A Thousand Distant Shores

(The Keeper of Stars - Book 2)

Prologue

To be a lighthouse, you must be strong enough to resist every kind of storm, to every kind of loneliness and you must have a powerful light inside you!

— Mehmet Murat Ildan

October 1993

She stands alone.

Staring out at the angry Atlantic, she watches a storm brewing on the horizon, the thick clouds gathering strength and momentum as they roll closer to the shore. Below her, the sea roils and churns, the wind tangles her hair into knots. Despite the ominous scene, she is entranced by the dark, brooding expanse of water, its surface a tempestuous dance of swirling whirlpools and white-capped waves.

In the distance, the lighthouse pulses steadily, an unwavering beacon fighting against the encroaching darkness. As the storm draws nearer, the lighthouse’s beam becomes increasingly frantic, spinning and slicing through the churning sea as if seeking out some unseen threat lurking beneath its surface.

Her fingers graze over the metal railing, the chill sinking into her skin. She can taste the salt on her lips and feel the sting of the ocean as the spray hits her face. A sudden flash of lightning splits the sky, followed almost immediately by a guttural roar of thunder.

She turns away, and her thoughts drift to the New York Times article she read earlier that morning. She can still picture the headline, stark black letters burned into her mind— “TRAILBLAZING ASTRONOMER RECEIVES NASA’S HIGHEST HONOR.” Her grip tightens around the iron railing as she contemplates the story of Dr. Elizabeth Spencer-Bennett—the same woman who was once her teenage rival. She pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders, a sudden chill rippling through her that has little to do with the impending storm. Memories of summers long ago flood back, vivid and visceral. The long nights spent praying he would choose her instead of Ellie, and the bitter taste of disappointment that lingered when he did not. In the end, it was always Ellie who captured his attention, her brilliant mind and stunning beauty drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

How naïve she had been back then, to think that her bond with Jack could have weathered a storm like Ellie.

A gust of wind whips the hair across her face, pulling her from her musing. The storm is upon her, the rumble of thunder echoing across the vast expanse. She knows she should head inside, seek shelter from the approaching squall. But something keeps her rooted to the spot. Maybe it's the allure of the storm, the raw power of nature unleashed. Or perhaps it’s the twisted sense of kinship she feels with the roiling waves. Regardless, she braces herself and leans into the wind, ready to face whatever onslaught the storm will bring.

Part I

Chapter 1

October 1993

Sunday

The sound of the doorbell echoed through the cavernous beachside mansion. Tearing my gaze away from the pages of my favorite novel, I looked up, my eyes narrowing at the interruption.

Is it time already? I glanced at the clock on the antique mahogany sideboard, its hands pointing at a quarter past four. With a sigh, I rose and eased toward the hallway, my bones creaking like the old wooden steps leading to the lighthouse in the distance. Guests were rare these days, but that didn’t diminish the stir of excitement that visitors brought. For decades, this mansion had been a hub of social activity, its rooms often filled with the laughter and chatter of Kitty Hawk’s political and social elite. The memories of those days clung to the high-ceilinged rooms like the scent of old perfume, bringing with them a touch of melancholy.

But today was different. As I approached the grand oak door, there was a spark of anticipation in the air, a tingle of unfamiliarity that promised a break from the monotony of my quiet life.

Through the frosted glass, I spotted a silhouette—a lean figure, distinctly feminine, draped in a coat that danced around her ankles. My heart caught in my chest. When I agreed to have my biography written, I hadn’t expected to feel so nervous, so naked. And yet here I was, as vulnerable as a peach without its protective skin. With one last glance back toward the sanctity of my library, I took a deep breath, knowing that once I opened the door, there was no going back.

Under the overhang, sheltering from the pouring rain, stood Diane Montgomery. She was an attractive young woman, in an obvious sort of way—long dark hair teased by the wind, a tailored emerald green pea coat that flattered her frame, and eyes of sapphire that sparkled with intelligence. Beneath her arm, she carried a brown leather satchel, no doubt filled with notebooks, pens, and perhaps even a tape recorder. All tools of the trade. Diane was a twenty-eight-year-old single mother and aspiring writer, employed as an investigative journalist for the Stanly News & Press in Albemarle, a suburb of Charlotte. She had come to spend the week with me, to chronicle my life in a book that she had been eager to write.

Initially, I had been skeptical. Who would want to read the story of a woman past her prime marooned in an oversized beach house? But the more I pondered, the more I realized that my life had been anything but ordinary. From my humble beginnings as a poor country girl to becoming a judge, my journey had been filled with trials and triumphs. Yet, it was the personal life behind the public persona that Diane wanted to unravel, those intimate chapters shrouded by the fog of time. In her letter, she stated that I had been an inspiration to her, a beacon of hope in a world where women often felt overshadowed and underappreciated. With the promise of respect and sincerity, she asked for my consent to share my story with the world. I agreed, albeit with a touch of apprehension.

As soon as I opened the door, Diane smiled and extended a hand. Her grip was firm, her manicured nails painted a ruby red. “Good afternoon, Your Honor,” she said, her voice rich and warm like a freshly brewed cup of coffee. “It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“Likewise. Won’t you come in? And please, call me Sara.”

Diane stepped into the foyer, the heels of her boots clicking on the polished marble. “What a beautiful home you have, Sara,” she said, taking a moment to admire the grand staircase and ornate chandelier that hung in the center of the room.

“Thank you.” I watched her closely, trying to discern whether the admiration in her voice was genuine or just a practiced courtesy of her profession. However, her eyes, lively and expressive, seemed to drink in the details with genuine interest. “It’s seen many a stormy day,” I added, gesturing toward the tall bay windows flanking the room that framed the inclement weather outside.

Diane followed my gaze to the gray clouds that churned in the sky, the rivulets of rain that slipped down the windowpane. “I can only imagine.”

“Please, let me take your coat.”

She shrugged it off with a grateful smile, revealing a tailored white blouse tucked into a maroon pencil skirt beneath. “Thank you. This weather is quite something, isn’t it?”

I took her coat and hung it in the closet next to the entrance. “Indeed. Unpredictable, like most things in life.” I led her into the library, where a fire crackled in the hearth. The room was a delightfully eclectic blend of old-world charm and contemporary style. It boasted high ceilings with intricate moldings, elegant wooden paneling, grand windows draped in luxurious maroon velvet curtains, and walls adorned with an impressive collection of books and exquisite artwork. The warm glow of the fire bathed the room in a warm ambiance, making it a sanctuary against the gloomy weather outside.

Diane's eyes roamed across the room, taking in the collection of first-edition books and the rich details of each painting. “Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” Her sharp gaze landed on a painting, a somber piece of a girl seemingly trying to climb up a hill. “This is Christina’s World, is it not?”

“I’m impressed. It belonged to my late husband. He had such a keen eye for art.”

“And what about you? Do you share his passion?”

I poured two glasses of iced tea from an ornate silver pitcher and handed one to Diane. “I appreciate art, but my passion lies elsewhere.” I gestured toward the towering bookcase that lined the far wall. “I find the written word to be the most expressive form of art.”

Diane took a moment to appreciate the vast array of literature before her. Bound volumes of classic works, historical recounts, contemporary novels, and even poetry collections filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. They were organized not by author or title, but color—a rainbow of spines that brought vibrancy to the room. “That’s quite a collection.”

“Would you believe this isn’t half of it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You must be quite the reader. Do you have a favorite?”

“It’s like asking a mother to pick a favorite child. But if I had to choose one, it would be The Great Gatsby. It's a tale of love, deception, and the façade of the American Dream. I find something new each time I read it.”

Diane nodded as she sipped her tea. “It’s been ages since I read that one. Probably not since high school English class.”

“If you enjoy reading, you’re welcome to any book you like during your stay. Speaking of which, we took the liberty of preparing the cottage for you. I hope that’s okay?”

“We?”

“Judy and I. She’s one of my dearest friends and has been staying with me since my husband passed away. A recent widow herself, she and I have become each other’s support system.”

“I’m sorry for your losses. It’s good to have someone to lean on during tough times.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, fighting a lump in my throat. “And might I add, it’s also good to have a distraction. Like your visit. I’ve been looking forward to this for quite some time.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she replied. “I have been, too. Believe it or not, this is my first trip to the Outer Banks.”

“Well, you’ve picked the perfect time to visit,” I said gesturing toward the window where the rain continued to fall in sheets. “Once this storm passes, you’ll see how the fall brings out the true beauty of these shores.”

“Speaking of beautiful, is that the cottage you were telling me about?” She moved over to the window, her gaze seeking out the small structure nestled at the edge of the dunes.

“That’s it. My little home away from home. You’ll have plenty of peace and quiet there while you work. Once this storm passes, I’ll be happy to show it to you.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Of course.”

Diane nodded appreciatively, her eyes taking one last sweep of the grand library before returning to me. “Tell me, was it difficult transitioning from a humble life to…this?”

I chuckled, reflecting on my journey. “Difficult? No, I wouldn’t say it was difficult. A little overwhelming, especially at the beginning, but I like to think that I took to it like a duck to water.” I led Diane toward a plush seating area near the grand fireplace. I settled onto a tufted velvet chair while she claimed the seat opposite me on a matching chaise, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes twinkled with intrigue as she set her tea on a walnut coffee table and pulled a notepad from her satchel.

“Thanks again for agreeing to do this. When you responded to my letter, I must admit, I was a bit surprised, especially given your reputation for reticence. If you don’t mind me asking, is there a particular reason you want to do this now?”

“For starters, my career has afforded me the luxury of solitude, the privilege of distance. For years, I’ve watched people form assumptions about me, my life, this house…and I’ve let them. I’ve realized, though, that silence can be just as much a lie as any spoken words. If people are going to talk, I want them to have the right information. Now that I’m retired, I feel it’s time for me to write my own narrative. The true version of my story, not the fragmented pieces that have been stitched together by intrigued outsiders. Ultimately, I feel like this is my chance to do what I do best—to plead my case and show the rest of the world that I’m not the heartless woman they think I am.”

Diane nodded, her fingers tapping against the spine of her notepad. “That’s incredibly brave. But why me? Out of all the wonderful and accomplished writers you could have chosen, why invite me, a mere novice, into your world?”

The question hung in the air between us like a lingering mist. I leaned back in my chair, steepling my fingers. “It’s true, I’ve been approached by numerous writers—some famous, some not, all clamoring for the golden ticket into my world. But your letter… It touched me. It was genuine and heartfelt. But more than that, I wanted the truth to be told, not an embellished version designed to attract attention.You don’t know this, but I’ve tracked your career for quite some time. I’ve read your articles, admired your investigative prowess, and more importantly, respected your integrity. You have a rare gift for listening to the undercurrents, the hidden truth between the lines. There was one article in particular, ‘The Man Behind the Mask,’ that resonated with me deeply. You wrote, ‘True power does not come from wealth or status, but from authenticity, from the courage to reveal oneself fully and fearlessly to the world.’ It was one of the few times I felt someone understood what it means to be in this position. You didn’t just focus on the superficial, the glamour, and the indulgence. You peered beneath the surface, into the abyss where the real person dwells. That’s why you’re here, Diane. I believe you’re capable of telling my story with that same integrity.”

A slow smile spread across her face. It was clear that my words had hit their mark. “I’m flattered. And I promise you I’ll do my best to capture your truth.” She took a sip of tea before going on. “You know, it’s not every day that I have the pleasure of talking with a woman of your caliber. Typically, I find myself in the company of local businessmen or politicians, but never a judge, let alone a female one.”

I laughed, finding it amusing that she thought my life so extraordinary. “I suppose it’s because we judges are usually behind the bench, not in front of a reporter’s pen. But I think it’s important to share our stories as well. And I’m honored to be your first.”

“Speaking of being honored.” Diane’s expression turned serious as she uncapped her pen. “How does it feel to be only the second female Supreme Court Justice in the state’s history?”

“It’s overwhelming, to be honest. When I started my law career, women were still a rarity in the field. To have risen to where I am now, it feels like I’ve scaled a mountain. But it’s not just about me. It’s about every young girl out there who needs the courage to be whatever she wants to be, even in a predominantly male industry. It’s also proof that no matter where you come from or what your circumstances are, you can rise above them and achieve great things.”

Diane’s pen danced across the paper as she scribbled my words. “I like that…that spirit of empowerment. Has that always been a driving force in your life?”

“Not always. My early years were heavily influenced by the notion that my life should follow a traditional path—marry well, have children, be content with a quiet, domestic life. It was only when I finally left my small town that my worldview began to expand.”

“And is that when you realized you wanted to have a career in law, or have you always known?”

I laughed, recalling my youthful dreams. “Actually, I did have early aspiration of being a lawyer, but I was too shy to even dream of standing before a courtroom. So I dismissed it as an impossible dream and decided to be a teacher instead. In fact, I graduated with a mathematics degree from the University of Tennessee with the intention of doing just that. For a while, I even toyed with the notion of becoming a college professor. It wasn’t until years later that I was given a second chance to follow my original dream.”

Diane’s pen paused and she looked up. “And what led you on that path? There must have been a turning point, yes?”

I allowed my mind to journey along the threads of my memory. “Yes, indeed there was. But perhaps we should save that for later. I don’t want to spoil the plot. We’re only in chapter one, after all.”

“Fair enough,” Diane said, her professional demeanor faltering for the briefest of moments, replaced by a flicker of unguarded curiosity. She clicked her pen, collecting herself. “Just so you know, I typically like to split my interviews into three parts—past, present, and future. I like to start with the journey that has brought you here, then delve into what you’re currently engaged in, and finally get a glimpse of where you might be headed. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a fair approach. And I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God,” I said, working in some lawyer humor.

Diane chuckled and glanced at her wristwatch. “We probably should wait until tomorrow to really dig into your past, but I’d like to ask a few preliminary questions, you know, to break the ice. Are you up for that?”

“Fire away.”

She pulled out the recorder and flipped the switch, the red light flickering on. “Let’s start with your early years. Tell me about the town you grew up in. What was it like?”

I glanced at the flames in the fireplace, my mind traveling back to the days of my childhood. “I was born in a little town called Sims Chapel, the only child of a single mother that loved me more than life itself. It was a place where everyone knew each other’s name, and secrets could hardly be kept secret. Nestled between the Smoky Mountains and a river that kissed the edges of town, Sims Chapel was as charming as any small town could be.”

“It sounds like a lovely place.”

“Oh, it was. Unlike the mansion we now sit in, my childhood home was neither fancy nor glamorous. But it sat atop a rolling hill with a view of the mountains that would take your breath away. In the winter, when the trees were bare, you could see all the way down to the river.” I paused, feeling the weight of years that had passed, the memories layered like paint on an old wall. “Before the Tennessee Valley Authority came in and dammed up the river, I used to swim and play in its cool waters. Until I got old enough to swim properly, my mother would sit on the bank, humming to herself while mending clothes.

“It sounds as if your mother played a significant role in your upbringing,” Diane interjected. “Tell me more about her.”

I nodded, absorbed in the memories. “My daddy died before I was born, so Mother was everything to me. A guiding light, a pillar of strength. She taught me kindness and respect, showed me the pain of hard work and the joy its fruits could bring. She was a seamstress, working long hours to keep food on the table and clothes on my back. She used to say that she sewed pieces of her heart into everything she made.”

“I like that. What about your friends? Did you have many?”

“Most of the kids my age lived in Dandridge, which was up the river a bit, but there were a few in Sims Chapel. Yvonne Tidwell and Connie Barnes were both close friends of mine. But my best friend was a boy named Jack Bennett. He and I were two peas in a pod, inseparable from the day we met. Jack was the adventurous type, always up for just about anything, constantly dragging me into the woods or down to the river on one of his exploits.”

“So you were a tomboy?”

“Oh yes, very much so. I was climbing trees and scraping my knees before I could read and write. Jack and I would spend the day exploring the woods, fishing down by the river, or playing pretend in the old barn at the back of his family's property. Mother was forever washing dirt out of my clothes and scolding me for coming home past sundown. But she was always there, waiting on the porch with a warm smile and a hot meal.”

Diane chuckled softly. “So is it safe to say that you and Jack were partners in crime?”

“I reckon we were. We were mischievous, no doubt about it. At least I was. I had this knack for finding trouble, you see, and Jack had a knack for getting us out of it. We’d explore the land together, looking for arrowheads and old artifacts, or sneak down to the creek and catch crawfish with our bare hands. Jack had a wild, free spirit about him, like the wind in the trees. It was infectious…made me want to follow him on whatever crazy adventure he had planned out for that day.”

“And did your mother know about your exploits?”

“Oh, she knew about them all right.” A smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. “I think she wanted me to be more like the other girls—quiet, gentle, and clean. But she also understood my need for adventure and freedom. She knew I wouldn’t be content with sewing circles and tea parties. No, I needed the open air, the feel of the dirt under my feet and the freedom of the wild. As long as I got good grades and was home in time for dinner, she was content. At least she pretended to be.”

Diane’s eyebrows went up a notch at that, her pen racing across the page again. “It’s clear your mother played a significant role in your life, but what about your friend, Jack. Was he influential as well?”

I paused for a moment, my gaze cast down, to remember a face that time had begun to blur. “Yes, Jack was…is…a huge part of who I am.”

Before I knew it, an hour had passed. Diane had a way of making the minutes vanish, one question melting into another with seamless grace.

“Thank you for being so candid with me this afternoon,” Diane said as she put away her things. “We’re off to a good start.”

“My pleasure,” I said as I stood and made my way to the window. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to pierce through the thinning clouds. “See, what did I tell you. Just look at that view.”

“Gorgeous,” Diane replied, her eyes wide as she joined me by the window. “Does this mean we can see the cottage now?”

“Absolutely,” I said, motioning her toward the door. “Follow me.”