Free Maidenstone Lighthouse by Sally Smith O' Rourke

whirled to face the tall stranger who had just come up from the beach. The sun was at his back, lighting his light hair and casting his face into deep shadow. And my expectant heart jumped into my throat, as it had so many times in recent months.
    â€œNice view, huh?”
    The sound of his voice broke the momentary spell and he looked up at the lighthouse, revealing a deeply tanned face that was, while handsome in its own way, nothing at all like Bobby’s face.
    â€œYes,” I stammered. “I haven’t been out here in years, but it’s just as beautiful as I remembered.”
    The stranger wore faded cutoffs and a paint-spattered T-shirt that was stretched tight over his heavily muscled chest and shoulders. He frowned at my words and I sensed a subdued air of menace about him that was accentuated by the dark tattoos that circled his biceps like two jagged chains. Suddenly I felt uneasy and very vulnerable in this isolated spot, so I casually began edging back toward the moped.
    â€œI guess you know you’re asking for trouble,” he said, moving to block my way.
    â€œI really have to go now,” I breathed, deliberately stepping around him.
    He shrugged harmlessly and let me pass. “Okay, but if Harvey Peabody catches you riding that thing around here without a helmet, you’re going to get a ticket.”
    I turned around and stared at him. “Harvey Peabody is still the town cop? My God, he must be almost seventy by now.”
    All feelings of menace vanished as the stranger smiled, showing a line of strong white teeth. “Seventy-two, come next spring,” he said. “Old Harvey is as permanent as the rocks on the breakwater. He busted me for skateboarding into Shelly’s Victorian Gifts when I was in the seventh grade and he’s still going strong. Most people around here just figure he’ll last forever.”
    There was something vaguely familiar about the stranger, and I took a closer look at him.
    â€œDanny!” I exclaimed. “You’re Danny Freedman!”
    â€œGuilty as charged,” he replied. “Except that nobody calls me Danny anymore. Dan sounds better, don’t you think?”
    â€œI know that skateboard story,” I cried delightedly. “You sped into Shelly’s Victorian Gifts chasing another kid and crashed right into a big display of imported crystal or something—”
    â€œIt was a very small glass case of Lladro figurines,” he corrected. “About $3,000 worth. Or at least that was what Shelly claimed at the time. She ended up settling for $1,200 after my dad made her show him her invoices. And I spent the next two summers working off the debt with a lawn mower and rake.”
    â€œYou were thirteen and you had a bad reputation.” I laughed. “I remember because I was only eleven and my aunt used to make me stay up on the porch when you came to cut the grass.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “She said you smoked cigarettes.”
    â€œI’m afraid it was true,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But then I was under a lot of pressure for a thirteen-year-old. It was never easy being the only juvenile delinquent in a town this size.”
    We both laughed and he sat down on one of the painted boulders and gazed at me for a long moment. Then he grinned and pointed a finger at me. “You’re Susan Marks,” he declared. “Summer Susan we called you because you didn’t go to school here.” He paused just a moment. “Everyone said you were stuck-up.”
    â€œThat’s not fair. I didn’t really know very many people here.”
    â€œI suspect that’s why they thought you were stuck-up.”
    Suddenly I found myself defending my childhood as I rushed to tell my story. “Aunt Ellen had very definite ideas about who my friends could be.” Without taking a breath, I continued, “I wanted to go to school here but