She took a sip of her tea and let the sweetness coat her throat while she searched for a deflection. “I’m not hiding, Winnie. I’m just working through a transition. Lots of photographers shift specialties mid-career.”
Winnie patted her arm. “Of course, dear.”
That was worse than an argument. Winnie’s gentle agreement had a way of reflecting your own words back at you so you could hear how thin they sounded.
“Actually,” Winnie said as she shifted in her chair and glanced toward the remnants of the gathering. People were starting to drift toward their cottages, carrying plates and conversations with them. “I was wondering if you might help Clint clean up tonight. My hip’s been bothering me, and he could use an extra pair of hands.”
“Winnie, I’m sure Clint doesn’t need my help.”
“Probably not. But I’m asking anyway.” Winnie smiled, and the firelight deepened every line in her face. She looked like a woman who had made peace with asking for things she had no intention of explaining.
There was no graceful way to refuse. Winnie knew it. Melissa knew she knew it.
“Sure.”
“Thank you, dear.” Winnie squeezed her hand and pushed herself up from the chair, looking surprisingly spry for a woman claiming hip pain. She made her way toward the keeper’s quarters, pausing to say goodnight to Emily and Grant as they headed toward Starfish Cottage.
The courtyard emptied in stages. Sally left with a promise to bring shrimp and grits next Friday. Cassidy and Bryan walked toward the parking area, still debating vendor placement, their voices fading into the warm dark. The fire burned low.
She stood and began stacking plates.
Clint appeared on the other side of the table and started gathering cups without a word. They worked in parallel, moving around each other, agreeing silently to never get too close.
The silence was familiar. Stiff. She wiped down the table with a damp cloth while Clint carried the food containers toward the keeper’s quarters and returned for a second trip.
She folded the cloth and draped it over the back of a chair. A few embers still glowed in the fire pit, pulsing orange in the darkness.
“Got it from here.” Clint reached for the cloth she’d just set down, refolded it, and placed it in the supply bin near the gazebo.
“I was going to put it there.”
“It goes in the bin.”
“Which is where I was going to put it.”
He shrugged and turned back toward the fire pit with a small bucket of sand. She watched him pour it carefully over the embers, deliberately extinguishing each one. Everything he did had that quality. Measured and contained. Like a man running through a maintenance checklist even during a conversation.
She should say goodnight and leave. The job was done. The courtyard was clean. There was nothing keeping her here except some stubborn refusal to be the first one to walk away.
“Got any new shots today?” He asked without looking up from the fire pit, his tone carrying the same flat quality he might use to ask about the weather.
“A few.”
“Of the lighthouse?”
“Yes.”
He straightened and brushed sand from his hands. “You’ve photographed that lighthouse and the cottages about a million times.”
“Photography requires repetition. Studying light and composition over time.” She heard the stiffness in her own voice and hated it. “It’s a discipline.”
“It’s the same picture.” He said it plainly. Not mean, just honest. An honesty that felt like a hangnail catching on fabric. “Same angle, same building, same light. Give or take.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Probably not.” He picked up the bucket and set it beside the supply bin. “Doesn’t she have anything better to do with her time?” he muttered, almost to himself but not quite quietly enough.
She straightened her spine and looked directly at him. “I took photos at the Harbor Festival.” Actually, she’d just set up a photo booth, an instant camera that printed the photos for people. She hadn’t actually photographed the people herself. “And I got photos of the setup, the vendor tents, and the crowds.” While careful not to focus on any one person too closely.
