Return of the Wild Son. Cynthia Thomason
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weeks off.”
“It’s real enough. Assuming I don’t make anybody mad or break any rules in the meantime. There’s still some paperwork…” He paused. “Notification of victims, housing plans, probation details, that sort of thing. There’s also one more review before the parole board processes my release. But the doctor wouldn’t have told me if he wasn’t sure of the outcome. We’ve been through too much together.”
Nate’s mind raced. He’d have to make arrangements for Harley to come to L.A. His father would have to find a place to live, a way to earn a living. But all that could wait. “Congratulations,” he said. “This is great news.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Harley said. “To go from having no thoughts about tomorrow to all of a sudden having a future, to having to make decisions. I’m just getting used to the idea.”
Nate hadn’t had that luxury yet. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll work it out. I’ll take care of plans to bring you to Los Angeles, and we’ll—”
“No, Nate. I’m not coming to California. That’s about all I’m certain of at this moment.”
“But where will you go?”
“I’m moving back to Finnegan Cove.”
Nate swerved, nearly hit the curb. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“But, Dad, you won’t be welcomed there. Hell, I wouldn’t even go back to Finnegan Cove.”
“It’s the only place I know, Nate,” Harley said. “All I’ve ever known. It’s home.”
Nate refrained from pointing out that Finnegan Cove hadn’t been kind to the Sheltons and chances were, wouldn’t be now. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
His father lowered his voice soothingly. “It’ll be okay, Nate. I know what I’m doing.”
The hell? In the past twenty years maybe a few people had come and gone from the small town on Michigan’s western shore, but Nate figured the population would have stayed pretty much the same. Two thousand folks, give or take, lived in comfortable bungalows, and a few fancy Victorian houses from the town’s lumber boom days. The same mom-and-pop businesses probably still lined Main Street.
And no doubt the same attitudes prevailed. And memories for certain details had probably only grown sharper. Like Harley Shelton’s face on the front page of the Finnegan Cove Sentinel. Like the face of his eighteen-year-old son as he’d left the courthouse after the verdict was read. Like the absence of Harley’s older son, who hadn’t shown up for the trial at all. It baffled Nate why Harley had decided to go back where he wasn’t wanted.
“Where will you live, Dad? You think you’re going to just put down a welcome mat at your door and neighbors will drop by?”
“No, Nate, I don’t. I’m not naive.”
“Frankly, I’m beginning to think you are.”
“I’ve found a place to live. A place where nobody’ll bother me, and I’ll be able to stay pretty much to myself.”
“In Finnegan Cove?”
“The outskirts, yes. But I need a little help. It might take a couple of bucks to get this place in shape.”
“I don’t mind helping you. I’ve always told you I would, but you’ve got to be reasonable. Going back to Finnegan Cove is not a good idea. Why don’t you consider L.A.? You can start over, make a new life for yourself.”
“Believe it or not, son, there are aspects of my old life I remember fondly. It wasn’t all bad.”
Nate pulled into his underground parking garage, grateful he didn’t have to drive anymore. Paying attention to the busy Los Angeles thoroughfare while having this unexpected conversation with his father would tax anybody’s ability to concentrate. He parked in his assigned spot. “Where is this place you found, and how did you find it?”
“I read about it in the Sentinel about six months ago.”
His father read the local newspaper? This man was surprising him more and more. Nate wanted nothing to do with the town, yet his dad maintained his ties. Maybe prison life did that to a person. Made you appreciate what you had before, even if it was less than ideal. “Okay, where is it?” he said.
“It’s right on Lake Michigan,” Harley told him. “In fact, you know it well.” He paused. When Nate didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s the Cove Lighthouse, Nate. It’s for sale.”
“The lighthouse?” Nate’s voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched in his own ears.
“Yep. It’s perfect.”
How could a lighthouse be for sale? Weren’t they public domain? Nate pictured the wooden structure. Nearly everyone in Finnegan Cove was connected to the lighthouse, some in a good way, some in a bad, and in the case of two families, connected tragically.
But for Nate, the building had been a refuge, one he’d eventually come to think of as his personal space. Almost as if the abandoned structure had needed him as much as he needed it.
Until that night in 1988.
Harley cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
Nate tried to keep his voice calm. “The lighthouse is absolutely the worst place you could go. I can’t believe you’re even considering it.”
Harley hesitated. “You have to trust me on this, Nate.”
“But it doesn’t make sense, Dad.”
“I checked into it. The price is right. Eighty thousand dollars.”
As if price was the only concern. But Nate followed this thread of thought. “That’s all? There can’t be much value to the building if that’s what they’re asking. Who’s selling it, anyway?”
“The town council. They’ve owned it since the Coast Guard deeded it to them in the sixties.”
All at once time stood still for Nate. He pictured the six-story beacon tower protruding from the roof of the small cottage flanked by oak trees. He and his father had guided their commercial fishing boat into the channel by its light many times. The closer they got to the lighthouse, the closer they were to home. Those, at least, were good memories, because that was when they’d had a home.
The wheels began to turn in Nate’s head as he struggled to come up with a positive aspect to his father’s decision. Harley was right about one thing. The Finnegan Cove Lighthouse was remote, sheltered, private. As long as he was set on going back there, maybe this was the perfect spot for him.
Nate sat forward, rested his arms on the steering wheel. “Do you know what condition the place is in?” he asked. He wondered when the light station had been built, and seemed to recall a date from the late eighteen hundreds. “It could be falling down.”
“I suppose,” Harley conceded. “But I saw a picture of it. Doesn’t look too bad. And I could fix it up. I’d enjoy doing that.”
“We should have somebody look at it, someone who knows about architectural structure,” Nate said, hoping this logical step would put an end to his father’s irrational plan.
“Fine.” He paused. “Maybe I should try to call—”
Sensing what his father was about to say, and knowing how his brother would react to a call from Harley, Nate stopped him. “Let me handle it,” he said. He had been gone for two decades, only traveling to Michigan once or twice a year to visit his father at the Foggy Creek Correctional Facility. And he’d never been back to Finnegan Cove. But he did know that Mike, a contractor who lived in Sutter’s Point about twenty miles away, was a stranger to both of them now. That was how Mike wanted it. “Let me make the phone call,”