Chapter 5
The morning air hung heavy and damp over Starlight Shores.
A thick Gulf Coast humidity settled right into a man’s bones before the sun even cleared the horizon.
Clint wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. He tightened the final screw on the porch railing at Compass Rose Cottage.
He gave the wooden rail a firm push. Solid. It did not budge an inch.
He pulled a pen from his pocket and ticked a box on his maintenance clipboard. That was three items down. Three small problems solved before seven in the morning.
He liked the routine. He fixed what was broken, and the world kept turning. He did not have to make life-or-death decisions here. He just had to keep the gutters clear and the paths safe.
He shook his head and picked up his toolbox. He had work to do.
He walked along the stone pathways connecting the cottages. The lush native plantings in the courtyard garden were damp with morning dew. The memorial bench dedicated to his family members sat empty in the early light.
“Morning, Clint.”
He stopped and turned. Emily was stepping out of Starfish Cottage. She held a steaming mug of coffee and wore an oversized paint-splattered shirt.
“Morning.” He shifted his grip on the toolbox. “The new lock on your studio window holding up okay?”
“It works perfectly. Thank you for fixing it so quickly. I know it wasn’t an emergency.”
“It was on the list. I fix what’s on the list.”
She took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes studied him for a second too long. “You do a lot more than just check off a list. You take good care of us here.”
“Just doing my job,” he muttered.
“Well, we appreciate it.” She turned to look toward the towering white structure of the Lockhart Lighthouse. “I sleep better here than I have in years. Just so you know.”
He gave her a short nod and kept walking.
He made his way to the keeper’s quarters. The familiar wraparound porch creaked slightly under his boots. He would need to replace that board soon. He opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen.
The room smelled of cinnamon and rich coffee. Vintage photographs of his ancestors covered the walls. Winnie sat at the large wooden table. His aunt looked up from a leather-bound logbook and smiled.
“You’re up early again,” Winnie said.
“Always am.” He set his toolbox by the door and walked to the counter. He poured himself a mug of black coffee from the pot. “Got the railing at Compass Rose done. And the loose shingle on Heron Cottage.”
“You work too hard, Clint.”
He took a slow sip of the coffee. “Someone has to keep this place from falling apart.”
Winnie closed her logbook. Deep laugh lines framed her expressive green eyes. But she was not laughing now. She was watching him with that perceptive gaze she saved for special occasions.
“The property is fine. The buildings are standing strong. I’m more concerned about the people in them.”
“Emily said the window lock is working. She seems happy with Grant. Cassidy and Bryan are doing fine.”
“I’m not talking about Emily or Cassidy.” Winnie tilted her head. “I’m talking about Melissa. She stays on the fringes. Most Fridays at the gathering, she takes a few photographs of the architecture, and then she retreats to Captain’s Watch. She is hiding, Clint.”
“A lot of people hide.”
“Yes.” Winnie let the silence stretch out. “They certainly do.”
He knew exactly what his aunt was doing. She was drawing a line straight from Melissa’s cottage to his.
“I can’t force her to socialize. What she does with her time is her business.”
“She’s a brilliant photographer. She used to capture the most beautiful, raw human moments. Now she only photographs brick and empty spaces.”
“Maybe she likes buildings better than people.”
“No.” Winnie shook her head slowly. “No one can capture so much emotion in a photo and not like people, understand them.”
Clint gripped his mug tighter. “I have to go check the generator.” He set his mug down on the counter with a loud clack. “Supposed to rain later this week.”
“Clint.”
He pushed the screen door open. “I’ll check on you later, Aunt Winnie.”
He walked back to Driftwood Cottage. His cottage was the largest on the property and the closest to the lighthouse. It was filled with memorabilia and old family photographs, but it always felt empty when he walked inside.
He sat down at his small wooden desk and opened his laptop. The message from Sean sat right at the top of his inbox. He’d read it four times last night. He clicked it and read it again.
Hey man. Just wanted to share some good news. Laura and I got engaged this weekend. Also, I got that promotion at the logistics firm. Life is crazy right now, but good crazy. Hope you’re doing well down in Florida. Let’s catch up soon.
He was happy for his friend. Sean was a good man and he deserved a good life. He’d moved on from the Coast Guard. He’d moved on from that one terrible night.
And Clint was still here.
He closed the laptop and stood up. He grabbed his tool belt and headed for the lighthouse. He needed to clear the upper gutters on the keeper’s quarters roof where it connected to the main tower.
He set up his tall aluminum ladder and climbed. The metal rungs were warm under his hands. The physical exertion felt good. It kept his mind quiet.
When he reached the roofline, the view of the coastline opened up around him. The sparkling water of the Gulf stretched toward the horizon.
He looked down toward the beach.
Melissa was there. She sat near the edge of the water with her camera resting in her lap. The morning light was perfect with long dramatic shadows on the water. But she was not shooting. She just sat there, motionless, staring out at nothing.
Frustration flared inside him. He shouldn’t care. She was just a tenant. But watching her sit frozen with that camera in her lap…
He pulled a handful of wet leaves from the gutter and tossed them into his bucket. He worked aggressively, scraping the metal clean.
An hour later, the sun was beating down hard. He climbed down the ladder and put his tools away. He needed to check the foundation near the base of the lighthouse tower. The old brickwork near the drainage pipe had looked suspicious after the last hard rain.
He walked around the curving white wall of the tower. He stopped when he saw her.
Melissa was kneeling in the dirt near the base of the lighthouse. She had her camera raised to her eye. She was pointing the lens at the old brick drainage pipe.
A literal drainage pipe.
He stepped forward, and the gravel crunched under his boots.
She lowered her camera quickly and turned to face him. Her dark eyes were guarded. She held the camera tightly against her chest like a shield.
“Sorry,” she said. “Am I in your way?”
“No.” He stared down at her. “Just checking the foundation.”
She stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees. She did not look at him directly. She looked at the white wall of the lighthouse. “I was just getting some shots of the masonry. The way the light hits the texture is interesting.”
“The masonry.”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. He did not know why he was pushing this. He should just walk away and let her take her pictures of bricks. But the anger from the roof was still burning.
“Looking for something specific?” His tone was sharp.
She took a half step back. “I’m just documenting the architecture.”
“You have been documenting for months.”
A flash of defensive anger crossed her face. “Architectural photography requires taking a lot of pictures.”
“Of drainage pipes.”
“Of structural details,” she corrected sharply. “It is my job, Clint.”
He let out a short, harsh laugh. “No, it isn’t.”
Her eyes widened. The anger in her expression faltered.
He felt a sharp twinge of regret. He was being a jerk. He was taking all his own guilt and dumping it on her. He should stop talking.
But he couldn’t make himself stop. “I saw you on the beach this morning. You sat there for an hour with the camera in your lap. The light was perfect. You never took a single shot.”
She gripped the camera tightly. “I was waiting for the right moment.”
“You’re not waiting for anything.” He stepped closer. “You take pictures of empty gazebos and old bricks because they can’t look back at you. They can’t blame you for anything.”
She stared at him.
“What are you actually doing here, Melissa?”
She slowly lowered the camera, and her expression closed up completely. A wall dropped between them.
“I’m just taking pictures, Clint,” she said. Her voice was perfectly flat.
She turned and walked away. She hurried along the stone path toward Captain’s Watch cottage and did not look back.
He stood alone by the lighthouse foundation. The sound of the waves filled the silence.
He’d seen the look in her eyes. Hurt. It was cruel and unnecessary.
But he was right.
He was right, wasn’t he?
He kicked at the dirt near the drainage pipe. He was no better than her. Terrified of making real decisions, so he picked fights about photography instead.
He reached down and touched the rough texture of the old brick. It was solid and permanent. It did exactly what it was supposed to do.
He stood up and walked back toward his cottage. The weekly sunset gathering was tonight. He knew Melissa wouldn’t come. Not after this. He’d chased her back into her safe little box.
He should apologize. He should find a way to fix this. But human beings were not like broken porch steps or loose shingles.
He leaned against the kitchen counter and took a long drink of water.
His thoughts drifted back to Sean and then to the family on that sinking boat three years ago.
The terror in the mother’s eyes when Clint pulled her over the rail.
She had trusted him to save her. Four people alive because he pushed his crew to launch the rescue in a brutal storm.
The official report said he made the right decision.
He still couldn’t believe it.
He set the water bottle down. He would apologize tomorrow, then he would keep his distance. He would go back to fixing the physical things on the property and let the emotional things stay broken.
Tomorrow, he would fix the roof on Heron Cottage. He would clear the brush near the gazebo and check the oil in the generator. He’d just do his job.