Read Online Writing All Wrongs by Ellery Adams - Free Book Online Page B

Allen watching her. In the gloom, his eyes were the blue of deep water, but his gaze was intelligent and alert. An ugly purple bruise darkened his forehead where he’d been struck by the rock the previous night.
    Olivia hated the sight of the old man’s injury. She longed to take his hand, but instead, she leaned forward and said, “Blew what up, sir?”
    “That lighthouse. They packed her full of dynamite and made her tumble. I spent so many years in that tower. A lifetime of the same view.” George stared into the middle distance. “I kept that light shining day and night. It never faltered. Not until the day they shut her down.”
    Boyd entered the room and set a plate on his father’s lap. “Look what the lady brought you, Pop. Your favorite.” He smiled at Olivia again. “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
    Olivia told him while accepting a chipped coffee mug from Boyd’s hands. “Your father and I have something in common. We both lived in a lighthouse keeper’s cottage. My father wasn’t a keeper, but a fisherman. Our lighthouse inOyster Bay was automated long before we moved into the cottage, but the last keeper made a lasting impression on me. You remind me of him, Mr. Allen,” she added, looking at George. “That man told the most wonderful stories. He lived alone, and he spent his free time reading. Luckily for me, he always had a tale ready to share.”
    “By God’s grace, I wasn’t alone. I married a good woman. And before she left this earth, she blessed me with Boyd. He and I have kept each other company for a long time, haven’t we, son?” As he spoke, George broke the bear claw apart with his bony fingers. The knuckles were swollen with arthritis, reminding Olivia of the live oaks in the forest.
    Olivia sipped her coffee. It was neither rich nor strong, but it warmed her. “I lost my mother when I was a young girl. My father raised me for a few years, before my grandmother took over.”
    “Then you understand the importance of memories,” George said. “What’s your favorite memory of your mama?”
    Olivia smiled. “Our bedtime ritual. Every night, she treated me to a story and a song. No matter how tired she was, my mother never rushed this special time with me. I fell asleep with my mind full of words and music, the scent of my mother’s soap clinging to my pillow.”
    George nodded, clearly pleased by her answer. “I sent Boyd off to dreamland with stories too. I didn’t sing though. That might have given the boy nightmares.” He cackled softly. “But he now knows this island as well I as do.”
    The mention of nightmares reminded Olivia of the dead deer. “I took your advice and hung back from the crowd during last night’s walk,” she said. “I felt like I’d been transported to a primeval forest—to a place that would always strive to return to its natural state. And then, on our way back, we came across the body of a dead deer. An all-white doe.”
    George’s frown was so severe that his bushy brows nearly touched. “Dead? How?”
    “She was shot in the breast with an arrow,” Olivia said. “Jan Powell was very upset. She muttered something about a curse. Is there a legend about a white doe?”
    The room had gone very still. George bowed his head and folded his hands as though in prayer. He expelled a long, raspy breath and then glanced at the fire. His face was etched with grief. “The white deer are the ghosts of the forest. They stand for that which is beyond the power of man. The Indians believed the deer were magical and wouldn’t hunt them. Killing a white deer invites a curse. Not just upon the hunter, but upon everyone.”
    “My husband saw a white deer on the island over forty years ago,” Olivia said. “Have they always been here?”
    “The legend began up the coast, at Roanoke Island. Long ago, the British tried to make a settlement there. It was rough going. The colonists were plagued by cold, hunger, and sickness. Hope dawned when the first