The Time in Between (Magdalene #3) - Kristen Ashley.pdf

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1
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 mind, 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

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