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Burke wasn’t exaggerating when he said this place was a time capsule.
I peruse the tiny space, soaking up every detail, imagining life as a lighthouse keeper.
A grimy picture in a frame on the wall shows a man and woman standing in front of what I can only assume is this very lighthouse in another time, another place. When Burke said Maurice maintained this place, he must have meant structurally? Mechanically? It’s clear there hasn’t been a broom, mop, or feather duster inside this thing in years.
“Do you know who these people were?” I point at the photo.
“Previous owners.”
I move on to the next filthy picture frame, using the hem of my shirt to wipe off the foggy glass. I’m about to ask him who is in this photo when I recognize the woman as the same Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy blonde from the photos in the main house.
Dorian keeps his gaze trained on the floor, then the window.
Anywhere but on me.
“Burke said you used to come out here and listen to music,” I say. “I can see why. Feels like a world away from everything, almost like time stands still here. You can be alone with your thoughts in a place like this and forget about everything else.”
He says nothing as he positions himself in the doorframe.
I take it as a hint that he’s ready to head to the next level.
Giving the circular living room a final perusal, I meet him by the stairs and follow him to another section of the lighthouse, which appears to be a former kitchen turned catchall room. Cardboard boxes are stacked on top of an old stove, spilling over onto a small kitchen table with two bistro-style chairs. A handful of aprons hangs from a hook on the wall, and a dismantled faucet lies lopsided in a cast-iron sink.
It’s a depressing sight, but I try to picture it the way it probably was in its former glory—maybe filled with laughter, music, and traditional Dutch cooking.
The next room is a bedroom—this one notably less dusty than the rest of the place. A double bed is shoved against the curved wall, leaving a gap of space. Two wingback chairs are positioned beside a window, and next to them is a record player and an impressive collection of vinyl.
“Are these yours?” I point.
Dorian nods.
“Does this thing work?” I lift the lid off the top of the player. It’s immaculate inside. He doesn’t answer my question, so I press the red button, and the needle springs to life. Crouching, I gently flip through his vinyl collection before selecting an album. “The Cars? You’re speaking my language.”
A second later, I’m placing the needle on the record, and a distinct guitar riff followed by Ric Ocasek’s trademark tenor telling us to let the good times roll plays over two crackling speakers that give the song a gritty, vintage quality.
I wanted something fun, something up tempo, to hopefully help Dorian out of his miserable mood.
Grinning, I turn to see if there’s any light in his eyes, only to find him leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking even more annoyed than when I had to take a break on the stairs earlier.
Without a word, I cut the music and place the record carefully back inside its cardboard sleeve.
“You have great taste in music,” I say.
As expected, he continues to give me the silent treatment as we head to the next level, which is some sort of mechanical room. Above that is the actual lantern room, complete with a 360-degree view framed by a row of windows encapsulated in steel, wood, and brick.
From here, the main house looks tiny and the guesthouses tinier still.
“I bet the sunrises are breathtaking,” I say. “You’re lucky you had a place like this to retreat to growing up. I had a basement family room with wood-paneled walls. Smelled faintly like cigars and gin. Not from us but from the people who lived there before us. My mom never had the money to renovate it, but that was where I escaped to when I needed some space.”
His lips press flat as if he’s acknowledging that he heard me but has nothing to add.
“I won’t take up any more of your time.” I head to the top of the spiral staircase. “Thanks for showing me this place. I appreciate it.”
It isn’t until we’re outside that he stops midstride on our way to the ATV and turns to me.
“What else did Burke say about me?” he asks.
“What?”
“When he was telling you about the lighthouse,” he adds. “What else did he say?”
Frowning, I think back to our conversation last night. There wasn’t much Burke said other than the two of them weren’t very close and they weren’t the kind of family who cheered each other on.
It wouldn’t do either of them a favor by sharing that.
