I stared out the window, my stomach churning with remorse as I gazed upon what was undoubtedly the worst financial decision I’d ever made. My trembling hands were another sign that my good judgment was slipping. What was I thinking? Had I gone mad? Had I been drunk when I pulled the trigger on my successful Wall Street career? Obviously, I mused, unable to help a dramatic eye roll. But why . . . WHY had I thought this would be a good idea? I was still trying to figure it out when I caught the driver’s amused gaze in the rearview mirror.
I cleared my throat.
The beastly man smiled wider.
“Mike, is it?” I said, addressing his reflection in a no-nonsense tone. Mike had been waiting ten minutes for me to exit his car. If he wanted a good tip, he’d continue to wait. If he wanted an even better tip, he’d wipe that idiot grin off his face. “Again, I apologize. It’s just that . . . it looked different on the internet.”
A burst of ill-concealed mirth rumbled from the front seat. “And that’s a surprise?” Driver Mike was wheezing, he thought it so funny. Then, adding insult to injury, he said, “I thought all you New Yorkers were supposed to be street-smart and savvy. Guess I’ve been driving around the exception.”
That last remark threw my sarcasm meter into the red zone. I could dish it as good as I got, and often did. However, the amount of attitude coming from this man, this utter stranger, was irksome. I had just possibly made a terrible life decision—a terribly expensive terrible life decision—and he thought it was funny? It wasn’t funny. And it hadn’t been funny when I’d been expecting a limo to pick me up at the tiny Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City and got a sarcastic, squatchy-looking Midwestern Uber driver instead. After a quick call to Betty Vanhoosen, my Realtor and the person who insisted on handling my transportation needs from the airport, I was told that Mike not only had a GMC Yukon, but a five-star rating as well. He was obviously related to her or had pictures of her in a compromising position. The Yukon, aside from the prevailing smell of corned beef and wet wool, wasn’t bad; the five-star rating, however, I was beginning to question. I locked eyes with Mike in the mirror and gave him my best don’t-mess-with-me face.
“I have exceptional taste in clothing and a knack for making money. Those are my New Yorker qualities, Mike. And here’s another. I don’t like to be deceived. I distinctly remember reading the word renovated in the Realtor’s description.”
“Wow!” he said and commenced another bout of laughing. “Are you sure you’re from New York? Did you grow up under a rock or something?” Before I could reply, he mocked, “Hello! It’s the internet. Pigs fly on the internet, Ms. Bakewell. Literally. Nothing’s real on the internet.”
“I know that,” I snapped. “But you can’t use the word renovated in a real estate ad if the property wasn’t renovated! That’s misrepresentation!”
Mike stopped laughing. “Well, don’t get your panties all in a bunch just yet. The old girl was renovated . . . in the nineteen-seventies. That’s when they shored up the indoor plumbing. Then there’s our Michigan winters. Takes a toll on everything around here. How old do you think I am?”
He turned and smiled at me from the front seat. His cheap haircut and full, untrimmed beard were light brown, his eyes a twinkling blue. As far as I could see there wasn’t a gray hair on his head or a wrinkle on his cheeks.
“Fifty,” I said, aiming to insult. “Sixty, perhaps? I can’t tell with that beard.”
My bitch-tastic powers were useless on him. Mike grinned. “Thirty!” he exclaimed as if it was a wonder. “It’s our Michigan winters.” He beamed with pride.
“I have a good moisturizer. I think I’ll be just fine.” I waved at him to turn back around, then scanned the cold, frozen bay once again, shaking my head in dismay. A lighthouse? Correction, an old, run-down lighthouse on the shores of Lake Michigan. What had I been thinking?
I pulled out my iPhone and stared at the picture on the internet. The image before me depicted a large, historic, two-story brick house built on rolling sand dunes and perched on the shores of Lake Michigan. Sun glinted off the windows and white-painted brick. The entire structure was surrounded by cream-colored sand, flowering azaleas, and pink rugosa roses. The long, gabled roof, with not a shingle out of place, had been painted bright red. It was a striking contrast to the magnificent cylindrical light tower attached to the side of the house. Although the thirty-eight feet of brick had been painted to match the house, the cast-iron gallery and decagonal lantern room were matte black. It looked to be the perfect spot to watch a sunset or count the sails on the horizon. The image was not only a vision of tranquility, it was fodder for my dreams. No wonder I had been sucked in.
The lighthouse out the window, however, was another matter. The white paint, or what was left of it, had been sand-blasted away by harsh winds, revealing large splotches of dingy brick. The trim and most of the gutters had fallen off, and the roof was missing a quarter of its shingles. One of the two chimneys had crumbled away, exposing a rusty vent pipe, and the other was badly in need of tuck-pointing. The light tower was also in need of fresh paint and a new set of windows. But that was only half of it. The real gut-clencher was the fact that the entire building was caked in snow and covered in layers of dripping lake ice. It looked like something straight out of the animated movie Frozen, only without the talking snowman and catchy show tunes. My stomach gave another painful lurch, thinking that I had traded civilized luxury for this. Clearly the photo on the internet had been Photoshopped.
“Can’t slap enough moisturizer on that old thing to save it.”
Thank goodness he pointed at the lighthouse and not me.
“However, once the snow melts, a good coat of paint should help. Pity they were going to knock the old relic down and sell the land. I’m told your generous offer saved it.”
Saved it? Oh, he definitely had an in with Betty Vanhoosen! The moment I made an offer on the historic landmark, I learned that I had entered into a bidding war against a developer. He was planning on turning the prime lighthouse real estate into high-end lakefront condos. Knowing a thing or two about investments, his proposal was obviously the more lucrative choice. However, I wanted the old lighthouse. And I got it.
Running a critical eye over all the costly work yet to be done, I said, “I’m not so sure it should have been saved.”
Mike chuckled, thinking I was joking. For once he was correct.
Buying the old lighthouse sight unseen was a leap of faith. One that I needed to make. There was something about the old relic that had spoken to me. Perhaps it was just the fact that ordinary people don’t generally get to own lighthouses. The notion was as romantic as the thought of a fresh start, for us both.
“Old Beacon Point Lighthouse is a landmark around here,” driver Mike continued. “Did you know that at one point, Michigan had nearly two hundred and fifty lighthouses around its coast? The number’s dwindled to around a hundred and twenty-four since then. This old thing didn’t make the cut. Ironically, it was one of the last lighthouses to be tended by a real keeper. Another irony? Some say the first keeper never left.” Mike turned back at me and gave his eyebrows a menacing wiggle.
I smiled, refusing to take the bait. “Wow. You’re a font of Michigan lighthouse knowledge. I’m impressed. What else can you tell me about Beacon Point?”
“Coast Guard had it for a while. In the seventies the town purchased it, hoping preservation enthusiasts would keep it running. They fixed the plumbing, gave it a coat of paint, and restored the old Fresnel lens. But the old-timers are dying off, and our generation,” he said, lumping me into that category, “is too busy to care. Pity they had to sell it, but I’m glad it’s going to a hot chick with cash and not some greasy developer.”
I made the mistake of looking at the mirror. Dear Lord, had he actually winked at me? Yes. Yes, he had. And due to his suggestive look, he thought he had a chance. Must be those Michigan winters, I mused. Harsh conditions forced men to take risks. Fortunately, untrimmed beards and the smell of corned beef did nothing for me.
The truth was, I’d been blessed with good genetics. Mom had been a fashion model in the late seventies and eighties, and Dad a Wall Street hedge fund manager. Doesn’t take a genius to do the math there. Thank goodness I’d gotten my light green eyes, high cheekbones, and ash-blond hair from Mom and Dad’s affinity for numbers. Had fate not been so kind I’d have a receding hairline with a bad comb-over and a compulsion to wear matching designer outfits with my dog.
“But I have to warn you,” Mike continued, realizing I wasn’t taking the bait. “Not everyone’s happy that the light is moving into private hands. Truth is, the folks of Beacon Harbor don’t much like change. I certainly hope your knack for making money has followed you from the Big Apple, or else it’s going to be one long summer for you.”
The mention of summer reminded me that there was another season in Michigan other than arctic. It was early March, and snow was still falling. At Betty’s suggestion I had hired an interior designer and her contractor to spruce up my living quarters in the keeper’s house, making sure the plumbing, electric, and gas were up to code. Hopefully, the weather would cooperate for the other renovations yet to be started. I smiled at Mike’s reflection. “Never hope when there’s money to be made, Mike. It’s all hard work and meticulous planning.”
“Well, well, look at you, Big Town. Coming to our little corner of the world to show us how it’s done. So, what are you waiting for?”
What was I waiting for?
Four months ago, I’d been perfectly happy with my life in New York City until the night I walked into my fiancé’s trendy Midtown restaurant and found him with that tart-of-a-pastry-chef of his in his office. He’d been covered in icing sugar and chocolate curls. She’d been sitting on a slab of Himalayan sea salt. And all I could think to say was, “I hope you’re not planning on cooking my birthday dinner on that . . . that thing!” I was pointing at the pricey slab of imported sea salt under Mia Long. He thought I was pointing at Mia. He also thought, albeit wrongly, that cheating fiancés were to be forgiven.
After keying the Jaguar I’d bought him for his forty-fifth birthday, I went home and anger-baked six dozen of the most decadent cupcakes on the planet—cupcakes the likes of Mia Long could only dream about baking, the tart!
My dirty little secret was that I’d always had a passion for baking. But I had pushed that passion aside to pursue a lucrative career in investment banking. I baked pastries and cakes for my friends, who thought it both ironic and hilarious that my last name was Bakewell. Three years ago, they had all pitched in and got me private lessons with a renowned chef. That’s how I’d met my ex-fiancé, Jeffery Plank, a rising celebrity chef on the verge of his first cookbook deal, the cheating pig!
Jeffery may have further inspired my passion for baking, but the talent was all mine, and it showed on all the intricately decorated, decadently rich cupcakes I’d made. I ate one, threw a half dozen at his picture, and gave the rest to the doorman. Mr. Rosenstein, used to my baking outbursts, kept a dozen for his kids and gave the rest away to my neighbors. The next evening, Martha Durand, a former Miss America turned America’s favorite morning talk show host, came pounding on my door.
“Did you bake this?” Martha was holding one of my cupcakes as if it was a Golden Globe. “Girl, we need to talk. This, Lindsey Bakewell, is your destiny.”
Martha had gushed about my cupcakes and my talent for baking. I told her about my cheating fiancé and my looming depression. She then bolstered me up with a heartfelt speech on passion, and dreams, and how important it was to embrace the one and follow the other. I had a job I was good at, I reasoned, but admitted that finance had never been my passion. Opening my own bakery, as Martha kept hinting I should do, had never crossed my mind. That was because I had spent years and years carefully laying all the track needed to chug away on a safe and successful life. I never thought of jumping them and branching out in a totally different direction. Then again, I never thought Jeffery would be such an idiot.
Growth, Martha had said, didn’t come from complacency, but from living on the outer edge of one’s abilities and constantly pushing into the unknown.
“Bake, Lindsey Bakewell. That is your destiny.”
It was. Martha had made me believe it. She’d started the wheels turning. A broken heart, an empty apartment, and a bottle of wine did the rest. I opened my laptop, typed a few key words into Google, and began searching. When the old lighthouse filled my screen, everything clicked. I thought it was destiny. Now I wasn’t so sure.
An earsplitting howl from the third-row seating brought me back to the problem at hand—my cold feet, both literally and figuratively.
“Wellington!” My two-year-old Newfoundland had finally shaken off the heavy dose of travel sedation.
“Looks like that bear of a dog of yours is finally awake.”
He was. A drool-covered tongue licking my cheek was proof of that. I hadn’t known about the drool when I’d fallen in love with the pudgy little ball of black fur. I liked to joke that Wellington was the first financial blunder I’d ever made. He wasn’t exactly a good fit for New York City apartment living. He ate a lot, chewed a lot, pooped a lot, and required a team of groomers, trainers, and walkers. However, his unconditional love and companionship more than made up for it. And, if truth be told, he was part of the reason I’d made the risky internet purchase to begin with.
“What do you think, Welly?”
He pressed his wet nose to the window.
“That’s our new home.” I looked in the backseat and saw that his tail was working double-time. Wellington was ready to begin our new adventure. I took that as a good sign.
“Well, as they say, in for a penny, in for a pound,” I remarked and opened the door.
“Welcome to Beacon Harbor, Ms. Bakewell. I’ll get the luggage.”
“Whoa! Now this is a shocker.” Mike dropped the first load of luggage inside the doorway and stared in wonder. “Looks like somebody blew their entire renno budget on the interior. I thought you said you were going to open a bakery or something?”
“Bakeshop café,” I replied, ignoring his budget remark. “It had to be livable.”
It was more than livable. It was, quite frankly, perfect. Although only part of the keeper’s house had been renovated (most of the main floor being reserved for the industrial kitchen, bakery counter, and café), what had been set aside for my private use had been transformed into a thing of wonder. The interior designer and her team had outdone themselves, fusing old lighthouse charm with clean, modern living. The original hardwood floors had been beautifully restored. The plaster walls had been replaced with a tasteful mix of shiplap and drywall. The entire living quarters dazzled the senses in a palate of airy blues, sea foam greens, and clean whites. The wooden rocking chair by the fireplace was original, as was the antique table beside it; the hand-woven rug, white wingback chair with footstool, and the two-piece sectional in berry-red leather were new. A bouquet of red and white roses sat on a rustic white-painted coffee table with four sets of keys neatly laid beside it along with a note of welcome from the design company. It was a nice touch. I’d have to call Betty and thank her for the suggestion.
“These are for the lighthouse,” Mike informed me, picking up a set of keys. “Those are a duplicate set. And those,” he added, pointing to the other two sets, each on a Jeep key ring, “are for your sweet ride. Betty said it was delivered Thursday and is now in the old boathouse, which is like a garage, only bigger.” Mike grinned. “I had you pictured as more of a Range Rover type of gal. The white Jeep Rubicon threw me, but it’s a fine car for these parts.”
“So, you’ve seen it.” Why did this surprise me? Mike grinned, affirming that he had.
“I haven’t owned a car in years. Didn’t need to. And, financially speaking, you get more bang for your buck with the Jeep. Besides, it’s Wellington’s favorite vehicle. Every time he sees one with the top off and a dog buckled into the passenger seat with the wind ruffling its fur, he perks up and barks with joy.”
He looked at me as if I were crazy. “You bought a Jeep for your dog? Well, it’ll be a few more months before you can take the top off that thing.”
I smiled at Mike. “Thanks for reminding me. You can leave the bags there.” A look behind him out the door told me that Wellington was still bounding around in the snow, eating half of it and pleased as punch with his new home. And he had plenty of room to run. Although the little town of Beacon Harbor sat just across the road, the lighthouse grounds were extensive. Once again, I was overcome by the thought of how perfect it was going to be for outdoor seating and a beachside pup café. Perhaps down the road it might even serve as a romantic lighthouse wedding venue. I could now see that the possibilities were endless.
The lighthouse itself was a large two-story brick structure designed for the keeper and his family. The front of the house faced the public beach and had two main entrances. The entrance on the lakeside required a little set of steps to enter and was closest to the light tower. This was the entrance Wellington and I would use for access to our living quarters, consisting of a cozy parlor with a fireplace, the original kitchen, now remodeled into a quaint workspace that even Joanna Gaines would approve of, a small dining area, a powder room, and access to the entire second floor. Not as spacious as my New York penthouse, but the views were spectacular.
The second main door was on the other end of the house and had a short set of wide steps flanked by wrought-iron railings. This entrance had better access to parking and was at one time the assistant keeper’s apartment. The spacious rooms on this side would soon be converted to a bakery café.
In a few weeks’ time, the wind-battered brick would be tuck-pointed and given a fresh coat of white, the gabled roof and dormers re-shingled in bright red. The bakeshop door would be refitted with a glass-and-wood one, with a sign above it, welcoming hungry customers to The Beacon Bakeshop & Café. Large picture windows would be reset into the brick. Above the windows there’d be a charming red awning with scalloped edges. I had envisioned it all and had meticulously planned it out to the last detail. Excitement coursed through me. It was going to be the business I had dreamed of owning. Yet as heady as my dream bakery was, the three-story light tower overlooking Lake Michigan was the real showstopper. I couldn’t wait to climb up there and have a look.
By the time I had coerced Welly inside, Mike had unloaded all our luggage.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I handed him a sizeable tip and sent him on his way. He was about to walk out the door when he suddenly stopped.
“You’re opening up a bakery, right?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I have a cousin,” he said. “She lives in town and used to work for the old Downtown Bakery until they went out of business. For the last two years she’s been cleaning cottages and baking for private events. If you’re looking to hire some experienced help, she’d be a great choice.”
I watched as Mike scribbled a name and phone number on the back of his business card. Apparently, Mike had a day job. “Beacon Harbor Fishing Charters and Boat Tours, by Captain Mike Skinner,” I read aloud. “Captain Mike Skinner? Sounds like you’re living the dream as well.”
“You’re not the only one with a knack for making money. Not quite Wall Street here, but you’d be surprised at what tourists will pay for a day out on the lake. With any luck they’ll have enough left over to buy some of your big city baked goods too.”
“I hope so.”
“Call Dylan when you’re ready. If you want to know anything about Beacon Harbor, she’s the one to ask. See ya later, Ms. Bakewell.”
“Lindsey,” I said. “Call me Lindsey.”
The arctic winds whipping off the lake were brutal, but even they were no match for a full-scale construction crew wreaking havoc on the lighthouse. Construction on the bakery started the day after I arrived. That’s the day I learned that planning a renovation was a lot more fun than living through one. Before the kitchen could be set up and the display cases brought in, the building had to be configured to house everything I needed. Financing, my specialty, hadn’t been a problem. Getting the right permits proved a little more difficult, but not impossible. What was impossible was trying to concentrate with the sound of table saws screaming, drills whining, and nail guns popping throughout every fiber of the building.
“That’s sure to wake the dead.”
I was in my private lighthouse kitchen. The quaint room, bedecked with fresh white upper cabinets, navy-blue lower cabinets, and pristine white granite countertops, was the place I’d spent most of my time since arriving in Beacon Harbor. I’d been in the kitchen all morning, trying to perfect a new donut recipe for our beach-day launch on Memorial Day weekend. Although I planned to have the shelves filled with all kinds of sweet rolls, coffee cakes, muffins, croissants, and a list of rotating delights, there was just something about a freshly made donut. Not only were they delicious, but they were the perfect treat for a celebration. Oversized specialty donuts were even better. Besides, they looked like mini inner tubes, the filled ones like flattened beach balls. My plan was to have fun with the beachy theme and offer shoppers and beach frolickers alike a feast for the senses. The unfamiliar voice had broken my concentration. For the last two weeks stragglers kept making the same mistake, confusing my private entrance with the one for the construction site. Without turning to look at the speaker, I said, “Construction entrance is through the other door.”
“I’m not here to work. I’m here because of this.”
There was just enough annoyance in the male voice to grab my full attention. I stopped kneading my second batch of dough and turned to the doorway.
My jaw dropped. This was definitely not one of the construction workers I was familiar with. Nope, the man staring at me with extreme displeasure was a real Northwoods vision, a well-built, black-haired, blue-eyed hunka-licious Paul Bunyan, swaddled in hunter-green Carhartt. Due to his impressively good posture, thick neck, and smartly cut hair, I suspected some military training as well. Whatever the case, he was a welcome vision. I hadn’t looked at another man since my breakup with Jeffery, partly because I was so fed up with men in general, but mostly because of the bakeshop. But this man? He could distract me any day of the week.
“Ahem,” Hunky Woodsman cleared his throat, bringing me back to my senses. That’s when I noticed the thin rope dangling from his hand. The sight of the mangled fish hanging from it made me recoil.
“I’m sorry, and you’re here why?”
“I’m here because of this!” He pointed at the disgusting fish.
Not only was I miffed, I was confused. What person in their right mind would bring a smelly, mangled fish into my private kitchen? The nerve! The germs! Then, chancing another look at the man, I was struck with a sinking feeling. This was the village idiot. He had to be. There was no other explanation for it. What he lacked in brains, he more than made up for in looks, and he was clearly a menace to fish. But. . .
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