Chapter One
“That’s it. I’m done with GPS,” I shout to no one as my little 2010 green Honda Civic snakes down another unfamiliar turn on the twisting and winding roads of southern Nova Scotia.
I moved to the small town of Pleasant Cove about a month ago and have been relying a little too heavily on the navigation app on my phone. I want this new place to feel like my home—like I know the area. “Goodbye,” I sing as I tap Exit with my finger and focus on the road ahead. I have no idea where I’ll end up, but I’m enjoying the drive anyway. As the road takes me closer to the coast, I notice how sparse and short the trees get, a different sight than I’m used to coming from Ottawa, Ontario, where the forests are thick and the trees tall.
I never thought I’d catch myself over a thousand kilometres away from the niceties of home, but here I am, and dammit, I need to get to know this place. It’s so easy to navigate the roads in Ontario; they’re straightforward and laid out in a way that makes sense—neat grids or clear routes that take you where you expect to go. Nova Scotia is awhole different ball game, the massive hills and coastline causing the roads to twist, turn, and double back, winding through valleys and rocky shores any way they please, making it very easy to lose all sense of direction. Hence why my GPS is always on.
But not anymore.
I don’t know many people yet, outside of my job at Pleasant Coffee with my friend Priya Patel, who moved here when we were kids. That’s why you’ll catch me out for an impromptu drive on a Sunday afternoon in early August. I don’t have a ton of friends and, honestly, no spending money to go shopping with. It’s just me, an iced latte, a Taylor Swift playlist, and the open—very winding—road.
As my drive takes me right beside the coast, I pass a small village that looks like a fishing community, based on all the boats and traps I spot. I miss the name of the village as my little car flies right past it. After another ten minutes, the grass around me turns to jagged, grey rocks, and the trees become all but nonexistent. I must be getting right at the edge of something; the road has been straight since the village I went through. It almost feels like I’m coming up to a point or the end of the road. I get ready to turn my GPS back on, just in case I end up driving myself right out into the ocean. That wouldn’t be ideal.
As my car is about to curve on the road, something appears in my vision. A tall white-and-red striped lighthouse with an attached small entrance cabin, a bit weathered, with some chipped paint and exposed concrete here and there, but it’s stunning. This is the first lighthouse I’ve seen up close since moving to the southern shore, and by all accounts, this one is very tall. I pull my car over to get another good look at it.
When I step outside, I notice an old gravel path thatleads from the side of the road all the way to the lighthouse, which sits atop a rock on the edge of a cliff. There’s no sign or anything, but this must be a tourist attraction. I’ve been told most lighthouses here are. So I grab my purse, slip my Ugg wedge sandals back on—yes, I drive without shoes, don’t judge me—and make my way toward the tall structure.
It’s a warm August afternoon; the wind isn’t too cold, just a light breeze that feels nice on my bare arms in the dusty rose tank top I threw on this morning. We don’t get many muggy or humid days, which is why jeans or maxi skirts—I’m currently in the latter—in the summer are totally acceptable around here. I take one more sip of my iced vanilla latte, shut the door, and start down the gravel path, phone out, snapping photos as I make my way.
As I get closer to the lighthouse, I stop and listen to the ocean right beside me—waves slapping against the rocks, the white water breaking as soon as it makes contact. When I look out, all I see is dark blue. We must be at the tip of a point along the coast because it’s open water on all sides around me. Both breathtaking and eerie at the same time.
Out of nowhere, a white-blue streak comes down from the cloudless sky; it almost appears too bright to be real, going head to head with the sun beside it. It cracks down on top of the lighthouse with a loud clap. It all happens so fast that if I had my eyes on my phone, I would have missed it. I look around me, and everything looks the same. Still no clouds, only pure sunshine. I shake my head, confused.
Something calls me over. I can’t describe it, but it feels like my feet are being pulled toward the lighthouse. Curiosity takes the place of any fear or hesitation I might feel, and I let my body take me where it very clearly wants to go.
When I make it to the red front door of the vestibule, there’s a slight tingle in my fingertips. I shake my hands out, thinking it must be leftover adrenaline from whatever I just witnessed. After a few seconds, I hear noises. I walk around the whole lighthouse, noting that there are two windows on this main level. When I get back to the door, I hear the noises again, and they sound like a person. I listen a little more carefully and start to pick up on footsteps and the sound of a man yelling.
Thinking someone might be hurt—something did just strike the top of the lighthouse a few moments ago—I open the red paint-chipped door, taken aback by the squeak of the rusted hinges, and step inside, closing the door behind me.
The tingling in my fingers subsides as I walk around and notice that things are not what I expected them to be.
Chapter Two
The first level of the lighthouse is nothing like I expected. Not decrepit or abandoned-looking at all. In fact, it looks quite lived-in. As I step out of the little entrance cabin and into the circular structure, I spot a wooden workbench beside me on my left, a black mat on the opposite side with rubber boots, running shoes, and work boots, and a cast-iron staircase that winds up toward the next level.
To the right of the stairs is where I see him.
Standing with his back to me, talking on an old beige landline telephone hanging from the wall. Strange. Wearing a pair of cargo pants, a dark green cable-knit sweater, and green-and-brown leather-and-rubber boots on his feet, he’s speaking in hushed tones now, and I spot a cut on his arm where his sleeve has been rolled up past his elbow. He’s quite tall as he looms over the phone on the wall, and his dark brown, wavy hair almost touches his shoulders. I jump backward, and he turns toward me, staring into my eyes with his own dark green ones.
A scowl grows on his handsome face as he hangs up thephone and shouts in alarm, “What are you doing here? Don’t you know there’s a white squall on its way? You won’t see it until it’s on top of you! You shouldn’t be here. Especially not dressed that way!” He points right at my wedge sandals and flowy white skirt.
To say I’m confused and taken aback is an understatement. For one thing, it’s a sunny, warm day. Second, how dare you. My hands come up to my hair as I fix my claw clip to try to bring my blood back down from a boil before I respond.
“Pardon me?” I finally say, hands now placed on my hips. “I saw that crazy lightning strike and then heard all this commotion inside”—I’m now waving them around the room like a lunatic—“and it sounded like someone was hurt. Excuse me for trying to help!”
He takes one step toward me before deciding he knows better than to get any closer. “Lightning strike? That means it’s already too close. And I don’t need your help. This place is too dangerous for someone… like you,” he says gruffly, looking me up and down with that damn scowl still stuck on his face, his full lips pulled tight together while a crease grows on his forehead.
Did my eyes play tricks on me just then? He would have had to have seen, felt, or evenheardsomething.
“Okay, fine then. Suit yourself.” I wave my hands in the air like I’ve completely given up trying.
He brings a paper towel from his pocket and places it over his cut, the towel instantly absorbing any crimson blood that was ready to fall. Outside, I can hear the waves crashing loudly against the rocks and the whistle of the now fierce wind all around us. I still can’t get over how quickly the weather can change out here. Far different from being inOttawa.
With that, I turn around, open the door, and slam it shut behind me. As I step out into the calm sunlight, I can’t help but feel a bit confused about what just happened. My body felt all tense and wound up when I was inside, and now that I’ve stepped back out, I can feel everything settling back down. The shift in the air is palpable. How does he think it’s about to storm right now? How did he not hear that strike? I spin on my heels to go tell him but then decide against it.
“Not worth it,” I shout into the afternoon air.
I make my way back to my car, anger still fuming out of my ears, and turn on Google Maps to get back home.
