The Time in Between Read online

  The Time in Between

  Copyright © 2017 by Kristen Ashley

  First ebook edition: August, 2017

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischiefDesign.com

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Contents

  The Time in Between

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Enjoy an Excerpt of For You

  Discover the Other Titles in the 'Burg Series

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  Once Upon a Time

  THE GATE WASN’T VERY WELCOMING.

  To one side it had a sign tacked on it, which declared in neon orange on black, Private Property. Keep Out!

  To the other side the sign declared, Absolutely No Trespassing!

  And down the rickety white fence that led either side of the gate, these signs adorned the peeling painted wood at odd but frequent intervals.

  “In the end, Magdalene’s last lighthouse keeper was a little crotchety,” the real estate agent murmured under his breath, sitting beside me in his Chevy SUV as he drove us through the opened gate.

  I looked beyond the gate to the lighthouse in front of us.

  Unlike from afar, up close the outbuildings of the lighthouse looked as dilapidated as the fence. Their white paint and black trim flaking and faded, some of the red shingles on the roofs askew or missing altogether.

  The lighthouse, on the other hand, was a gleaming white (with glossy black trim) beacon of beauty rising five stories in the air. The top two stories all windows, other interesting windows dotted here and there down its circumference. And to end, there was startling green grass that fed into gray rock cliffs that led to the blue sea and blue sky with tufted clouds acting as the backdrop for its magnificence.

  And suddenly, seeing it all that close, I was finally becoming excited about this adventure.

  It’s a sign, my darling. It couldn’t be anything but. You’re meant to be in Maine. And when I’m gone, when you write the end to this chapter of your life, that’s where your next chapter starts. The one that leads to a happy ending.

  That was what Patrick said to me two days before he died.

  And one could read from the fact that Patrick died that that particular chapter did not have a happy ending.

  Now, when he said it, he’d been significantly drugged up due to the pain caused by the cancer eating away at his body, most specifically his brain. But in weeks where his lucidity wasn’t exactly something you could count on, when he’d said that to me, his voice was firm and his eyes were clear.

  “It’s automated now,” the real estate agent said, taking me out of my thoughts.

  I looked to him to see we were parked and he was opening his door and lugging his large body out of the car.

  I opened my door, following suit, and slammed it, calling, “I’m sorry? What?”

  He looked over the hood of the car to me. “The lighthouse. It’s automated now.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled, the breeze blowing my hair and my scarf all around, plastering my jacket to me, taking my barely there word and wisping it away on the wind.

  “Was automated in 1992,” he shared. “That’s when the old owner started to get crotchety. Tending a lighthouse wasn’t the easiest thing on the planet to do. But when it was automated, it was just about keeping it maintained and making sure the generators were fueled in case the power went out. After years of having something to do, something important, all of a sudden he didn’t have that. Because of what happened to him, I tell my wife, I don’t care if I’m organizing kitchen cupboards. Give me something to do every day until the day I die.”

  He delivered this wisdom and then started trudging up to the gleaming black painted wood door at the side of the house.

  It had a fabulous, old, black gooseneck light over the door.

  Heck, even if the place wasn’t absolutely glorious, which it was, I’d buy the damned thing because of that light.

  “So that said,” the agent went on as he inserted a skeleton key (yes, a skeleton key) into the keyhole in the door, “you decide to take that on, it’s not tough.” He turned his attention to me before he opened the door. “It’s taking on other stuff, in all honesty, not that you won’t get the gist of it the second you walk in, that might be iffy.”

  He then opened the door and it was like he didn’t. The gloom from inside slithered out and it was so intense, I actually leaned away from it.

  He walked inside, the shadows completely engulfing him within seconds.

  With no other choice, I followed him.

  Gloomy it was.

  And dirty.

  And dank.

  In fact it was dark, musty and smelled like wet brick and rot.

  “Old guy died years ago,” the real estate agent said as he moved through the murk. “All his kids had taken off years ago too. They lived with his wife anyway after the divorce. This is no place to raise a family. She knew that. He wouldn’t leave it.”

  He made a motion, and I blinked as sunlight made a valiant effort to pour through a bank of grimy windows that followed half the curve of the lighthouse when he shoved aside what seemed like a long vinyl curtain. A curtain which totally disintegrated at his touch, falling with a whoosh and a poof of dust to the countertop underneath it.

  “Whoops,” he mumbled.

  When I could focus again, first I saw an unadulterated (except for the filth) view of the sea that, even through filth, took my breath away.

  Second I saw the agent’s eyes resting speculatively on me.

  As my family situation was none of his business, I said nothing to him in response to his unspoken query.

  “Anyway,” he continued, catching my hint of silence. “None of them wanted the place. But he’d let it go so bad,” he swung an arm out, “no one else wanted it either. It’s been on the market for nine years. There’s also been a referendum for the town to buy it every year since he died, but the cost and upkeep, they couldn’t absorb. Now the family’s dumped the price so low it’s almost criminal, what with two acres of coastal property coming with it. But there’s a rider on the deed, considering this is a historic site. Current buildings can be renovated at the owner’s discretion if they retain the look
they already have on the outside, but nothing else can be built and the lighthouse must remain.”

  “So automation is very automated, considering no one has lived here for that long,” I noted.

  He shook his head. “We’ve had volunteer keepers since then. Not that they have to do much, but the old girl needs to keep lighting so it’s gotta be looked after. In fact, it was getting so bad, the town paid for it to be repainted a couple of years ago. Other than that, as you can see . . .”

  He didn’t finish that but did since he swung his arm out again to indicate the mess of the large, circular room we were in.

  I took in the mess of the large, circular room we were in and at first saw nothing but the mess—decaying furniture, a soot-covered stone fireplace, a kitchen that might have been put in in the forties but had not only not been touched the last nine years, it perhaps had not been touched the last nineteen (or more).

  Then I saw more.

  The extraordinarily carved railing to the sweeping wood staircase that ran the curved side of the house. The red brick walls. The plank wood floors.

  “Once upon a time, long ago,” the realtor was suddenly talking wistfully, “someone loved this place. Put that love into building it. Put that love into keeping it. Nine years and more when no one really gave a whit, and still you can see it once had a lot of love.”

  Oh yes.

  You could see that.

  “It’s got a basement, more like a big crawl space,” the agent declared, surprising me with his quick change in tone back to businesslike and informative. “The furnace is down there. You can get down there through a door in the floor. The furnace was put in a while back, and full disclosure, though an inspection will catch it, it probably needs to be replaced.”

  Through his words I stared at the fireplace, which scoured would be magnificent, and I noticed it didn’t have a chimney as such, but the smoke probably went out a vent in the wall.

  “This floor has a powder room under the stairs,” the realtor kept on. “You can look at it if you want, but if you wanna save yourself that, I’ll just tell you straight, it needs to be gutted.”

  I decided to take his word for it and told him that.

  He looked relieved when I did before he stated, “Place has a garage, two car. Not in good condition, but think you saw that. Still, it’s close to the house and there’s a covered walkway to that door over there.” He pointed at a door that was across from the door we’d walked in. “Means you might feel a chill but you won’t get wet, unless it’s raining sideways, which happens.”

  With a breeze that plastered my jacket to me on a sunny, early spring day, I did not doubt that.

  “Garage has a loft space above it, which could be renovated as a studio rental if you’ve a mind to do that sort of thing. As for the property itself, it also has a building where the generators are stowed,” the realtor carried on. “Hook up for a washer and dryer and good space in there. Lots of it for storage. Which is good because there’s not a lot of storage in here for tools and Christmas decorations and whatnot.”

  I glanced around seeing he was right. There wasn’t even enough cabinetry to house the things a decent cook would need in her kitchen. Though there was room for them. In fact, if you fought back the gloom, there was quite a bit of room.

  “And there’s a place outside, could call it a studio, could call it a mother-in-law house,” he shared. “Whatever, it’s got goodly space, two bedrooms, big kitchen. Could be renovated to be a guest house. Or like I said, a studio if you’re artsy. Or you could rent it out like a B and B. I’ll show you all of that after we have a look at the lighthouse.”

  “Thanks,” I replied.

  “Now, since I mentioned full disclosure, you have to know it all,” the realtor continued.

  Slowly, my eyes went to him.

  When they did, he launched in. “Like I said, it’s automated. And like I said, you won’t really have to concern yourself with the functionality of that unless the electricity goes out, but then the generators automatically kick in. There are two. But you’ll need to keep fuel on hand to keep them going in case a blackout lasts awhile. And just to say, this is coastal Maine. We get weather. Blackouts can last awhile.”

  When I nodded to share I took that in, he kept going.

  “And if you’re, say, away on vacation, you need to make sure someone is playing backup in such a case.”

  “Okay,” I replied when he stopped talking, thinking this probably wasn’t a good thing since I knew no one in Maine (or not anyone who wanted to know me) and thus couldn’t call on anyone to do something like that.

  I also didn’t hold high hopes I’d make friends and win people. I hadn’t had a lot of success in that in my life.

  And last, although Patrick believed it completely, I held no hope that the reason I was out there was going to come to fruition.

  That being me having a happy ending.

  That being what Patrick thought would be my happy ending.

  Which might mean I’d have someone, a certain someone, or actually two (at least), even though I knew I never would.

  However, if I bought that place and wanted to go back to Denver to visit the family, I could pay someone to look after it.

  The realtor nodded, unaware of my bleak thoughts, and went on, “Some folks don’t put two and two together, but just to say, there’s a big honkin’ light on top of this building that flashes in a circle at night or during fog, going around every fifteen seconds. You’ll need blackout blinds everywhere if you’re like practically every other soul on this earth and will have trouble sleeping with a bright light flashing through the windows every fifteen seconds.”

  “Blackout blinds probably aren’t hard to come by,” I guessed, and they probably could be made to look nice, or at least I hoped.

  “Probably not,” he agreed. “But anyone who wants to live here and not go insane or end up a crotchety old curmudgeon with a bad attitude, and that may seem like I’m laying it on thick, but it’s all warranted with our old keeper, they’ll want to put in all new windows. This brick is solid. Nothing coming through.” He jerked his head toward a wall. “But if the foghorn needs to blow, it’s gonna blow. So soundproof windows or sound-lock panels you can put in when you wanna drown out the noise will be the way to go to get some peace.”

  “That probably won’t be hard either,” I noted.

  “It won’t be, but they’ll need to be custom so it won’t be cheap.”

  I nodded.

  Price was not an issue.

  Thanks to Patrick, I had all the money in the world.

  “Then there’s the tourists,” he told me. “Reason those signs are out there isn’t only because the old guy was crotchety, it was because people think lighthouses are public places. They show and knock on the door wanting a tour, wanting to walk around, taking pictures. Doesn’t help matters the coastal path is public land, but this lighthouse stands on private land. Walkers and bikers are supposed to go around the fence, but sometimes they aren’t big on doing that. So you’ll either need to be real patient, real friendly or you’ll need to build a decent fence. My guess, though, is you’re still gonna have to put up with some of the more persistent ones.”

  Now that . . .

  That was going to be an issue.

  People weren’t my favorite things.

  In fact, the last seventeen years of my life, I’d had precisely fourteen people (not all fourteen all seventeen years, and now one of them was dead so I only had thirteen) that I actually liked and wanted to spend time with.

  The rest, I tolerated.

  No.

  That wasn’t right.

  The rest tolerated me.

  “Your land, your fence,” the agent stated. “That said, this is a historic site so if you’re thinking of getting this place and then building a ten-foot wall around it topped with razor wire, the town council is gonna balk. They’re a good bunch of folks with the best interests of Magdalene and its citizens in m
ind, so if you do something that will help you to have privacy but isn’t unsightly, they won’t have an issue.”

  “Do I have to get approval for any plans I might have from them?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not if it isn’t outlandish. Rider is relatively specific about a lot of stuff and mostly it’s to keep this place in keeping with the seascape, the coast, the town and its history. So if you buy the old girl, you’ll be legally bound by that rider to keep her within that purview. You build something outside of that scope, they’ll be within their rights to demand you tear it down and build something else. You stay inside that scope, you’ll be good.”

  I nodded but remarked, “That seems rather loose for a historical site.”

  “Like I said, town council is a good bunch of folks and they have been for a good while,” he shared, walking toward me. He stopped within three feet. “But they’re also pretty dogged about keeping Magdalene, Magdalene. Recently, the land west and south of this lighthouse was rezoned and is now unincorporated. But the coastal path leading up to it and the lighthouse remain under the town of Magdalene’s purview. This is because the town mostly exists on tourist trade and the lighthouse is an attraction. So if you push them, they’ll not hesitate to push back.”

  I was surprised about that land being rezoned and wondered distractedly why that had come about. Everything for quite some distance around the lighthouse was undeveloped, making the lighthouse an undisturbed beacon not only from sea, but from every direction by land.

  However, I was not surprised Magdalene existed on tourist trade. I’d found the day before when I’d arrived that it was huge, coastal postcard from the minute you saw the town limit sign (which could be on a postcard itself, it was so pretty) all the way down it’s meticulously preserved main street that traversed Magdalene Cove (containing wharf). Even the businesses and homes that dotted the sloping swell of land beyond fit the aesthetic.

  “Wanna see the rest?” the realtor asked.

  “Please,” I answered.

  He led the way and I followed him up the spiraling, wood stairs that didn’t look rickety in the slightest.

  Yes, this place had been built out of love.