth. And he’s a good man. Satan goes to God and makes a sort of bet with him, saying that Job is only good because he’s blessed, but if you take his blessings away, he won’t be righteous anymore. God takes him up on that bet and wipes out Job’s entire family, his wealth and his health. He’s literally sitting in ashes using potsherds to scrape the sores off his body.”
“Oh, my God, that’s disgusting. Even I didn’t have it that bad.”
Pat laughed. “I told you it was a strange little book. But it does have a happy ending. Job keeps his faith in God, though he demands God explain himself.”
“Does he?”
“God shows up and gives the ‘who do you think you are?’ speech to end all speeches. The short version is basically ‘I am God. You’re not, so stuff it.’”
“Very poetic.”
Father Pat smiled but didn’t laugh. He took a breath and met her eyes.
“‘Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou hast understanding. Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest? Or who laid the cornerstone thereof, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Or who shut up the sea with its doors, when it brake forth, as if it had issued out of the womb? Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea? Or hast thou walked in search of the depth? Have the gates of death been opened unto thee?’”
Pat stopped and sighed. “It goes on like that for a long time. God wanted to make sure Job got the point.”
“That’s beautiful,” Faye breathed. “What does it all mean?”
“It means a lowly man may never understand the ways of God.”
“And you find that comforting?” she asked.
“A little. If lowly little me could understand God, then he wouldn’t be much of a God, right?”
“I guess,” Faye said.
“I do find this comforting, though—even after God tells Job off, he restores him. New wife. Children. Even more children than he’d lost. Twice as much wealth. And a life so long he meets his great-grandchildren.”
“If only,” Faye said.
“Yes,” Pat said. “If only.”
Faye wiped her face with Pat’s handkerchief again. She didn’t know many men who still carried handkerchiefs. Will always had—a red bandanna in his back pocket just like his dad.
“When Will and I got married, we did all the usual wedding vows. Love, honor, cherish, until death do us part. But that wasn’t good enough for Will. He added one more vow. He said...” She stopped to breathe even though it hurt to breathe, but she kept on doing it. Will would have wanted her to. “He said, ‘Come heaven or hell or high water, I will love you and take care you of you as long as you live, Faye.’ I asked him, ‘Don’t you mean as long as you live?’ He said no. He wasn’t interested in till death do us part. Even if he went first, he would find a way to take care of me. I treasure that vow. I hold it right here,” she said, touching her chest over her heart. “But I’m still waiting for him to keep it.”
Faye squeezed Pat’s hands again. He had nice hands, a younger man’s hands. A painter’s hands even if they did tremble.
“You can’t go back, you know,” Faye said.
“Go back where?” Pat asked.
“Once someone loves you that much, loves you more than you deserve, you can’t go back to being loved the normal way,” she said. “You ever been loved like that?”
“Only by my creator.”
“Pat, I have to tell you something else crazy,” she whispered.
“Tell me something crazy.”
“I think I’m supposed to go the lighthouse,” she said. “I think... I don’t know. I feel like someone wants me out there.”
“What do you hope to find there?” Pat asked, and Faye could tell he really wanted her to think about it before answering. So she thought about it and admitted she didn’t know the answer.
“I don’t want to see any ghosts, and I know Will’s not going to be there waiting for me. But it feels like I’ve had a nightmare, and if I got out there, I’ll wake up and know it was all a dream. I just... Maybe it would help me. Like it helped you.”
Pat took a steadying breath and nodded his head.
“All right. I’ll get you there. But if Ms. Shelby’s out there and catches you, you don’t know me, right?”
“Right. Promise. Never met you.”
“And you have to swear to me you’ll be careful. That lighthouse is old, and the water there is choppy as hell. It’s more dangerous out there than you can imagine. You swear you’ll be safe?”
“I swear,” she said.
“You swear you’ll stay out of the water?” he asked.
“I swear,” she said again. He gave her a long, searching look, then sighed like he knew he was wasting his time. Pat got a sheet of paper and scribbled a little map for her and walked her through the steps of how to find the road with the bridge, what turns to take and when to take them.
“Good enough?” he asked.
“Perfect,” Faye said, folding up the map and shoving it into her back pocket. “Thank you. I should go. I haven’t eaten much today, and I know I’ve taken up way too much of your time.” Faye’s head throbbed from hunger and crying so hard. She’d lost control of herself, something she rarely did. She didn’t want to lose it again in front of this kind old man.
“You made my day, young lady. Beautiful woman in my house? The neighbors are loving this. They can’t wait to find out what I’ve been up to with you in here.”
“Keeping me from having a nervous breakdown.”
“That’s not a very sexy rumor. We’ll have to do better than that.”
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something good. Feel free to ruin my reputation. I wasn’t using it anyway.”
“Count on it.” He helped her to her feet.
Before letting her leave, Pat pulled a small red book off his shelf and pressed it into her hands.
“Take this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“It’s a prayer book, a very special one,” Pat said.
“I’m not really religious.”
“I’m not giving it to you because I want to convert you. But I think you should have it. Please.”
“Are you going to pray for me?”
“For you. For Will. And for Hagen.”
“For Hagen?”
“Ex-husbands are people, too,” he said.
“If you say so,” she said and smiled.
He kissed her goodbye on the cheek and held her hand.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Faye,” he said. “But if you don’t find it...”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Just stay out of the water,” Pat said again. “Please.”
Faye promised him faithfully she would and then took her leave.
By the time Faye made it back to the Church Street house, she felt almost human again. She took a long shower, ate some homemade spaghetti with Miss Lizzie and another girl staying at the house that summer. Afterward she went up to her room to upload her pictures from the Marshlands.
As she suspected, most of the pictures were a bust. Maybe she could salvage a couple she’d taken off the dock for a stock photo site, but they wouldn’t do for the calendar. It was what it was. She’d get back to work tomorrow.
Although it was barely seven o’clock, Faye was already sprawled in bed wearing nothing but her black silk robe. Her summer robe, a gift from Hagen. A thoughtful gift. Pretty and practical. She could say that much for Hagen; he gave good gifts. They’d skipped dating, being engaged, but at their wedding he’d given her a band and a four-carat diamond engagement ring. Both were in her makeup bag. If she ran out of money, she’d have them to pawn.
An old Catholic prayer book, on the other hand, might be the oddest gift anyone had ever given her. She’d read it maybe. Who knew? She might find the perfect prayer for her. A prayer for a widow who had remarried too soon and had lost her late husband’s baby. Perhaps the generic “Prayer for Someone Suffering” would cover all that. Faye turned to the back where the index should be and found some handwriting in pen on a page.
The handwriting looked as old as the book, and the book, according to the title page, was printed in 1954. The ink was faded but the script neat and sturdy.
Lord, I give Thee thanks that Thou didst die upon the cross for my sins. Forgive me the blood on my hands. Forgive me the life I took and wash the blood from my hands and the stain of sin from my soul. Thou art infinite in mercy. Shower Thy mercy upon Thy son.
And the prayer was signed.
It was signed “Carrick Morgan.”
Faye sat straight up in bed.
This was Carrick Morgan’s prayer book? The lighthouse keeper?
Faye’s hands shook as she gingerly laid the book open on her lap and traced his words with her fingertip. Carrick Morgan had a beautiful signature, an old-fashioned, elegant script. She should have guessed he was Catholic, being of Irish stock. The prie-dieu in her room... Had he carved that himself? And he prayed for forgiveness and for mercy because he took someone’s life. He’d killed someone. Who? Father Pat had owned this book for years. Carrick Morgan himself must have given it to him. Pat would have known about the prayer for forgiveness, and yet he’d called Morgan the best man he’d ever known. It made no sense. None of it did. Staring at Carrick Morgan’s words in the prayer book made it impossible for Faye to sit still in her room and wait for tomorrow. It felt like an alarm was blaring somewhere and she had to go to the lighthouse to find a way to turn it off. It was growing dark, too dark for pictures. But this wasn’t about the photographs anymore.
Faye dug through her suitcase for a clean top and spied her little jewelry bag under her black tank top. When she opened it she found Will’s old college championship ring that he’d given her right after they started dating. “Does this mean we’re going steady now?” she’d said, teasing him. She’d worn the ring on a necklace until they’d gotten married and he’d slipped a wedding band on her finger—one that fit.
Though she no longer wore it, Faye treasured the ring. She wouldn’t pawn it, not if she were starving. The ring was white gold with a blue stone in it, Will’s name and a baseball insignia emblazoned on both sides. It comforted her to look at it, to hold it. She slipped it over her thumb and felt calmer in an instant. Here was the reason her marriage to Hagen had been so hard. It wasn’t that she’d had to pretend to be in love with Hagen. It was that she’d had to pretend she wasn’t in love with Will. She didn’t have to pretend anymore.
“I love you, Will,” she whispered, then kissed the ring for luck.
Faye pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, grabbed her camera bag and her car keys and headed out. Earlier that day Pat had asked her what she thought she’d find at the lighthouse. She hadn’t known the answer then, but she knew it now.
She went to the lighthouse for the same reason anyone went to a lighthouse.
She went because she needed the light.
7
Faye had to Google directions to find her way to where Pat’s map began. After one wrong turn on Hunting Island, she righted herself. She crossed the one-lane bridge, which was green with old paint and red with fresh rust. On the other side of the bridge she found a gate unlocked and standing wide-open. She usually wasn’t the sort of person who believed in things like “signs,” but usually she didn’t see photographs of men who’d been dead since the sixties who looked just like her husband. The gate being open was either a sign the universe wanted her on the island tonight or, more likely, a sign someone had forgotten to close it. Either way, here she was.
As she crossed over onto the island, Faye’s heart started a steady march through her chest with the feet of a thousand soldiers pounding the pavement. She could see it now—the cops would show up, arrest her for trespassing, and then she’d have to call Hagen to come and bail her out. She’d rather spend the night in jail than call him for help.
She drove slowly down the tree-lined path, the branches of the oaks forming a tunnel. Low-hanging branches scratched her car roof, and she winced. There wasn’t any money for a new paint job, so she better take care of the one she had. She wished she had some idea of where this road led—south beach or north beach or straight into a swamp? Pat’s map didn’t help much. The dense tree canopy threw off her usually strong sense of direction. Behind her she saw the last rays of the setting sun through a break in the treetops. The sun set in the west, which meant she needed to take a left to go north. She found a narrow road and turned onto it. Pat hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the island contained nothing but trees. Faye saw no houses, no ponds, no street signs, no flowers. Only a few dirt horse trails, and a gravel road here and there and the trees.
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