Chapter 2
two
Jack woke to rain hammering stone and his brain scrambling to answer the question: Where the hell am I?
Then it came back. The capsized boat. The rocks. The red-headed woman with a pitching arm like a minor league prospect who'd hauled him out of the Atlantic like an oversized trout.
Right. Clara. Lighthouse. Near-death experience. Not your typical Tuesday but definitely one worth remembering.
He sat up carefully, doing a mental inventory. Shoulder throbbed where he'd slammed into—rock? Boat debris? The wrath of Poseidon himself? Ribs ached when he breathed too deep. But nothing broken, which meant he'd gotten lucky.
Lucky being a relative term when you'd almost drowned because you thought buying a boat without knowing how to sail it was a solid life choice.
Good one, Jack. Not your finest moment, for sure. But living for the adventure was sort of his thing so it tracks that he almost died doing something stupid.
The room wasn't his. The bed wasn't his — too soft, mattress dipping in the center the way they did when only one person slept in them for years. Through the narrow window, gray sky met grayer water, summer rain blurring the line between them.
He'd woken up in enough unfamiliar rooms to have a system: locate exits, check phone, assess damage, move on. But this one didn't feel like a place to move on from. It felt quieter than that. Like the lighthouse was holding its breath.
He kinda liked it, honestly. Felt calming, in a weird way.
His clothes hung over a chair, freshly washed. Which meant Clara had done his laundry while he slept. That was... thoughtful. Also slightly weird. But mostly thoughtful.
And speaking of weird—had her father been a bear? Because the sweatpants he'd borrowed last night could've fit two of him.
Jack dressed quickly, his carpenter's brain automatically clocking details. Small bedroom, spartan furnishings, everything arranged with a neatness that felt less like tidiness and more like armor.
Stack of books on the nightstand, spines perfectly aligned. Single framed photograph on the dresser—Clara with an older woman, both squinting into sun. Same red hair, though faded with age. Grandmother, maybe.
The room felt like Clara. Careful. Controlled. No clutter because clutter meant chaos and chaos meant—
He shut down that thought before it could finish. Not his business. Not his problem. He was just passing through.
Like always.
The spiral staircase descended into the main living space, and Jack took it slowly, hand trailing the curved stone wall. Solid craftsmanship. Probably a hundred years old, maybe more. Whoever built this lighthouse knew what they were doing—the kind of work that lasted, meant to outlive its maker.
He used to build things like that. Before he'd started building things he could leave behind.
At the bottom of the stairs, the circular room opened up.
He loved an open floor plan with everything in view.
Clara stood at the stove, red hair twisted into a knot, wearing faded jeans and an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder.
She moved the way she organized her space — efficient, deliberate, no wasted motion.
Everything in reach. Everything where it needed to be.
Jack's brain, which should have been focused on the fact that he'd almost died yesterday, decided instead to focus on the curve of that exposed shoulder.
And then the hips doing their best to hide under all that fabric.
And then it occurred to him that maybe he should stop cataloging his rescuer's body like he was assessing a floor plan.
Also—why was she single? Living alone in a lighthouse like some beautiful, sarcastic hermit? That seemed like a story.
Not that he was going to ask.
“Please don’t just stand there gawking, it’s weird and it makes me uncomfortable.”
Jack blinked. "You've got eyes in the back of your head?"
"Ears." Clara glanced over her shoulder. "Old lighthouse. Creaky floors. You're not exactly stealthy." Her gaze flicked to his shoulder. "How's the damage?"
"Sore. I'll live."
"Good. Saves me from having to bury you."
"You have a yard?"
"Figure of speech." She poured coffee, turned, held out a mug. "Milk's in the fridge. Sugar cubes on the counter. I don't use either, but I'm not a monster."
Their fingers brushed when he took the mug. Brief contact, but he felt it like a static shock. Clara pulled back fast, wrapping both hands around her own coffee like she needed the barrier.
Interesting. Clara Hawkins was like a joint he couldn't quite read — something tight and precise on the surface, but with tension underneath that he could feel without being able to name. He wanted to press on it, find where it gave. Which was exactly the kind of impulse he should be ignoring.
"Storm's not letting up," she said, nodding toward the windows. "Might be another day before we can get to town."
Jack sipped his coffee, accepting his fate. It was just a day or two. Gotta love the unexpected twists of fate, right?
Seven years. That's how long he'd been doing this — new town, new job, new temporary bed. Long enough that the rhythm of leaving had become more familiar than any place he'd left. The boat had been the latest version of the same impulse: keep moving, keep it light, don't let the roots set.
In hindsight, stupid as shit.
"You okay sharing your space a few more days?" he asked.
"Not ideal, but we're adults. Anything's possible when you know there's an end date."
Ouch. True, but ouch.
"Very Zen," he said.
She shrugged. "It's just true." A pause. "You have someone you can call? You mentioned a sister..."
Josie would absolutely come get him. And he would absolutely not call her. She had kids, a mortgage, a life. He wasn't about to disrupt it because he'd made another dumbass decision.
Plus, he didn't need to see that look on her face. The one that said What the hell is wrong with you, Jack? Get some therapy and figure your shit out.
He'd seen that look plenty.
"I'm a believer that everything happens for a reason," he said instead. "The sea could've taken me, but didn't. So I must be here for something. Maybe there’s something about Beacon’s End that the Universe wanted me to experience.”
Clara laughed—sharp and disbelieving. "Beacon's End is hardly a destination. But far be it from me to question someone's belief structure. I was raised on superstition, so..." She tilted her head. "So no family? Friends?"
“Oh no, I have both. I just don't want to bother them with a situation I put myself in." He gestured around the lighthouse. "Besides, there's something charming about this place. And I'm intrigued by the mysterious Beacon's End. Feels like an adventure."
"Adventure is overrated. Give me a nice, boring routine and I'm happy."
"Forgive me for pointing this out, but there's nothing routine about living in an off-grid lighthouse. That decision feels deliberately daring."
"I have solar. A generator. A cell phone. You make it sound like I'm lighting my way with candles and an old lantern."
"I've been a lot of places," Jack said. "This feels like stepping back in time. I mean—it's a lighthouse. Don’t get me wrong, I dig it, but it’s definitely not your average homestead, you know?”
She smiled. "Hate to burst your bubble, but the Coast Guard keeps ships clear of this shore. The lighthouse is just a historical relic with a beautiful view that happens to be owned by my family. I keep the light going for nostalgia, not because I'm saving ships."
"Still pretty cool to have in the family."
"No argument there."
"So you live here rent-free, writing your webcomic. Talk about a charmed life."
"Can't complain."
Jack's gaze drifted to her drafting table. He was dying to get a peek at the work-in-progress of Tidal Lock. His sister would lose her mind if she knew he was talking to C.H. Winters. But he got the very real sensation that Clara wasn’t keen to share so he kept from wandering too close to her drafting table.
“You know I have to ask…how’d you get started with the webcomic? Have you always been an artist?”
“Um, I guess so. Mostly a doodler but somewhere along the way, I fell into drawing comics and it just resonated.
I sold my first comic three years ago." She turned, leaning against the table, arms crossed. Defensive posture. Protecting the thing that mattered. “But the comic business is brutal. Even more so in today’s market.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
She shrugged. "I do my thing, keep my needs small, hope for the best."
"For a pragmatic person, you've got a lot of Zen statements ready."
"What makes you think I'm pragmatic?"
"Just a hunch. I'm good at reading people."
Clara studied him, green eyes sharp. "What do you do for a living? You're clearly not a boat captain."
"Carpenter. I travel around, pick up jobs, live life to the fullest wherever I go."
"That sounds unstable."
"It can be."
She blinked, surprised. "Most people would say 'it's an adventure' or 'I love the freedom.' You just admit it's unstable?"
"Why lie?"
"How long have you been doing the traveling thing?"
"Seven years, give or take."
"That's a long time to not have a home."
The question landed harder than she probably meant it to. Like a thumb finding a bruise — not hard, just accurate enough to ache.
He smiled past the discomfort. “I like the freedom of going wherever I choose, whenever I want.”
“So, you have Peter Pan syndrome.”
“What’s that?”
“Basically an adult who’s allergic to adulting.”
He chuckled, appreciating the fact that she’d just landed a zinger without a hint of apology.
Most people danced around the need to be polite but not Clara.
“Life's too short to be tied down,” he said. “Fresh starts, endless possibilities—that kind of freedom keeps me moving. Plus, I get to meet cool people, like a secret web comic writer who lives in an old lighthouse. That doesn’t happen everyday, you know.”
"That sounds like a nightmare." Clara actually shuddered. "Never having routine? Never knowing what each day looks like? Kill me now."
A tickle of amusement forced a deeper laugh. Couldn't help it. They were so completely different it was almost orchestrated by a higher power to mess with each other. And the way her brow crinkled at the supposed horrors of his lifestyle? Adorable. Although, he probably shouldn't find it adorable.
But staying in one spot for the rest of his life — even a lighthouse with a certain cool factor? That was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And it always dropped.
They stood in silence, rain steady against the windows. “Awkward silence is fun.” he joked.
“Said no one ever,” she quipped dryly. “So, are you sure you don’t want to call someone?”
“Tired of me already?”
“Don’t take it personal but you’re mucking up my routine.”
He chuckled. "So—let me guess…only child?”
"I am." She smiled, wry and amused. “What gave it away?”
"Not an expert, but when you haven't spent your formative years bickering over how to fold towels, you tend to believe your way is best.”
"Hmm. How many siblings do you have?"
“Uh, two. Older sister, Josie. Older brother, Joel."
"You're the youngest. Fits."
"Just like you being an only fits."
Clara straightened, something shifting in her expression. Business mode. "Well. Since you're stuck here, let's talk about making yourself useful. Breakfast?"
"You don't have to feed me."
"I'm not feeding you. I'm feeding myself. You just happen to be here."
"Generous of you."
"I have my moments."
Jack followed her to the kitchen, watching as she pulled eggs and bread from the fridge. His hands itched to be doing something — standing still while someone else worked went against every instinct he had. “You look pretty comfortable in the kitchen. You cook often?” he asked.
"Only when I want to eat."
Damn. That wit could draw blood.
Something in his chest tightened. Not pain — worse. Interest. The kind that settled into your hands and made them want to reach for things they shouldn’t.
"So tell me how I can be useful while I'm here," he said, steering himself back to safer ground. "I love a project. What do you got?"
"You said you're a good carpenter, but I've only got your word. Forgive me if I need proof before I let you start hammering away at this old girl."
"Fair enough." Jack's gaze swept the room, his carpenter's eye catching what most people wouldn't. "That window—northwest facing? Frame's swollen from humidity. Not sitting flush. Bet it sticks when you try to open it."
Clara glanced back, eyebrows raised, confirming. "It does."
"Wood expands and contracts with moisture.
Right on the water like this, you're fighting a constant battle.
I could plane down the edge, reseal it. Hour or two, tops.
" He paused. "Also, going down those stairs?
There's a section of handrail about three-quarters up that's got some give.
Feels loose. Bracket probably needs tightening or replacing.
In a spiral staircase, that's a safety issue. "
Clara's expression shifted from skeptical to considering. “Okay, so far so good. What else?”
It’d been awhile since someone put him through his paces but he was down for it. Felt like a challenge. He set his mug on the table. It wobbled. His hand shot out instinctively to steady it. "And this table's got an issue."
"The leg's been wobbly for months. I've tried shimming it with cardboard, but it never works."
Jack crouched, examining the joint. Tested it gently. "Mortise and tenon joint's come loose. See?" He pointed to the gap. "Needs to be re-glued and clamped properly. Shims are band-aids. You need a real fix, or else it’s just going to keep happening.”
“You seem like you know a thing or two,” she admitted, eyeing him with more respect. “So, what do you need to fix the table?”
“Not too much. Wood glue, clamps, maybe a drill if the hole's too worn—might need to dowel it. You have tools?"
"Toolbox in the storage shed. Belonged to my grandfather. Don't know what's in it."
"Let me look after breakfast. If I fix your table, is that enough proof I know what I'm doing?"
Clara studied him, green eyes assessing. Finally, she nodded. "The table's been driving me crazy. Fix it so it doesn't wobble, I'll believe you. Then maybe you can tackle that window before we both lose our minds listening to it rattle."
"Deal." Jack straightened, smiled. "See? The universe put me here for a reason. Your table needs me."
"My table needs someone who knows what they're doing. Jury's still out on whether that's you."
"Guess we'll find out."
The thing was — tables he could fix. Windows, handrails, loose joints. Give him a problem with edges he could measure and he'd solve it before lunch.
It was the stuff without edges that got him. But that wasn't today's problem.
Today's problem wobbled, and he knew exactly how to fix it.