A High-End Finish(41)

For the next mile and a half, the highway twisted and inclined gradually so that by the time I reached the turnoff, I’d gotten a good workout. I waited for a milk truck to pass and then crossed the highway and turned onto Old Lighthouse Road and headed toward the ocean.

The condition of the old road had not been improved since the first time I remembered coming out here with my family when I was five years old. Dad would park the station wagon along the dunes and we would trudge over the hills of sand to watch the waves crash against the craggy breakwater. It never got old.

The road was still crusty, pockmarked and pitted with bumps and cracks and gaps along the edges. Sand had blown across the surface recently, so I took it nice and slow in case my tires lost their grip. The flaws in the road made me wonder about our famous new resident. How much time would pass before Mac Sullivan demanded that the county repave this road? Maybe he had already done so.

I followed the narrow lane as it curved along the dunes for another quarter of a mile. Finally there was a break in the line of tall cypress and redwood trees and I stopped in the middle of the road to breathe in the cool, sea-scented air and take in the overwhelming, up-close sight of the lighthouse tower.

Even though the tip of the lighthouse could be seen from the highway, this first up-close, full-length view was always spectacular.

The tower rose one hundred feet into the sky and stood as straight as an arrow, thanks to a series of steel reinforcement rods encased in concrete. Inside the walls of the tower was a solid stone-and-iron spiral staircase, which I had climbed twice in my life. Gazing up at the top of the structure, I could see that the narrow balcony surrounding the glass-walled lantern room appeared to be in good condition. I itched to inspect it more closely, but that moment would have to wait. Not long, hopefully—assuming Sullivan allowed for open bidding on his rehab job.

The tower was separated from the house by only a few feet, a convenient commute for the lighthouse keepers of times gone by. As I leaned my bike against the aging latticework frames that camouflaged the subfloor area under the front porch, my only thought was that those frames would have to be replaced.

After carefully testing the stairs, I walked up to the front door. The veranda was just as spacious and potentially fabulous as I remembered it. Its wood-plank floor was basically solid. To augment my notes, I took out my phone and snapped photos of everything I saw, from the worst problem areas to the unexpected delights.

Crossing to the opposite side of the house from the tower, I peeked through the glass walls of the small solarium. It was empty except for its old brick floor, but I could already imagine it filled with lush greenery and a wonderful chaise longue or two for reading and napping.

Wandering around to the back, I noticed several shutters leaning drunkenly from their window frames and suspected they were rotting from years of rough winds, salt air, and neglect. One of the three chimneys had bricks missing and I worried that they’d fallen through the roof. Everywhere, the serviceable white paint was faded and peeling off the wood siding. Adjacent to what I thought might be the kitchen, a thick wooden door leading to a root cellar had been broken off and left to deteriorate, leaving the old concrete stairs within accessible to the elements.

I rubbed my arms briskly to banish the cold shivers I got from staring down those steps, which led to darkness. God only knew what was down there. Dead animal carcasses? Spiders? Rats? Humans?

I backed away fast. Who needed a real body in a basement when I could use my own imagination to scare myself to death?

“I’m done here,” I muttered, and scurried around to the front of the house. I checked my notes to make sure I’d written down everything that I wanted to remember. Reaching again for my phone, I scanned the photos I’d taken, then took a bunch more of the house from every angle.

Turning away from the house, I took shots of the spectacular views: the ocean waves spewing white foam against the rough rock barrier to the west; the weathered cypress, pine, and redwood trees bordering the property to the east; the soft curve of the coastline to the south.

Without access to the house’s interior, I’d done as much as I could do here today. Standing my bike up, I packed my notebook and phone securely in the basket and walked the bike to the end of the driveway. At Old Lighthouse Road, I put my foot on the pedal, eased onto the seat, and began to ride back home.

I was going downhill now, but I rode the hand brakes, trying to hold back from gathering too much speed because of the difficult twists and turns of the highway.

About a mile into the trip, I approached one of the more treacherous curves and gripped the brakes tightly to slow down.

Nothing happened.

I continued to gain speed and pumped the brakes as hard as I could, but I felt no connection reaching the tire walls. I downshifted to second gear and then to first. That helped slightly, but then the road declined more steeply around another curve and my pace accelerated again. I tried to press my foot down against the road’s surface, but my foot kept bouncing up. I couldn’t get any traction. I was going too damn fast. This was going to end badly if I didn’t come up with a plan quickly.

A car passed me and honked.

“Not helpful,” I shouted. Careening downhill, trying to stay within the narrow bike lane, I had to think fast. Coming up in less than half a mile was Travers Meadow, a pastoral field that belonged to one of the local dairy farmers. The meadow was relatively flat and if I could find a break in the short steel posts that lined the curving road, I would be able to coast to a stop.