“I got a call. From the town manager.”
He went still, instantly alert. “What’s wrong? The island improvements aren’t to code? I knew it. That grading on the far side of the cabin…”
“No, it’s—not bad, just—” She shook her head, trying to reset. “You know how we always talk about the lighthouse in Roy’s paintings?”
He nodded, a slight frown crossing his face. “Sure. Why?”
“They’re decommissioning it. They’re selling it off, and we—us, specifically—get first refusal. They want us to buy it.”
He stared at her, waiting for the catch. “The whole thing? The tower, the house, all of it?”
She nodded, unable to hold back the giddy edge to her voice. “Yes. Jamie Marsh said we could have it before it goes to auction.”
Daniel whistled, low and skeptical. “What would we do with a lighthouse? Run tours? Airbnb the place? Or just let it sit and rot like half the stuff in this county?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “I just know I want it. I want to fix it up, make it something again. Maybe not even as part of the business. Just for us.”
He looked at her, head cocked, measuring. “What’s the price?”
“They don’t know yet. Probably not much, considering the repairs needed. You remember when we went, and it’s been some time since. But that’s not the point.” She grabbed his wrist, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin hairs, needing him to get it. “Roy and Patricia met there. That’s where he asked her to move in with him, before any of our family drama ever happened. Before their marriage troubles. Before my sister, Charlotte, died. They were young and happy.”
Daniel’s skepticism cracked, replaced by understanding. “So, it’s not just about the real estate, is it?”
“I want to put something back together that just needs one more push to be whole.”
He was quiet, turning the idea in his mind. “You want to take this on? I mean, you already run yourself ragged. We have the other properties…”
“Yes. I know I’m impulsive sometimes, but this is history. Like Margaret’s journal. It’s my mother. It’s Roy. It’s—” She stopped, overwhelmed.
“You’re shaking.” Daniel smiled and brushed a stray hair off her cheek.
She was. She hadn’t noticed until he pointed it out. “Sorry. I just want it so much I can taste it. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
“Not ridiculous,” he said, pulling her hand into his. “Big, sure. But not ridiculous.”
She watched his face, waiting for the telltale set of his jaw or the narrowing of his eyes—signs he was about to start troubleshooting, poking holes in the plan before it could sprout—but he just held her gaze, steady and unjudging.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Let’s figure out what it’ll take.” He grinned. “We might regret it tomorrow, but right now I think it’s perfect.”
Emily leaned into Daniel, her head against his shoulder, and let herself imagine the impossible: the two of them, old and gray, watching over a lighthouse that had survived the rest of the world’s slow forgetting. Just like the inn. She could see it already, shining through the night, steadfast and wholly, perfectly theirs.
When they looped back toward the party, Emily slipped her hand into Daniel’s, halting him. Her mind spun outward in a widening gyre. Doubts crept in. She looked at Daniel, who, for all his stone-faced practicality, had never once saidI told you so. “What if itistoo much?”
He shrugged. “At least we’re in it together.” He meant it as comfort, and strangely, it worked.
“We need to see it. Tomorrow.”
He nodded, simple as that. “We will.”
They kept walking, and when she spoke next, her voice was low. “Did you see Roy tonight? I mean, pay attention to him.”
Daniel nodded. “He looked a little beat. Something up?”
“He didn’t drink tonight. Not even a sip at a single toast.”
“Maybe he’s being careful. Because of the cancer.”
“Maybe. He’s been so much better. Energy, appetite. But tonight he looked—” She swallowed. “Tired. Not just sick. Tired tired.”
