The beep of the toaster oven reminds me I have a pastry I need to hand off to someone. Another coffee I need to pour.
Get it together, Lucy.
In the evenings, I’m hunched over my laptop in my tiny, rundown apartment that I can barely afford, desperately trying to figure out if my mystery lighthouse keeper was telling the truth. There’s no mention of Nova Scotia bringing back lighthouse keepers, and Killick Point was one of the few that never went automated because of the death that happened there.
It just got boarded up and never used again.
Some people, I’ve learned—because of how oddly obsessed I’ve become with this situation—can buy old lighthouses and renovate them to live in. But again, there’s no record of this one going up for sale. It’s sat empty since Dylan Hart died. One of the articles I read mentions they wouldn’t list it as a tourist attraction because the people of Killick Bay were so sensitive about the loss. It was a very tight-knit community, especially after his death, and no one wanted to see him or his story exploited.
Once Saturday rolls around again and I find myself off work with nothing to do and no money to evenaffordto do anything—what a strange feeling that is—I decide to go to the lighthouse again.
Just one more time.
To see if heisstill there.
Maybe this is all some big practical joke. IsPunk’dstill around? Is that what’s happening? Haze the new girl into thinking someone is living in this old lighthouse when really, it’s all a joke.
At this point, I don’t know if I want it to be a joke or not.
I pull up to the walkway that cuts through the rocks, which seems more familiar to me each week. It’s so strange that death happened here, yet the plants and flowers are bringing life back into this place. I spot the morning glory, its purple and pink flowers a beautiful contrast against the craggy grey stone. Purple fetch grass and white Queen Anne’s lace surround the lighthouse.
I pluck a pink flower from the cracks, placing the stem in my honey-blonde hair, pulled back in a half updo, loose waves falling just past my collarbone. I stopped at one of theboutique stores in town before leaving and purchased something that I thought would be kind of funny to give this so-called lighthouse keeper. If he really is living there. I place the notebook in my purse and make my way up the path. The harsh wind blows my hair across my face, and my eyes water slightly.
When I get to the door, I pause and listen.
Footsteps from above, as I expected. Instead of barging in, this time, I bring my fist to the door and rap my knuckles against it, loud enough that he should hear me from upstairs. I wait. No footsteps come down the stairs. I try again, even louder this time. Still nothing.
Feeling impatient, I slowly open the door, surprised again by the mild shock that courses through the tips of my fingers and down my arm when I touch the gold handle. “Ouch,” I mutter.
Once I’m in, instead of just barging upstairs into his space like usual, I call out, “Hello,” and wait. “Hello! Mr. Grouch?” I say with a joking tone.
Footsteps begin to stomp down the stairs. So now he hears me, gripping that damn coffee in his chipped mug as he does.
“You again,” he says, cocking a dark eyebrow at me. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“I did,” I say matter-of-factly. “Twice. You must have been stomping around too much to hear me.”
“I don’t stomp,” he says with a grin forming as he takes a sip of his drink. Steam pours from the top, and he blows it away with his mouth, full lips forming a small O as he does.
“Yes. You do.” I hold my black purse out in his direction, giving it a little shake. “I got you something.”
“Why?” He looks at me curiously.
“Just wait until you open it to thank me,” I respond, my own smile forming now.
He pauses for a moment, almost like he’s weighing the pros and cons of letting me in. “Since you’re here, you might as well come upstairs,” he finally says, motioning for me to follow him. “Do you like coffee?”
“I do.”
I go to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, expecting to feel the delicate petals of the flower on my fingers, but to my surprise, I don’t feel anything. I check again and even touch the other ear, but it’s not there. The wind must have taken it when I was walking up.
We get upstairs, and I plop down on his plaid couch, crossing my legs underneath me to get comfortable. “So, did this furniture come with the place?”
“Some of it,” he responds as he pulls another red mug out from the cupboard above the coffee maker. This one isn’t chipped like the one he’s always drinking from. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Do you have any fun creamers? Vanilla, caramel, maybe? Oh, I know it’s early, but maybe pumpkin spice?”
“Pumpkin? In your coffee?” He looks as disgusted as he is confused by my request.
