Page 27 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

Tourists liked to romanticize it, but that light served a real purpose. Back when the logging boats ran after dark, it kept them from wrecking on the lake’s rocks. These days, it was more for the night fishers and the odd rental boat that lost its way, but Luke liked knowing it was still doing its job. Quiet, steady, reliable, just like Ethan.

Luke was using the need for extra wire for the festival to see his friend. After five days in close proximity to Sophie Bennett, he needed a dose of Ethan realism. Coral barked once, alerting their arrival. A moment later, Ethan appeared at the top of the stairs, his lean frame silhouetted against the sky.

He’d let his light brown hair grow out a bit: wavy, always looking like he’d run a hand through it instead of a comb. The beard was trimmed close, jaw tight beneath it, and those old wire-frame glasses still clung to his face like they’d been welded on. Tall, lean build, all elbows and angles, but stronger than he looked. Wore the same battered sweaters and worn boots he always had, like fashion was a concept that hadn’t reached the lighthouse yet.

“Luke,” Ethan called down, his voice carrying clearly across the still air. No greeting, no small talk. Just acknowledgment. One of the many reasons Luke tolerated Ethan’s company when most others exhausted him.

Luke raised a hand in response. “Got that wire?”

“Inside. Coffee’s still hot.”

Luke stepped into the lighthouse. The place hadn’t changed, still smelled faintly of the lake and books, like it had soaked up the past and decided to keep it. Ethan Moore had lived in the lighthouse his whole life. His parents, both lake-obsessed scientists with more brains than sense, had bought the place and raised him there like some wild lighthouse prince. He grew up surrounded by depth maps, weather logs, and more telescopes than any lakefront home had a right to contain.

Most folks in town didn’t know what to make of Ethan. Too quiet. Too private. But they kept forgetting what had happened to Ethan’s dad. He’d drowned in the lake during a hell of a storm when the lighthouse beacon failed. Ethan was only seventeen, just a kid really. One minute his father was out there trying to guide boats to safety, next minute the light went dark and by morning they found his body washed up near Deadman’s Cove.

His mother never spoke again after that, not a word. Just sat by the lighthouse window, staring out at the water like she was waiting for her husband to come back. Ethan had to drop everything to take care of her. Kid had dreams of studying English at some fancy university, was always scribbling in notebooks and reading books thicker than boat manuals. Instead, he stayed, fed his mother, kept the lighthouse running, watching her waste away for three years until she finally joined his father.

Now it was just Ethan up there, writing articles for magazines when he needed grocery money. Didn’t ask for much, didn’t say much…not with the spoken word anyway. It was all on those notepads he kept.

That was the thing about Ethan. He never asked more than you could give. And that made him, in Luke’s book, a damn rare find.

Luke finally reached Ethan’s living area, all sharp edges and order. Charts lined one wall and various sailing equipment was laid out like a surgeon’s tools. The only hint of softness was the old leather chair by the stove, scuffed and sun-faded, angled just right to catch both the water and the heat. Before it sat Ethan’s old-fashioned typewriter, a neatly stacked pile of pages next to it forming the novel he’d been working on for years and never talked about.

Ethan handed him a coffee wordlessly.

“So,” Luke said after taking a sip, knowing he’d have to be the one to bring it up, “turns out I have a new neighbor. City girl all the way from London.”

“Never good.”

“Nope.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s like the other one.”

Luke didn’t answer, just looked down into the dark surface of his coffee like it might show him something useful.

“Or maybe you want her to be like Claire,” Ethan said.

Luke shot his head up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe it’s a good excuse not to get too close. But you have to remember, the past is the past.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Ethan’s gaze was oddly perceptive for someone who found most human interaction baffling. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re building walls instead of bridges.”

“You charging by the hour for these insights?”

“Wouldn’t waste the breath if I didn’t think it mattered.”

Luke sighed. “True. So, about that wire.”

Ten minutes later, Luke was making his way back, wire under arm, as he chewed on Ethan’s words like grounds stuck in his teeth.

Maybe you want her to be like Claire.

Truth was, Claire had half broken him, leaving cracks that had only half-mended. And Sophie, she felt like the same quiet storm, someone capable of unraveling what little he had stitched together. And maybe that was what unsettled him most, because something was shifting. Feelings he’d long packed away were stirring. Her smile, all sunshine and softness, touched the fragile edges of his guarded heart, drawing open spaces he thought would be sealed forever.

By the time the boathouses came into view, the sun had started its slow surrender. Through the trees, he spotted Sophie balanced on her porch railing, stretching to clear cobwebs from the exterior light. Practical, methodical. Not afraid to get her hands dirty. And that just made it worse. Claire was all style and not much substance, now he looked back with clearer eyes. That wasn’t him being bitter. Just telling the truth.