Read Online Maidenstone Lighthouse by Sally Smith O' Rourke - Free Book Online

with a broken door.
    Sneezing and flapping one hand at the cloud of sparkling motes that filled the air, I squeezed past the broken cabinet.
    And there it was.
    Except for two flat tires and a sprinkling of rust on the chrome spoked wheels, it was exactly as I had left it more than a decade earlier.
    I cannot begin to describe the happy memories that came flooding into my mind as I stood there covered in grime and grinned down at that forlorn little machine. For it was a small miracle that my aunt had even kept the despised object after I had reached adulthood and gone away.
    â€œWell-bred young ladies do not race about the shore on motorcycles!”
    I can still see the two bright spots of color on Aunt Ellen’s cheeks and hear the barely disguised horror in her voice as she stared down at the full-color brochure I had placed in her lap. It was the summer I had turned sixteen and the poor old dear was trapped, a prisoner in her favorite parlor chair with her left leg in a heavy cast as the result of a tumble down the cellar steps the week before.
    â€œIt is not a motorcycle, Auntie. It’s a moped,” I had argued with teenage fervor, determinedly keeping my cool and deliberately neglecting to mention that I had picked out the fastest machine of its type. For this particular moped, a Vespa capable of carrying a passenger behind the rider, had a far more powerful engine than many small motorcycles.
    â€œNow that I have to do all of the shopping,” I pointed out with what I was certain was devastating logic, “it’ll save tons of money on cab fares. And we won’t have to wait all day for Ed Griner’s smelly old taxi to show up when we really need something fast, like your medicine.”
    Unimpressed by my pitch, Aunt Ellen thrust the glossy dealer’s brochure back at me without even bothering to read about the moped’s fantastic gas mileage, roomy saddlebags and optional shopping basket. “Out of the question!” she’d snapped, clamping her jaw firmly shut. “Besides, you have your bicycle.”
    â€œBut this is practically the same thing as a bicycle,” I countered, stubbornly pushing the brochure back at her. “See, it even has pedals. It’s cheaper than a used car and I can pay for it myself and make extra college money by delivering prescriptions for Mr. Wall at the pharmacy.”
    Being the frugal maiden lady that she was Aunt Ellen had been unable to stop herself from actually looking at the brochure for the first time then, pursing her thin lips in disapproval while grudgingly conceding the irrefutable financial point. And, in truth, except for its gaudy chrome muffler and fat, knobby tires, the jaunty little Italian moped that I’d set my heart on did bear a passing resemblance to a bicycle, albeit a somewhat muscle-bound one.
    â€œIt’s so hard pedaling up hills with groceries on my bike I can hardly carry anything at all.” I had jumped seamlessly ahead to my next point, cheerfully disregarding the fact that most of Freedman’s Cove is generally about as hilly as the Salt Flats of Utah.
    â€œWell…” Aunt Ellen said, adjusting her little square spectacles to squint at the slickly printed photo on the brochure cover.
    I could tell she was weakening so I moved in for the kill, raising my most powerful argument. “And I’ll feel much safer on this than the bicycle, when I have to go out after dark,” I said, stabbing my finger at a block of bold copy describing in detail the Vespa’s bright magneto-powered headlight and lunch-box-sized taillight.
    â€œYou shall be absolutely forbidden to ride that awful motorized contraption after dark!” she had firmly declared, thumping her plaster-encased leg for emphasis. “Why I never even heard of such a thing!”
    â€œYes, Auntie,” I had replied, meekly leaning over to kiss her pale cheek and trying to suppress my shriek of joy. For not only