“I’ll figure it out,” she said, and meant it, which was its own small surprise. For months, she’d had nothing on her schedule except dawn lighthouse shots and silence. Now she had commitments. People expecting her to show up with a camera and do something worthwhile. It was different, but she was beginning to like it.
The conversation shifted. Emily talked about a new painting she was working on for Grant’s gallery. Bryan and Cassidy debated whether the festival needed a second night of live music or whether one was enough to keep the volunteers from mutiny. Winnie came over and told a short story about her father fixing the lighthouse lamp during a storm with nothing but a wrench and stubbornness, and everyone went quiet for the thirty seconds it took her to finish, the way they always did when Winnie spoke about Robert Lockhart.
Melissa listened. But not from the outside. She was in the circle, cross-legged in her chair. The listening felt different from this position. It felt almost like belonging. But she didn’t really belong here. Or anywhere. She hadn’t in a very long time. She just had a job here, that was all.
The evening cooled. Not much. Evenings in southwest Florida didn’t really cool this time of year. The humidity just eased off enough to make the breeze from the Gulf noticeable. One by one, people drifted. Emily and Grant said goodnight and walked toward Starfish Cottage with their shoulders touching. Bryan stacked plates while Cassidy supervised from her chair, which was their version of teamwork. Winnie and Sally headed to the keeper’s quarters carrying the last remnants of the gathering.
Melissa stayed.
She wasn’t sure why. The fire pit had burned down to embers, and the tiki torches Clint had lit earlier threw uneven light across the flagstones. She sat in the growing quiet and felt the unfamiliar sensation of not wanting to leave a gathering. Usually she calculated her exit three conversations in advance. Tonight she’d forgotten to do that.
Somewhere in the keeper’s quarters, a light went on and then off again. Winnie checking the locks, probably. The woman had a routine for everything.
Clint came out of the shadows near the gazebo. She hadn’t realized he was still there, though she should have. He’d been at dinner, quiet as always, eating steadily and contributing nothing to the conversation beyond a nod when Bryan asked him about a dock repair. He’d stayed through the whole evening without saying more than a dozen words, which was remarkable for Clint only because he usually left early only to return to help clean up the area.
He sat down in the chair Bryan had vacated, a comfortable distance away.
For a minute neither of them spoke. The embers ticked and settled. Somewhere past the courtyard wall, the Gulf pushed against the shore.
“You’re different lately,” he finally said.
She looked at him. His face was half in torchlight, half in shadow, and his expression was hard to read. But his voice wasn’t hard. It was careful.
She raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
He seemed to consider this, the way he considered most things. Slowly and without a rush. “You’re actually here.” He paused. “Not just observing.”
She’d expected something about her photography. About the portrait series, or the new work, or the way she’d laughed at Bryan’s shrimp joke. Something she could respond to with a quip or a redirect.
But he hadn’t said anything about her work. He’d said something about her. About the fact that she’d been sitting in a chair in a circle of people and had stayed there, present and accounted for, without a camera between her and the world.
She opened her mouth to say something deflecting. I’ve always been here. What are you talking about. Don’t get philosophical on me, Lockhart.
Nothing came out.
Because he was right. And he’d said it without judgment.
She just nodded.
It wasn’t much. A small tilt of her head, an acknowledgment that sat between them in the ember-light without needing to be explained or expanded. Clint didn’t push. He didn’t ask what changed or why, or whether she was okay. He just let the nod be enough.
That was the thing about Clint. He didn’t need the whole story. Most people would have followed up. That’s great, Melissa. I’m glad you’re coming out of your shell. We were worried about you. All those kind, suffocating words that made her want to crawl back behind the lens and stay there.
Clint offered none of that. He offered an observation, and then silence.
They sat for another few minutes while the courtyard lights clicked off on their timer, plunging everything into the softer darkness of moon and distant porch lights. The lighthouse beam swept overhead in its steady arc.
Clint finally pushed out of his chair. “Got to put out the last of the fire.” He poured some sand on the embers and turned back to her. “Good night, Melissa.”
“Good night.”
He walked toward Driftwood Cottage with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders loose in a way she rarely saw from him. She watched him go, then stood and walked back toward Captain’s Watch. The stone path was familiar under her feet, worn smooth by months of the same walk at the same hour.
Inside, she glanced at the camera still sitting on the counter where she’d left it. She didn’t pick it up.
She turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.
Chapter 14
