His name is my name now. Jeremiah and Annie Fletcher, who are building a house on a certain island. We are to be the caretakers of a lighthouse, you see. And every story that it guards. We will open that boathouse to the wayfarers who have traveled far to see their family’s stories. We will ferry those pilgrims across the bay, carve out a place for them here on the island as they linger until dark and watch as the light shines in a dance, a light pattern all its own: long, long, short-short-short. Twice in a row, and then a beat of darkness.
Morse code, for those who know it. The number seventy-seven, casting forth the story of a life, a love—of hard-won hope etched on a scrap of paper pulled off a destroyer—in a few small blips:
77 fathoms.
Author’s Note
I like to think about that little post office in Ansel, its mail slot in the door. The sea breeze pulling it open and shut, creaking in fledgling attempts at a song.
If I were there, I’d pull open that tarnished brass slot and slip a note inside addressed to you. It would say:
Dear Friend,
With this book, I offer you my heart. It isn’t much, perhaps, but these words were sown with tears—both those of grief and those of joy—and deep, deep hope, which I pray might be even a small gift to you.
You see, when I look back at where this tale came from, so much is a blur. But one single thing is clear. It came from a place of being held. A place where God gathered up all of me in my brokenness in a time of deepest grief and just closed His grip around me tight, holding me close to His heart. There in the dark was a pair of nail-scarred, love-etched hands that stooped to gather up and tend each broken piece, His heart aching right with mine. Hands and heart whose way is to cherish, to take that brokenness and somehow, with tenderness and strength, summon forth light. Hope.
This is my prayer. That in the midst of any caverns of grief, chasms of tribulation, anything that has marked or cracked your life, the God who plunges right into your turmoil with you—unter wasser, as Liesl would say—will wrap those shards up and do His work.
In his Narnian world, C. S. Lewis called it “The Deeper Magic from Before the Dawn of Time”—that one innocent would offer His own scars into a broken place, to bring life. Tolkien called it the “Eucatastrophe”—the good catastrophe. Jesus called it His very purpose: “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10).
Lift your head, brave one. This life is a storm, no doubt about it. But oh, the One who holds those waves, who holds our hearts. What it is, to think of facing this storm in His hands, wrapped in a love that is fathoms—infinite fathoms—deep.
He loves you fiercely. And as Roy would say, there’s a whole lotta light.
May it shine right into you.
—Amanda
Acknowledgments
I so hope you enjoyed your time in Ansel, dear reader. This town is a medley of countless generous people who took the time to help create such a place. I owe them all a thousand thank-yous.
To our online community, who never fails to chime in with brilliant names and ideas when I post questions on Facebook or in my newsletter. It delights me to no end that many of this town’s details come from you! It’s always hard to choose from the wonderful suggestions, but I have Sondra Kraak to thank for naming the Glad Tidings. Lori Benton, who dubbed the small-town paper The Pier Review. Rachel McMillan and Lesley Gore, who when asked about favorite classic black-and-white movies, chimed in with It Happened One Night. Ansel thanks you for giving texture to the town!
To Martha Artyomenko, Gail Hollingsworth, and Emily Bergstrom, who each offered pieces of their own courageous relatives’ World War II experiences, which inspired some of the stories held by the stones in this book. You may recognize glimpses of Martha’s grandfather, Hans Vogel, who immigrated to the U.S. from Germany as a boy, then bravely took up his linguistic roots as a young man to serve the U.S. in Germany, saving lives. There’s a reference to Gail’s father-in-law, Berle Dean Hollingsworth, and his bravery transporting soldiers in a U-boat to Omaha Beach on D-Day—a day so much of the war hinged on. And Emily’s great-grandfather, Arthur Busboom, who wrote in a letter to his bride, telling of V-E Day in Paris: “It seemed good to see all the street lights on again, and I think they had every light they could find in Paris lit last night.”
To these men, and to all the Greatest Generation, we owe so much. We may never understand the breadth and depth of what was given. But as we try, and learn, and grow . . . we are thankful. Beyond words.
And to our nation’s brave soldiers, past and present. Thank you, to you and to your families. A novel—or a thousand of them—is insufficient thanks. With all my heart, thank you for what you do.
To the experts who patiently coached me in aspects outside my realm of knowledge. While I’ve done my best to reflect authenticity in each of these departments, any accidental oversights are on me and not these brilliant minds. I owe my thanks to Jordyn Redwood and her knowledgeable medical input. Jeff Gales and the United States Lighthouse Society, for walking me through both technical and historical aspects of our nation’s beloved beacons.
Sharon Mack and the Machias Bay Area Chamber of Commerce, who went above and beyond and hunted down personal, local accounts not recorded in history books and inspired me to no end. Historian Valdine Atwood, who provided such details to Sharon. Dawn Lamoureaux-Crocker and Craig and Annette Parsons, who took time to patiently relay their own harrowing experiences in sudden storms at sea, and to answer this landlubber’s questions.
Tina Ingemi, who didn’t blink twice when I wrote again and again and again, asking more Maine questions and savoring her boundless, beautiful answers. You helped me fall even more in love with Maine, Tina. Thank you!
Aura Moore, who provided me with local history and connections, and whose kindness and patience emerged even more as one of the first readers of this story, to keep a “weather eye” on my Maine facts. While many elements of this story are purely fictional—the town of Ansel, the island, Bob’s hospital—my hope is that the magic of Maine still shines through.
To friends whose very heartbeats are woven into each line of this book and my life. How I cherish you. Joanne Bischof, faithful kindred spirit and bringer of hope and a dash of beloved spunk, whose beautiful heart inspires me at every turn. Lesley Gore, who never ceases to bring a smile through her wit, a tear through her understanding, or to astound me with insight and wisdom. Wendy Lawton, agent and friend, whose bookshelves are lined with timeless treasures, just as is her heart. Kelli Standish and her ceaseless encouragement and stalwart friendship over the years.
To selfless authors who have offered encouragement along the way on this writing road. Laura Frantz, Dani Pettrey, Sarah Sundin, Cynthia Ruchti, Jocelyn Green, Rachel McMillan, Elizabeth Byler Younts—your words and kindness have meant the world!
To Bethany House Publishers, and beyond-intrepid editors Raela, Karen, and Elizabeth for taking this windblown tale under your wing. I still get this little-kid smile in my heart when I think of my childhood self, curled up with the Mandie mysteries, dreaming of one day writing a book for this publishing house that exists to bring hope, light, and encouragement. Thank you, with all my heart. It is an honor to walk this road with you.
To my family. Each and every one of you. How I love you. How my heart beats with the story of you and gives thanks for the miracle of you. What an Author we have, who would be so gracious to let me know and love you!
To my beloved Ben. This love for you is an ever-rising tide. Every hint of romance written, comfort given, laughter shared in these words—it comes back to you.
And finally . . . the Rock of Ages. When writing one of the hardest scenes of this book, finding myself tangled in the storm right along with Annie, I stumbled upon a quote from C. H. Spurgeon: “I have learned to kiss the wave that throws me against the Rock of Ages.”
Thank you. For being the gentlest and safest of landing places. For the gathering. The holding. The piec
ing together, the building. For your strength, your tenderness. Your grace.
Thank you for being our Light in every storm.
Amanda Dykes is a drinker of tea, dweller of redemption, and spinner of hope-filled tales who spends most days chasing wonder and words with her family. Give her a rainy day, a candle to read by, an obscure corner of history to dig in, and she’ll be happy for hours. She’s a former English teacher, and her novella, Bespoke: A Tiny Christmas Tale, was met with critical acclaim from Publishers Weekly, Readers’ Favorite, and more. She is also the author of a novella in The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection. Whose Waves These Are is her debut novel. Readers can connect with her online at www.amandadykes.com.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
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Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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