Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ithink about our interaction all week. I spend my days over-pouring coffee for customers and under-steaming milk for lattes.
I can’t get my head in the game. Sarah notices and gives me more grief than usual, basically telling me I need to get my shit together.
I can’t get him or his smirk out of my mind.
Those emerald-green eyes and the way they twinkled.
The hint of ink peeking up around his bicep.
I shake my head to try to bring myself back to the present.
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 even afford to do anything—what a strange feeling that is—I decide to go to the lighthouse again.
Just one more time.
To see if he is still there.
Maybe this is all some big practical joke. Is Punk’d still 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 the boutique 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.
“Oh, so you’re one of those, hmmm.” I dramatically roll my eyes at him. “Just milk—if you have it.”
“Just milk, it is,” he says as he opens the fridge door, pulling out a plastic blue pitcher with a bag of milk in it.
He pours some into my coffee and gives it a light stir.
Then, walking over to me, he places it on the coffee table in front of the couch.
I’m overcome with the scent of salt air and bar soap. Clean, fresh, and comforting.
My hands wrap around the matching red cup and take a sip. The coffee is delicious. Way better than the instant crap I’ve been making at home. It’s smooth and bold, and the milk adds a nice creaminess to it. I don’t miss the creamer that much.
“Thank you,” I say, a smile growing on my face.
I place the mug back down on the table and move for my purse.
“Now, for my gift.” I run my hand through the bag, fingers searching for the spiral-bound notebook I bought, but feel nothing.
“Hmmm,” I mutter as I bring my bag to my lap and open it fully, looking inside.
“It’s not here,” I say, sounding a little bummed.
“Next time, I guess,” he says calmly as he sits down in the matching armchair and takes another sip of his own drink.
“It was going to be so funny too,” I whine, my face making a little pout.
“I’m sure it was.” He gives me a look and offers a slight smirk once more. They make his eyes crinkle the tiniest bit. He brushes a stray piece of hair away and tucks it behind his ear. “I see you’ve got another interesting outfit on again today.”
Smirk. Sip.
I look down at my outfit, confused. “How is this odd?” I’m wearing a pair of black bike shorts with a white tank top and a green utility-style jacket on top to fight the chill of the wind on the coast. I even wore my chunky New Balance sneakers because they seemed more sensible than my wedge sandals last week.
He doesn’t offer a response, just a slight chuckle. “Those look like my dad’s shoes.”
“Your dad must be very stylish, then.”
We drink our coffee in a comfortable silence, our jabs and warring on pause temporarily while we sit. Sunlight pours in through the rectangular window by the desk and bathes the living room in a soft, golden light. It was cloudy when I came in, so it’s nice to see the sun making an appearance.
“Well, not that this hasn’t been fun, but I need to get back to work now.” He stands up and brings his cup into the kitchen, dropping it in the sink and rinsing it out.
“Sure, work,” I say with mocking air quotes. “See you later, Lighthouse Keeper?” I ask, popping up as well and placing my cup on the kitchen counter.
“Sure,” he answers with a small wave of his hand. I ignore the strange urge that washes over me to take it in mine.
I open the red door downstairs with a creak and walk out into a windy and cloudy afternoon.
“Hmf, so much for that warm sun,” I say to myself.
I take a step and almost trip on something in front of me.
Looking down, I spot the notebook I bought, beside the flower I’d picked before coming in.
Must have fallen out on my way in. I pick it up and turn toward the door.
Giving it a hard knock, I place the notebook back on the ground in front of it, then head back down the path to my car.
I can almost picture the look on his face when he sees the Taylor Swift bedazzled notebook.
“Who’s Taylor Swift?” I mutter with mocking distaste as I open up the door and sit down in the driver’s seat.
The clouds above me turn darker, rain a sure thing.
I put my car in drive and head back down the coast to Pleasant Cove, singing “Down Bad” as the car makes its way through the winding roads.