Seeing pictures from this year’s Women’s Week gave me a bit of FOMO, so here’s the first chapter of my forthcoming novel, Lighthouse Keeper (Spring 2024). It’s set in Provincetown, Mass when the fishing industry, not queer tourism, dominated the economy, and native-born Yankees and Portuguese from the Azores islands commingled. It’s also my first endeavor into sapphic historical fiction (Disguised as a Man trope). I’m hopeful that those of you who enjoy my contemporary romances will take a chance on this one, too.

Happy reading!

Lighthouse Keeper

CHAPTER ONE

Provincetown, Massachusetts – October 1874

Lizzy Darby closed her eyes. A fine sea spray caressed her face as the dory dipped up and down with each new choppy wave. The ocean wore an air of restlessness that afternoon, yet Lizzy, in her twenty-four years, had weathered far greater tempests. A fierce, capricious wind swirled around their small vessel, prompting her to pull her woolen cloak closer, a shield against both the elements and the impending chill. Her fingers held fast to the basket of provisions, guarding them from the whims of the sea. They were not too distant from the mainland, the safety of home within reach, but her parents’ general store had always thrived on prudence, and waste was an extravagance they could ill afford. 

Her father skillfully guided the dory through the briny expanse. They traveled without speaking; the long wooden oars dipped silently into the slate-blue waters that surrounded the clenched-fist forearm of Cape Cod. Their stopping point—Wood End Lighthouse—seemed to fall in and out of view, but Lizzy knew that they were the ones moving, not the earth itself. The narrow v-shaped stern sank forward as the dory crested each new wave, causing the lighthouse to periodically vanish from view until they rose above the waves, only to descend once more.

Lizzy had once been susceptible to seasickness, but the countless journeys over the years had hardened her to its effects. The errand was shorter these days, too. Wood End had recently been constructed to warn ships’ captains of the shoals and sandbars that lurked just below the white-grey foam. A second, older lighthouse, Long Point, was far more isolated along the same shoreline, but it had been abandoned not long ago in favor of Wood End. 

Lizzy’s bond with the ocean had always been one-sided—an unrequited love affair. Its unpredictability had been that which ritually drew her to the craggy shorelines of her hometown. The sea spoke of possibilities, and yet Lizzy had never traveled beyond Provincetown. It wasn't unusual for a young, unattached woman whose parents were of middling sort to be untraveled, however. Until the railroad had come to Provincetown the previous year, only fishermen and whalers experienced life beyond their insular existence.

Provincetown was bound by the sea, cut off from the world by the vastness of the ocean. Not a single road led in or out of the town. The only way to travel by land was to first head north, traversing a series of tall, rolling sand dunes, and to then follow a thin strip of beach along the northern shore line which was occasionally washed away by storms. Provincetown might as well have been an island for all it relied on the sea.

The completion of the fourteen-mile railroad extension had heralded a new era, with two inaugural trains carrying state dignitaries to Provincetown for a day-long celebration the year before. Lizzy and her friends had each dressed in their finest holiday attire for the occasion, reveling in the speeches, food, and an evening of dancing. It had been Lizzy's happiest memory since the Mary Celeste had been recovered off the shores of the Azores islands. The evening of frivolity had been a brief reprieve from the prolonged sorrow of all souls aboard having gone missing.

“Look lively.” Her father’s gruff warning shook Lizzy from her trance. Her eyes reopened and she focused on the rapidly approaching shoreline.

Lizzy rose to her feet and anticipated the moment when the flat bottom of the two-person dory slid along wet sand. She hopped free from the boat with her leather boots landing solidly on packed earth. She reached back for the wicker basket that held the weekly provisions for the lighthouse keeper, Mr. Thomas Howe.

“Be quick about it,” her father instructed. His grey-blue eyes scanned the somber sky. “Something’s blowing in.”

Lizzy nodded. She had no desire to dally. The sky had a foreboding look to it and daylight was precious at the end of the earth. She hefted the basket in her gloved hands and began the short march to Wood End.

Lizzy puffed out her cheeks. It was a short but strenuous trip from the shoreline to the solitary lighthouse. The temperatures had chilled with the season, but not enough that the sandy dunes were frozen solid. Her boots continually sank into soft sand and threatened to tangle in long sea grass that stretched out like grasping fingers. Lizzy hiked up her long skirt and petticoat to hasten the voyage, unconcerned by who might see her knee-length stockings. There was no use worrying about modesty and propriety out here. By the time she reached the lighthouse, she could feel the perspiration beaded on her forehead.

An act of Congress in 1826 had earmarked four acres of land at the extreme tip of Long Point for the establishment of a lighthouse to guide mariners into the busy harbor of Provincetown, Massachusetts. The original lighthouse—the Long Point light—had doubled as a school house. But the lighthouse had deteriorated over the years until residents feared a strong storm might destroy it. The square, pyramidal tower of Wood End had been constructed to replace the original lighthouse along the sandy curl of shoreline that stretched into the Atlantic. Its distinctive red light flashed every fifteen seconds from a height of forty-five feet above sea level. 

Lizzy dropped the wicker basket into soft sand and rearranged her many layers before knocking on the lighthouse door. There was no guarantee that Mr. Howe would hear her knock—he could have been high above sea level on the lighthouse’s black ironwork platform—but if so, he would have at least seen the dory’s approach. She and her father tried to make the supply trip every week at the same time, weather and tide permitting, so he knew when to anticipate their arrival. As the proprietors of the local general store, Lizzy's family had been tasked with supplying the new lighthouse and its devoted keeper just as they had when he was stationed at the original lantern.

Lizzy knocked on the closed door again. A rumble disturbed the air around her and she lifted her eyes to the sky. The sun had long disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds. She frowned at the dark grey that had overtaken the light blue hues.

“Mr. Howe!” she yelled through the closed door.

Lizzy looked back in the direction of the open sea where her father would be waiting with the dory. She could always leave the basket behind and pick it up when next they made a delivery. But Mr. Howe was getting on in years; the food delivery was only part of the obligation to visit. The lighthouse keeper was older than her father—older than any living person with whom she was acquainted, in fact.

Lizzy raised her hand again. The heavy wooden door swung open on its metal hinges before her closed fist could strike again. A slight figure filled the narrow doorway. The interior of the lighthouse was dark and Lizzy squinted to make out the person's face.

A slip of a figure, a delicately built young man, stared out at Lizzy from the shadowy door frame. He wore his wool cap low on his forehead; the low brim obscured his features even more. His rough-spun linen shirt was untucked in the front and his corduroy pants were stuffed into great, tall boots. Suspenders seemed to be the only apparatus keeping his pants aloft narrow hips. The material hung loose on his lanky figure. The skin around his exposed wrists was tan despite the fall season—he must have been Portuguese from one of the Azores Islands—Lizzy decided, not native-born like herself.

“Where’s Mr. Howe?” she demanded. Suspicion crept into the edges of her tone. 

“Lizzy?” A familiar voice called to her from beyond the young man.

The silent, dark man stepped backwards and turned away from the doorway. A second figure appeared in his place—the longtime lighthouse keeper, Mr. Howe.

“Ahh, right on time, my girl,” Mr. Howe beamed. He was missing a few teeth in his aged mouth, which gave him the appearance of a jack o’ lantern on All Hallows Eve. His complexion was ruddy, rough from over exposure to the sun and salty sea air. His white beard was wild and unkempt, and he wore his long white hair in a low ponytail against the nape of his neck. His formerly white undershirt was now grey—the color of seagulls. The straps of denim overalls clung to narrow knobby shoulders.

Lizzy nearly forgot the purpose of her trip. She stared beyond the old lighthouse keeper. “Who is that?”

Mr. Howe looked over his shoulder and back into Wood End. “Oh. That’s the new lad they sent," he dismissed. "Folks in the Light-Saving Service apparently think I’m getting too old to handle the lantern by myself. The boy's never wound a light before, but apparently that doesn't matter to anyone else." He turned back to the young woman and her basket. “What treats do you have for me this week?”

“Mother packed blueberry preserves.”

Mr. Howe’s ruddy features brightened. He sifted through the neatly packed basket until he found that for which he searched. The rest of the basket’s contents were momentarily forgotten as he twisted open the mason jar. Not bothering with utensils, he plunged a stubby finger into the opening and scooped out a glob of the purple jelly before shoving it into his mouth. Mr. Howe made a noise of approval.

Embarrassed on his behalf, Lizzy looked away from the eager, smacking mouth. “There-there’s more candles and some good lye soap,” she noted, eyes still cast to the sandy ground.

A second rumble caught both Mr. Howe and Lizzy’s attention.

“Go on now,” Mr. Howe instructed. “The winds are shifting. Don’t want you and your Pa caught in whatever’s coming.”

Lizzy nodded tersely. The trip to the mainland was typically untroubled, but the weather was unpredictable at the end of the earth, and she had no desire to bob around in the small dory. “Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering, “should we double the order for next time?”

“Double?” Mr. Howe questioned.

“The-the boy?” Lizzie verbally stumbled. “Your apprentice?” She didn’t know what else to call the young man.

“Oh, right!” Mr. Howe slapped his palm against the door frame. The sound and its proximity to Lizzy’s ear made her flinch. “I suppose the boy can’t live off of fish and seagulls forever. Although I’m not sure if his people eat much else. Those island people are a strange and silent breed, but at least they’re hardworking.”

Lizzy pursed her lips. “Take care, Mr. Howe.”

She tried to catch another glimpse of the young man who had originally opened the door, but he had gone. The space behind Mr. Howe was vacant. Lizzy clutched the now-empty basket tighter to her chest and began the brisk walk back to her father and the waiting dory.

* * *

Lizzy Darby leaned against a counter in her parents' general store. Business had been slow that morning with few customers trickling into the shop to buy fresh produce or home goods or even a yard of cloth for a new dress. Even though she'd only been on her feet for a few hours that day, Lizzy longed to slip out of her heels and rest her aching feet.

Her father commanded the only proper seat in the family-run shop—a tall stool behind the counter that displayed finery like women's silk scarves and silver cigarette cases. Few transactions were made in that section of the store, but her father still insisted on carrying the high-cost items in hopes of attracting a more monied clientele. 

His head was bent forward as he read from the newspaper. He alternated between stroking his oiled beard as he read and sipping strong coffee from a porcelain cup. Lizzy frowned at the blatant hypocrisy; her parents forbade her from sitting during working hours or from reading one of her library books, but apparently those rules didn't apply to her father. 

The morning had been made longer by the general pleasantness of sunshine that beckoned to her through the storefront's plate glass window. The rest of the shop was dark and gloomy, and the greys of winter would soon be upon them. The unshakeable dreariness of weeks without seeing the sun was made even more bitter by icy winds that whipped off the semi-frozen harbor that compelled a body to remain inside. It seemed like such a waste. Lizzy longed to stretch her legs and fill her lungs with sea air and to feel the sun's heat upon her face rather than being cooped up in the family store with its floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with crates, boxes, and barrels.

Lizzy's wistful melancholy was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Lizzy blinked at the tan, weathered hand thrust in front of her. She shook her head. "Sorry. Can I help you?”

The elderly woman who stood before her was small with fine bones filling out her diminutive frame. Dark, serious eyes stared back at Lizzy from under a thick head scarf. Her dress and cloak were constructed from sturdy, but shapeless material.

The aged hand slowly opened to reveal a folded piece of parchment and a few crumpled bills of paper currency. The woman did not speak—she might not know the language, Lizzy assumed. Because the Portuguese were so plentiful in Provincetown, many had little need to learn English. They stayed relatively isolated and self-sufficient on the west side of town with their own rituals and traditions while native-born Yankees remained on the east. Only a brief venture to Commercial Street to restock necessities warranted them leaving their insular community.

Carefully, as if she expected the small Portuguese woman to clamp her fist shut around her reaching fingers, Lizzy plucked the piece of paper from the outstretched palm. When she unfolded the small piece of paper, she realized it was a list—a grocery list. The words were English. Someone else—a child perhaps based on the penmanship—had written down the items on the page.

Lizzy scanned the scant list and then held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” she told the old woman. She spoke slowly and with more volume than her usual voice typically carried even though the woman probably didn’t understand her anyway.

Lizzy gathered all of the items from the elderly woman’s list. She methodically swooped around her parents’ store; she’d spent so many hours on the floor of the general store, she probably could have achieved the task blindfolded. A sack of dried beans. Canned tomatoes. A package of flour. A container of molasses. A tin of loose leaf tobacco and a box tea. A few apples still fresh from the fall picking. She secured everything in the basket the woman had brought with her and counted out her leftover change.

“All done,” Lizzy loudly announced. She held up both hands and wiggled her fingers, not quite knowing how to convey to the foreign-speaking woman that the transaction was complete.

“Lizzy!” Her mother’s voice called to her from another part of the store.

“Coming!” Lizzy hollered back. She looked back briefly at the old woman who hadn’t moved since her arrival. Lizzy waved in parting and hoped it was a gesture universally understood.

Lizzy found her mother in the back storeroom, struggling with the weight of a tall wooden barrel. She hurried beside her mother and helped maneuver the heavy and awkward container from one corner of the room to another.

Her mother heaved a great sigh once the task was complete. "Thank you, my dear. It would be nice having some more help at the store with these kinds of things,” she opined, wiping her dusty hands on the front of her apron. “Male help.”

Lizzy didn’t suppress an eye roll. “Subtle, mother. I think we’re managing just fine, the three of us.”

“Your father and I won’t be around forever.”

Lizzy had heard the soliloquy so many times, she could recite her mother’s words by heart. “I know, I know. Who will take care of me when you’re gone? I’m years past my prime! No man will desire me if I don’t marry soon.”

Sarah Darby pressed her lips together. “I know I’m tiresome, my heart. But you can’t grieve Edward forever.”

At the mentioning of Edward’s name, Lizzy’s mood soured. She knew her mother was right, of course, but logic could never fill the vacancy in her heart.

“Let me make you a new dress, Lizzy," her mother implored. "We have so many pretty fabrics in the shop. It would do you well to have something with a bit of color.”

“Black is a color,” Lizzy said sullenly.

Sarah Darby regarded seriously her only child. The black dresses, frocks, and bonnets were the only clothing her daughter had gravitated to in the two years since the crew of the Mary Celeste had gone missing off the shores of the Azores islands.

She tried to be gentle with her next words, but she knew her daughter needed to hear them: “You can’t be a widow if you’ve never married.”

Lizzy felt the prick of emotion at the corners of her hazel eyes. She bit her tongue to avoid lashing out at her well-meaning mother. She turned abruptly on her heels and stomped out of the back storeroom.

The front of the family store was thankfully empty, save her father who continued to ignore the outside world in favor of his newspaper. Lizzy didn’t know if she could have affixed a false smile to her face otherwise. 

She pressed the heel of her palm over her sheltered heart as if her mother’s words had injured. They had—but not physically. She pressed her palm harder against her chest if only to remind herself that although Edward was gone, she still lived. The heartbeat was faint beneath the multiple layers of cotton, but it was still there.

Gentle, tender Edward. Too soft-hearted and sensitive for the sea, she’d thought. But her protests had fallen on deaf ears. Edward’s father and his father before him had been ship masters. It was his birthright to captain his own vessel, to follow the family business, even though Lizzy had insisted he could work at her family’s shop instead. But just as he’d been gentle, Edward had also been proud and stubborn.

Lizzy returned to her post at the front of the store. Her melancholy gaze scanned over the various objects on the glass counter—the coffee grinder, metal scale, and cash register—until it stopped on something that shouldn’t have still been there. The old Portuguese woman had left behind her spare change. With little thought beyond the desire to return it, Lizzy swept her hand over the countertop and collected the loose coins.

She closed her fingers around the coinage. “I’ll be back!” she shouted, although she couldn’t be sure if her mother or father would actually hear her.

Not bothering to gather her coat and hat, Lizzy bolted out the front door of her parents' shop. She looked in either direction on Commercial Street—the busy central roadway of Provincetown’s small, but dense downtown. The wide wooden sidewalks were busy with early morning shoppers and business people. Sailors in between voyages to the Grand Banks loitered on the sidewalks with their pockets full of coin. Lizzy didn’t immediately see the elderly woman and didn’t know in which direction she had gone, but she gambled that she would be headed home to the West End where the majority of Provincetown’s large Portuguese population resided. Lizzy took off at a brisk pace, weaving between the bodies leisurely meandering Commercial Street on that bright October day.

Lizzy rushed past the fish-drying racks covered in cod and mackerel, the spoils of whatever fishing vessel had recently docked in one of Provincetown's numerous wharf. She routinely pinched her nose to stem off the pungent scent. She hurried past John L. Rich’s Emporium, one of the grandest stores on Commercial Street with its wide selection of boots, shoes, and men’s clothing. Groups of children played in the vacant space beside the little school house and the newly opened public library of which Lizzy was a frequent visitor. She hustled beyond W.H.H. Weston’s shop filled with stoves, metalware, and glassware, and the grand Pilgrim House that welcomed out-of-town visitors. Men and women in clothes finer than anything Lizzy had ever owned conversed on the green lawn or lingered in the white-painted gazebo.

Lizzy had nearly given up hope of ever tracking down the woman from her parents' store when she spotted a small, darkly attired figure crossing the street. Lizzy was out of breath from her hastened pace; she yearned to cast away the unforgiving corset that compressed her lungs and other vital organs beneath the heavy material of her dress and petticoat. Instead, she waved her hands maniacally above her head in hope that the elderly woman might see her.

The woman turned her head in either direction to watch for carriage and horse traffic. As she did, she seemed to spot Lizzy’s flailing movements. But instead of acknowledging her, the old woman only seemed to quicken her pace and try to escape across the busy intersection. Lizzy exhaled in frustration and pushed the hair that had worked its way free from her braided brunette plait away from her forehead. She’d never had to work so hard to do a good deed.

Lizzy lifted her skirt above her ankles and gingerly stepped into the road, which had been made muddy from recent rainfall and horse traffic. “Ma’am!” she called out. “Wait!”

The elderly Portuguese woman looked over her shoulder, but continued to flee. In her haste to inexplicably escape, the woman didn't take notice of the man on horseback. The horse reared up on its back legs and its rider gave a great shout. The elderly woman stopped short in the middle of the street. Her hands flew up as if to shield herself.

Lizzy gasped and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to witness whatever might happen next. More indistinguishable shouting filled the air. Finally, when the sounds around her had quieted, Lizzy opened her eyes.

She expected disaster. She anticipated seeing the elderly woman's mangled and trampled body in the middle of Commercial Street. Instead, Lizzy spotted some of the canned items she had so carefully secured in the woman’s shopping basket rolling free in the street. The Portuguese woman, flustered but visibly unharmed, stooped to retrieve the errant items.

“Let me help!” Lizzy called out in a rush. She wished she knew just a few words in Portuguese—anything, really. She crouched beside the woman and reached for one of the sealed cans.

The woman made a displeased noise and slapped at Lizzy’s outstretched hand. The woman was older, but deceptively strong. Lizzy gasped at the force of the woman’s fingers striking the top of her hand. The older woman yelled at her, but Lizzy couldn’t understand a word. Her tone, however, indicated her deep disapproval.

A second voice, speaking the same unrecognizable language joined the fray. It was soft, but of a lower register than Lizzy's own.

Lizzy turned her head to see a young man, his skin dark from the sun. His flat wool cap was pulled low over his eyebrows. He could have been anyone, any stranger on the street, but Lizzy realized she knew who it was—the new lighthouse keeper.

Whatever the young man had said seemed to calm the older woman.

Lizzy stood back and watched the man assist the other woman where her own help had been angrily denied. He crouched beside the old woman and collected the items that had tumbled into the street. 

In broad daylight, Lizzy was able to more fully inspect the new lighthouse keeper. He was far younger than Mr. Howe, but perhaps not much younger than herself. His cap continued to obscure most of his facial features, so she couldn't be sure of his age. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean shaven unlike Mr. Howe’s wild and unkempt facial hair. Enough time at Wood End would no doubt change that. He wore a light grey knitted sweater with a small tear near the neck. A bit of olive-tinted skin appeared through the moth-eaten hole.

“I’m sorry,” Lizzy spoke aloud. “She doesn’t seem to want my help."

The apology caught the young man’s attention. He looked up briefly but then finished assisting the woman with her basket. He said a few gentle words to her before standing to his full height. It wasn’t a great height, Lizzy observed. He was barely taller than herself in heels.

His dark eyes were serious beneath the low brim of his flat cap. “She said you were chasing her. She said she paid you already. She’s no thief.”

Lizzy blinked, suddenly realizing the misunderstanding. “Oh! I was chasing her, but not because of that.”

The man tilted his head. His eyelashes were surprisingly lush and long. Lizzy couldn’t remember ever being in such close proximity to a man from the Azores islands, however, so maybe they all had long eyelashes.

“Sh-she forgot her change.” Lizzy opened her hand to reveal the forgotten coins. It wasn’t much. The meagerness of the money had her suddenly embarrassed that she’d practically run down the entirety of Commercial Street.

The young lighthouse keeper said something to the older woman, presumably in her native tongue. She didn’t verbally respond, but she thrust her hand in Lizzy’s direction. Lizzy dropped the change into the open palm and returned the coins. The elderly woman spoke a few foreign words, still sounding cross, before she collected her basket and stomped away with a slight hitch in her gait.

“I don’t suppose that was a thank you,” Lizzy muttered to herself.

The lighthouse keeper's sharp laugh surprised her ears. She turned to regard the snickering man. “Is that funny to you?”

The man shoved his hands into the pockets of his oversized pants. He silently grinned. It was an obnoxious grin, Lizzy thought. It wasn’t cruel, but it was still at her expense.

Lizzy made her own haughty noise. She spun away, causing the bottom of her skirt to momentarily bloom at her ankles.

“Don’t be mad!” the man called after her.

Lizzy didn’t humor the infuriating man. She would be cross if she felt like it. She could hear soft, quick steps beside her, but she didn’t slow down her own quickened pace.

“Please. I didn’t mean to offend.” The man’s voice held only a slight accent, curling at its edges.

“You did,” Lizzy retorted. She continued to walk along Commerce Street at a quick clip. “And I was only trying to be kind.”

The young lighthouse keeper dodged a few individuals on the sidewalk to keep pace. “I know. Which is why I shouldn’t have laughed. Not many Yankees would have gone out of their way like that.”

The words had Lizzy finally slowing. “What did she say to me?”

“It wasn’t an ancient curse, I promise you.” The man grinned again.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” Lizzy fumed.

The new lighthouse keeper held up his hand. “I’m sorry. She only said that you should learn Portuguese. That way, eighty-year-old women’s hearts don’t fail trying to run away from well-meaning shop girls.”

The words were humbling. Lizzy bit her lower lip. “She’s right. I should learn.”

The man's playful grin shifted to a look of curiosity. "Qual é o teu nome?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's Portuguese. I asked about your name."

The question was unexpected, but Lizzy had no reason to lie or withhold information. "Oh, it's Lizzy. Lizzy Darby.”

“Lizzy Darby," the young man repeated. "Your family owns the general store. That’s why you came to Wood End yesterday.”

Lizzy nodded.

A small mischievous smile appeared on the man's tan face. “And why you chased Mrs. Trigueiro for a mile.”

“It wasn’t a mile!” Lizzy said hotly.

The man touched his fingers to the brim of his wool cap. Dark eyes sparkled with mirth under the bright October morning. “I have to get back. Master Howe will have my hide if I’m late to winding the light.”

“You never told me your name,” Lizzy said.

The lighthouse keeper began to walk backwards in the direction of the central wharf. He shoved his hands into his oversized pockets and grinned his maddening grin. “Until we meet again, Lizzy Darby.”