Chapter 22
Adam waited three days before calling Lucy.
By the second day, she told herself that his promise not to crowd her was just another dodge—an excuse to avoid hearing her say no.
On the third, when his name flashed across her phone screen in the light of the studio windows, she let it ring long enough to prove she hadn’t been staring at it. Then she answered.
She’d spent the afternoon struggling to sketch a lighthouse.
The editor wanted a lonely feel on the cover of a Maine‐coast mystery, but no hint that a murder lurked inside.
Her prior draft was shot down for “an atmosphere of imminent maritime death,” which, Lucy thought, was exactly the vibe you got from a weather‐beaten tower standing sentinel over storm-pounded rocks.
Still, she set her stylus down and tapped Answer.
“Hello.”
She immediately hated how formal it sounded. With each ring she’d rehearsed a greeting—anything warmer than that.
“Hi.” Adam’s voice came through muffled by grocery-store noise: wheels scraping tile, a distant announcement she couldn’t catch, a child whining. Then he paused, as if waiting to see whether he’d caught her at a bad time.
Lucy closed her sketchbook and cleared her throat. “Where are you?”
He must have let out a short laugh. “Target.”
A bowl lurched against metal as his cart nudged a shelf. “My mother says eating off of paper plates means I’m either clinically depressed or running an illegal boarding house. I’ve been ordered to buy enough dishes for four people.”
Lucy shifted the chair back and leaned until her shoulders touched the studio wall. The afternoon light had dimmed to a late‐day grey, and the windowpane behind her had gone reflective. She could see her own painted-on frown. “Do you know four people?”
“That was my first objection.” He sounded more affronted by the requirement than by the revelation about his kitchen. “She insists that having dishes is how you prepare to have company.”
She fought a smile. “You called me from housewares because you can’t decide on bowls.”
“I called because I wanted to hear your voice.” His cart rattled again, then ground to a halt. He lowered his tone: “The bowls were a diversion—figured they’d make the call seem less personal. Clearly that plan failed.”
Lucy picked the stylus back up and jiggled it between her fingers. “You could have texted. Messages are quieter than supermarkets.”
He sounded sheepish. “I wrote drafts and deleted them. Every one looked like a hostage note—especially the version that started, ‘Hope you’re well.’ Also, I do need your opinion on bowls.”
Three photos of white ceramic bowls pinged onto her screen. They were subtly different: one had a fine blue line around the rim, the next was deeper, and the third—set beside a yellow sale tag—looked plain and flat.
“They’re all white bowls.” Lucy tapped the third to enlarge it. Its rim was just a uniform curve.
Adam cleared his throat. “They’re visibly distinct.”
She flipped to the second shot. The bowl sat wider, its curve shallower at the lip—less likely to tip if you left a spoon in it. She flicked back to the first. The line around the rim was pretty, but trivial. “Get the second ones. The wider rim makes pouring pancake batter or sauce easier.”
He paused, then said, “I have never made pancake batter.”
She laughed. “Good a time as any to learn.”
His voice softened. “I will if you let me make them for you.”
Lucy closed the photos and settled her gaze on the unfinished lighthouse. “Someday. No promises.”
He chuckled, and for a moment the clatter of carts and beeps faded. It was as easy as those calls he used to make at airports, when he wanted her voice as an excuse to fill emptiness. She felt a flicker of warmth, then gave herself a mental shake.
“Your mother scares you more than Karina ever did,” she said before she could stop herself.
Silence on the line grew so deep Lucy thought the grocery-store stairwell had swallowed him. His tone when he finally answered was quiet, almost clipped. “That isn’t true. I know you meant it lightly, but I didn’t like hearing it.”
He’d practiced so much politeness that his first hint of offense still startled her. “We can’t pretend she doesn’t exist.”
He sighed, the supermarket noise flooding back. “I’d rather try.”
Lucy set the stylus down again. The rain had started outside, tiny drops tapping the pane. “Why? You still feel obligated to tiptoe around her, even though she’s not in your life anymore.”
“She used to order my water to stock the work fridge.” His voice cracked on the word. “I saw the same brand at a cafe yesterday. I walked out.”
Lucy closed her eyes, picturing him slipping away from the table. “That’s a lot for a bottle of water.”
He didn’t defend it. “I’d already had a bad day. The bottle pushed me over. It made it worse, so I left.”
She reached for a scrap of paper and doodled circles around the word “water.” “You know she picked every detail—from the nut mix in your travel bag to the dry-cleaner you used—for three years. She knew how to define every inch of your life. She still can, even from a distance.”
A pause, and then she said, “You should go buy those bowls. Someone might snag your cart if you keep hiding.”
Lucy wandered into the tiny kitchen. “Did you buy milk?”
He sounded defensive. “There was milk at home.”
She listened to a moment of silence. “What about the expiration date?”
He cleared his throat. “Good point.” That told her the carton had been in his fridge long enough to sprout lawyers.
Through the window, rain streaked the glass more insistently. The kettle on the stove—bright yellow and recently replaced—sat beside its dented twin, both dry. And then the rainbeat deepened until the windows felt like a flimsy shelter: she smelled wet wood, heard water drumming on canvas outside.
“Adam?”
“Lucy?”
She said quietly, “The searchlight went past us.”
He inhaled as though startled. “What searchlight?”
She closed her eyes and let herself travel back. “The first night on the island. Steven and I heard a hum, then saw a beam slicing across the rocks. We thought someone had come for us.”
Adam stayed silent. She could hear an echo in his breathing, the faint stair-well hum.
“We grabbed the emergency blanket and went down to the cove. I waved it while Steven shouted. The light paused at the mouth of the bay, then drifted off.”
Finally, he spoke, his tone distant and flat. “That must have been disheartening.”
Lucy sank further into the sofa, seeing again the white beam cutting through rain. “I was so scared.”
He drew out a breath. “I’m sorry.”
The words felt too small, but they were all he had. Lucy closed her eyes and let the apology settle between them. Minutes ticked by, marked only by rain against glass.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Tell me what happened after the light moved on.”
Lucy described how the wind shredded the blanket’s seams, how she warmed her hands over damp coals in a rusted basin, how she and Steven rationed their sticks of gum.
She told him how her fingers shook so badly she dropped the lighter twice, how Steven’s ankle throbbed but he kept chopping leaves for the storm shelter’s roof.
Adam interrupted only once and let out a string of curses loud enough that Lucy pictured store employees pausing in their aisles.
She pictured herself on that beach, huddled against rain, and then the image shifted to dawn’s faint glow, the rescue launch slipping around the rocks. “When I saw the boats coming back, I almost didn’t believe it was for us.”
A catch in his voice: “I climbed over the side before they told me to. I nearly went face‐first into the water.”
“You did fall,” she pointed out. “The water was deeper than you thought.”
His laugh danced through her living room. That laugh—loose and real—seemed to blow open the storm-cloud in her chest.
They sank into silence again. Outside, rain slowed to a soft steady patter. Finally, he said, “I should go buy those bowls. I worry someone stole my cart.”
Lucy rose and stretched. “Do that. And toss the milk if it’s gone bad.”
There was a pause. Then, in the background, a cart rolled; a beep announced an item scanned. He said, “I forgot the milk again.”
She laughed, and this time it felt easy. “Good night, Adam.”
“Good night, Lucy.” He remained on the line a heartbeat longer, as though neither wanted to be the first to hang up. At last he ended the call.
Lucy shut off her lamp and moved back to the drawing table. The unfinished lighthouse glowed dimly on the screen. She erased the ragged storm clouds she’d sketched behind it, left the tower alone against the dark sea. Then she closed her eyes, letting the patter of rain fill the room.