Murano Light

By Susan Egner

Bates made her way up the path leading to the historic lighthouse. Could she live here for the year she'd committed? She was embarking on a dream she'd nurtured since childhood. The isolation of a lighthouse, the loneliness, the yearning for someone's return, all spelled romantic fantasy to young girls, even for Bates at one time. Now it spelled escape . . . at least that's what she thought!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Egner
• Release date: Nov 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9780971171152

Susan Egner

Minnesota Author Susan Egner followed her father’s footsteps into the life of a newspaper reporter before turning her pen to fiction. Her father, Lou Egner, was the well-known photojournalist for the Florida Times-Union and the former Jacksonville Journal. Now married and living in Burnsville, Minnesota, a suburb of Minneapolis, the mother of two and grandmother of four, fondly recalls, “Daddy gave cameras to my two sisters and me when we were still in elementary school saying, ‘Wherever you go, always remember to take your camera.’ He felt a story could unfold anywhere and he wanted us prepared. That training resulted in my writing about female photographers.”Encouraged by friends after hearing the stories she made up for her own children, Egner wrote and published her own children’s book series, Has Anyone Seen Woodfin? She has made multiple guest appearances with costumed characters in seven states and Shanghai, China; appearing in bookstores, elementary schools, children’s hospitals and the Mall of America. Her work was featured as one of ten programming initiatives at a gala event held in Chicago’s Field Museum by PBS affiliate, WYCC.Egner’s previous writing experience also includes writing and editing for the Dakota County Tribune, a weekly newspaper. In addition, she was a freelance writer for the Dayton Hudson Corporation Santa Bear series.Egner made the transition to e-B­­ook publishing in 2012 with her five-star rated novel, Scotoma. A gifted storyteller, Egner’s characters face challenges and often undergo personal transformation as they confront issues in contemporary society. Her stories are about ordinary people who find themselves in adverse circumstances that could face any of us. The choices each makes—and the resulting consequences—weave a tapestry of mystery, intrigue, and romance that will keep the reader wholly absorbed until the last page.Susan Egner proudly supports Operation eBook Drop, which provides free access to uniformed men and women deployed in service overseas. Learn more about Susan Egner on her website, EgnerINK, on Google+, and on Facebook.

Book preview

MURANO LIGHT

By

Susan Egner

Chapter One

Bates turned to look out over the flat and silent lake. Even the leaves on nearby trees stood motionless as if they held their collective breath, waiting to see what she would do. The Cliffpoint Lighthouse stood a hundred yards above the sea-like waters of Lake Superior on Cliffpoint Island. It guided down-lake ships around the hazardous island strewn waters and pointed up-bound ships safely toward Duluth, Minnesota. For a moment she watched the beacon as it made its circle, feeling its beam of light pass over and through her. Guided her. Pulled her. She turned her back to the lighthouse and looked south across the waters once called Gitchee Gumee by the Ojibwe Indians, the original inhabitants of this island. In the distance, she could see the New England style town of Bayfield, Wisconsin, only a ferry ride away. Turning west she saw the promise of evening walks with a view of spectacular sunsets. Walks she would now take alone because she needed the silence and seclusion, the chance to think. Although she relished the isolation, an edge of danger sucked at her courage. Bates shivered with excitement. She was, perhaps for the first time, taking control of her own destiny.

A V of honking geese making its way north pulled Bates’ attention skyward. She had a long summer ahead to enjoy their presence before the seasons turned, sending them searching for warmer climates. Though they would leave, she intended to stick it out as the only human inhabitant of the island. Even the bears would desert her as they slumbered through the coldest season leaving Bates nothing to fear but her secret thoughts.

She had signed a one-year lease and for a minute the urge to twirl like a young girl, newly in love, possessed her. Funny. It was quite the opposite. She was here to forget love, forget Ben. She needed to forget a love that had consumed her like a fire burning out of control, capable of destroying lives in its path, destroying her carefully achieved life. Even now, as she stared out at the wide expanse of water that separated her from him, she yearned for his touch, his voice, and especially the look in his eyes. But in another way, she searched for a new love, the very new sensation of loving herself. Most of her life had been defined by the needs and expectations of others. She’d done all that to the point of exhaustion. Today was her beginning.

Bates had come full circle since her divorce ten years earlier. Forced by her attorney to recognize that Minnesota was a no-fault state allowing only five years of alimony, he pushed her to find work to replace the income from marriage. It had been a chilling reality that the choices her husband made could literally throw her out on the street. At her husband’s insistence, she had left college and never worked, staying home to raise their two children. Where had that left her? What career choices did a thirty-six year old housewife with no work experience have? Sales became the obvious answer but the very thought was repugnant. Having grown up in a professional family, the familial attitude about sales had jaded many of her opinions until now.

Losers. Can’t cut it in college, she remembered one of her two older sisters saying.

Just because someone didn’t attend college doesn’t necessarily mean they couldn’t cut it, Brenda. Some people don’t have the resources, Bates defended.

Or the brains, finished Becka, Bates’ other sister, also a graduate school alumni.

The discussion had been centered, not on Bates, but on a distant cousin who had opted for a sales job straight out of high school. Like Bates, he was the only child in his family failing to finish college. The argument had come too close to home, leaving her to wonder if her sisters considered her a loser as well. Luckily one of her closest friends, a man thirty years her senior had set her straight.

Bates, your sisters are full of academic shit. Except for a very few, all people are in sales.

What do you mean?

Think about it. Look at your minister at your ever expanding church. He may be a man of God but he’s also a very good salesman, convincing people to join his congregation. And what about your doctor? Didn’t you tell me he’s always booked two to three months out? Now that’s good sales.

But how do I put that to use?

Just like they did, sell yourself, he said.

And that’s where she began. In divorce counseling, she’d learned that life experiences could be translated into college credits. While married, Bates had offered her photography skills to the local school’s community education program. That was the summation of her work experience; teaching restless housewives how to handle a camera, compose a picture and execute the final process of cropping and developing a print. It provided small, relished checks that allowed her to buy gifts for her husband without using his earnings. A small aspect of pride that few of her socialite friends understood or, for that matter, needed bloomed within her. Instead of translating it into college credits, she transformed it into a career choice.

Following her divorce, she built a successful career in architectural graphic photography that stabilized her life until she met Ben. How she had allowed herself to throw fate to the wind was just one of many questions she would brood over and perhaps write about while estranged from her carefully constructed life. Writing, or at least attempting to write, was one of a number of personal interests she’d dismissed while maintaining her perfect married life. Watching the waves lapping quietly below her encouraged her thoughts and she let out a wistful laugh. What a joke. All the hopes and dreams she’d nurtured since childhood had been put on the back burner from the very first day of her marriage, reinforced annually by the needs of her husband and the children that followed.

She had once confided to her marriage counselor, For years I’ve secretly dreamed of being a writer.

Did your husband support those dreams?

My husband? I’ve never told a soul until now. Oh, I devoured plenty of books on writing style, technique, plot development, that sort of thing.

And have you written anything?

I’ve made some attempts, she waved a hand in dismissal, sometimes even finishing three or four chapters,

And what happened?

Happened? Nothing happened. It’s all stacked in the back of my closet.

Hidden, you mean.

She recalled only blushing, not answering the question.

Do you take it out only when your husband is away on a trip and your children safely secured in school?

Yes, she said, laughing and brushing a lock of chestnut brown hair from her face, Funny you should mention that. You’re right. I did have a hiding place and the only time I’d pull stuff out was when I was alone.

Bates, what made you so afraid to express what you truly desired? I suspect your clandestine visits caused you to crave it even more. Isn’t your photography just another form of your creative drive?

Photography has always come easy for me.

Meaning it’s less significant? asked the therapist.

I just mean that my dad pushed a camera in our hands, my sisters’ and mine, before, well in my case, before I was five. Writing stories is a much more intense . . . well . . . love for me. It hasn’t been important to share it with anyone.

You didn’t wish to be published?

I guess I just never thought that far into the future.

Bates, it’s clear that you’re driven to write. It’s more than a desire for you, it’s fundamental to your existence.

That’s if I have any skill. Any talent.

How will you ever find out if you keep it buried? I think exploring your need to write may, in time, answer a lot of other questions about your choices and their consequences.

In truth, on occasion, she was pleased with her work. An avid reader, she perpetually compared her abilities to those of favorite authors. When reading DeMille, Grisham or Ludlum, she felt frustrated with feelings of inadequacy dating well before her writing had ever taken shape. Then she would read women writers like Grafton, Higgins, Clark or Fielding and think, maybe, just maybe. She recognized a similarity between their easy styles of connecting words and her own approach to a storyline. She knew she was no Jane Austin, but perhaps with time and practice, she could become a Rivers Siddons or Rice.

Now, here in this isolated place, she planned to focus all her energies on one single purpose. If she failed, she would go back to her successful career in photography, taught to her by her father, a world-class press photographer. But if she succeeded. The thought rose like a songbird lifting from a treetop. But, she was jumping ahead. For now, just the freedom to research, write and review felt like paradise. This was her chance to try.

Bates hugged a satchel to her chest. Inside a laptop computer, a dictionary and a journal were the only tools she’d brought. This and a bag full of books sent to her by her landlords, Sophie and Jonathan Day, offered her a glimpse of the life she was entering. History of the islands, logbooks kept by lighthouse keepers, even a book of lighthouse ghost stories enchanted her about life in the Apostle Islands. The rest was in her head and heart. Though she planned to do most of her writing on her laptop, she knew there would be times when she’d walk in the sunshine and sit on the rocks overlooking the waters of this mammoth lake. Perhaps find a place to perch and write in her journal. She planned to research the island history, the native Ojibwe, the lighthouse keepers, the shipwrecks, find out what grows in a place like this and what happens on a lake the size of a small ocean as background for her stories. Then she would examine her past, her thoughts and feelings, and write it all down. She had one year to make some sense of it all.

Hello, you down there, called a voice. She spun around but saw no one.

Up here. Bates looked up to see the head and shoulders of a portly man, a welcoming smile spread across his face, looking down from the top of the light tower. I’m Jonathan Day, your landlord. Wait there, I’ll be right down. He disappeared and Bates scrambled for a mirror as she heard his steps echoing on the metal stairway spiraling down from the top of the tower. She dabbed on a touch of pale pink lipstick, the only makeup she wore, as the door opened. She turned expectantly and had to stifle a giggle. Mr. Day stood before her, the shiny top of his head barely reaching her shoulders. Instantly she was reminded of the Oompa Loompahs in Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory and had to suppress another giggle.

Hello again, he said.

Hello. My name is…

You’re Mary Bates Dodge, he said, stepping back and looking her over from head to toe.

Everyone calls me Bates, she said, shoving out her hand.

Everything’s ready for you. I was just checking the lights. My wife was in earlier to bring groceries. There’s enough to get you started until you find your way around. Coffee, bread and milk. Stuff like that, he said.

That was very thoughtful of her. I’m afraid I drink tea.

Oh, that’s right. She did tell me that. You English?

Actually, I am a little, she smiled. Maybe a quarter.

A little English. How do you do that? I’m total Norwegian, a hundred percent, and Sophie’s Italian from head to toe.

Well my mother was mostly English but she had a little Scottish too. My dad was a hundred percent German. That’s what I meant. She studied him as he analyzed her words. His eyes were a crystal blue and clearly intelligent. He looked skeptical but she wasn’t sure if that was a reaction to her comment or just her presence in general. She remembered hearing from the agent who had handled the rental arrangements that the landlord was hesitant when a woman responded to his ad.

Louise Gardner had waved away his concerns as she spoke to Mr. Day by phone while Bates stood waiting at her desk. After hanging up the receiver, she flashed a broad smile and chuckled. I met Jonathan Day four or five years ago. He won’t give you any trouble. He’s just concerned that you’ll be all alone in such a secluded place. He’ll be just across the water until winter when he and his wife vacation in Arkansas.

Come on, Louise. I grew up in the Midwest. I’ve been through every weather change imaginable. I’ll be okay.

Just assure him that you’ll stay stocked up on everything, okay? And learn how to operate the generator in case you lose power. Once he sees you’re capable.

Bates gave him a big smile now and said, I understand you’ll show me the ropes. Is that right?

His smile dwindled slightly as doubts plowed deep furrows across his forehead. He looked her over, exhaled deeply and put out his hand. As she grasped it firmly, a smile pulled his chin up and with it as if tied with a cord, his shoulders and back.

If you’re sure you want to stay, then I’ll be the one. Why don’t you get yourself settled and in a day or two, I’ll show you what you need to know. Okay then, here you go, he said as he ushered her through the door.

The small house, hunkered at the base of the lighthouse silo, was constructed in the Norman Gothic style. Sturdy walls of brownstone quarried from the very bedrock of the island, boasted recessed and double paned windows and doors trimmed in bright blue. Colorful shutters softened its squat sturdiness. The door was a solid, unembellished rectangle of wood. Why had she expected Dutch doors with the top open to let in the sun? Too many late night Fred MacMurray and Maureen O’Hara movies she suspected.

Mr. Day led the way into a small, meticulously tidy six-room house. A rock-faced fireplace crowded one corner in a modest living room. Bookcases filled two adjoining walls, floor to ceiling. Small windows let in ample light over the couch and illuminated colorful volumes crammed on the shelves.

Are these your books? she asked, running her hands across some of the titles.

Moby Dick, Wuthering Heights, Tropic of Cancer, The Beach House, The Secret Life of Bees, even She Can’t Say That, Can She? By Molly Ivins.

My wife’s. He cleared his throat, picked up the splash of color of an afghan that had fallen from the arm of a bentwood rocker, returned it to its place, and took in the books with a sweep of one hand. That’s the fiction side. Over here she must have every book ever written about Lake Superior, Bayfield and all the other islands. She’s read them all. Most of them twice. Winters are long here and for many years we didn’t have television. He opened a cupboard revealing a flat-screened television.

You do now though, not to worry.

I hope I won’t resort to that. I came here with a purpose and it doesn’t include watching television. This is wonderful. It looks like I won’t have to go to a library for research.

That’s right, you’re a writer. My wife told me all about it. She’s excited about meeting a real writer.

Well, I’d love to meet your wife but I’m not a published writer. I’m sure that’s what she meant.

He paused, scrutinized her for a minute and then continued on the tour of her new home. He pushed a door that opened into a bedroom. The entire room was decorated with quilts. A colorful wedding ring quilt was hung on the far wall. A leaf-patterned quilt topped by a profusion of colorful pillows covered a sleigh bed. A stack of quilts was propped on the lid of an antique trunk over which an assortment of pictures adorned one wall. She walked over to study them and suppressed yet another giggle when she recognized each was a pencil sketch or watercolor of a lighthouse. She thought about her apartment in the warehouse district of Minneapolis and, if decorated in a similar manner, would hold a wall of warehouse pictures. Well, why not?

Sophie left a stack of books on the table she’d forgotten to send. Mostly about the lake and the wildlife here on the island. Did you get a chance to read the others? She thought you might be interested. We have a journal of our stories, too.

Yes, thank you. How long did you live here, you and your wife? she asked.

Twenty-eight years. My wife and I married late in life. We’ve been retired eight years. We did more traveling at first; but now, with her arthritis, we only go to Arkansas in the winter and the Cities for a month every summer.

This was a working lighthouse when you lived here?

Still is. It’s automated now. You won’t need to do much. Make sure the light’s working. Call the Coast Guard if you see any boats getting into trouble. Out o’towners think they can pull up on those rocks to picnic but the waves will smash them to bits.

A stutter of apprehension pushed up in Bates’ throat. What if I’m busy and don’t notice a boat? What had she agreed to? Was she responsible for every boater that passed too closely to the boulder-strewn beach?

Now, now, not to worry. You’re not hired to work here. Just if you happen to notice anything out of place, you might make a call. We’ve got Doug Erickson just across the bay. He’s in that ranger tower and that’s his job. He sees this part of the lake real clear.

Bates