15. Sophie
SOPHIE
I swear there’s an extra charge in the air when we pile out of the cars—like the tropics before a hurricane, except nobody’s running for cover.
We’re all still cracked open from the stadium win, adrenaline fizzing just under the skin.
The kids might be trailing, but the grown-ups have already started celebrating.
June leads the way, her hair tangled—artistic, not accidental—and her eyes brighter than they’ve been in months.
She laughs at something I can’t hear as she bounds up the wooden steps to the Tom Nevers Lighthouse deck, dragging Ashton with her.
Meredith is right behind her. Eddie’s already scoping out the perimeter like he’s walking into a scene from a horror movie. And I’m just along for the ride.
Ashton gets right to work. He produces a bottle of champagne like it’s a magic trick.
He practically rips the foil off. There’s a weird hush—almost reverent—just before the cork goes flying.
June ducks for cover. Meredith raises a brow.
And Eddie grins, feet planted wide, like he’s bracing for impact.
The cork arcs overhead and disappears into the coastal darkness.
I cheer. Even Meredith cracks a smile. Ashton flashes the kind of grin that’s meant to dazzle a roomful of trustees and lines up the glasses on the deck railing—real crystal, obviously, because God forbid we use plastic.
Everyone grabs a stem, and Ashton proposes a toast.
“To hard-won victory and new beginnings.”
We cluster, glasses up.
“To the Holloways,” Ashton adds. “May the only thing we ever argue over again be the wine selection.”
Meredith laughs. “That would require trust. And memory loss.”
Eddie covers his grin with the rim of the glass. “You’ll wear her down, Ashton.”
He smirks, but it’s awkward and almost painful to watch. Ashton leaps at the chance to fill any possible silence. It’s almost painful—the need to be approved, to be forgiven. Typical rich guy who can buy anything but a clean slate. Then I feel a twinge of guilt for judging him without knowing him.
Meredith gives him nothing and lets her next volley fly. “I suppose we should be grateful. Not many men would risk so much familial collateral damage for a relationship. Or is this just another high-stakes investment?”
June jumps in, eyes flashing. “Maybe we could save the cross-examination for after round two?” She forces a smile, her fingers wrapped tightly around the glass.
“Besides, if you want the grand tour, we’ll have to hustle before the kids get here—the inside is half the magic, but they’d be bored out of their minds. ”
She’s already herding us toward the big blue door. Ashton looks relieved. Meredith lets it go—for now.
The air changes instantly inside. The walls are raw, painted white at some point, texture rough under my palm. Every square foot shrinks the world tighter. And the spiral staircase is a corkscrew of black iron, barely wide enough for one, let alone a procession.
June’s in her element. “It’s all original, or as close as I could get,” she says, pride warming her words. “The beams had to be treated, but I wouldn’t let them paint over the grain.”
I have no idea when she did all the restoration or how any of this came about. But I’m just glad June got her lighthouse.
My boots slip once on the painted metal, and I jam a hand into the wall. “These steps are a death trap.”
Eddie’s right behind me, steadying my elbow. “That’s the charm, Soph. You either end up at the top, or you get immortalized as a haunted footnote.”
I bark a laugh, but he’s not wrong. Every inch feels dangerous and alive.
Meredith runs a knuckle along the frame of the first window we encounter. “Dad would’ve loved this.”
We stand there, crushed together, not just for lack of space. I can almost see the old man in my mind’s eye, arguing over the best spot to stash a whiskey bottle.
The next flight is even tighter.
June’s voice floats from above, beckoning us like a siren: “Almost there! The keeper’s quarters have the best light.”
We follow, surrendering to the noise and the ache and the closeness.
When we spill out onto the next level, it’s like surfacing after a long dive.
The room here is wide open, with exposed brick on every wall and sunburst windows in every direction.
The floor is old heart pine, worn down to the silver, and a scattering of rugs softens the chill.
It’s homey and new, but the history shows everywhere.
The windows here aren’t just portals. They’re promises. The world outside is all storm clouds and salt, and for a moment, nobody says anything, lost in the view.
Meredith moves toward the glass, her hand tracing the edge of a frame. “You know, I hated this place as a kid. Dad always dragged us out here when we could’ve been, I don’t know, doing anything else. I never got it.”
June nods, her face open and honest. “I always understood it. I could sit up here for hours and just…watch. Let the ocean argue with itself.”
Meredith turns slowly, and I brace for whatever she’s about to say. “You really did it. You turned a heap of bones into something worth keeping.”
June just beams. “Wait until you see the top.”
There’s another staircase—narrower, steeper, practically daring us to try. Every window is a different slice of horizon—east, the raw Atlantic; west, the sweep of island lights; north and south, nothing but blue and wild. Up here, the wind rams the glass like it’s dying to be part of the party.
We crowd into the lantern room, all hips and knees and tangled coats. Nobody cares. The view is worth it. The room is round, the glass segmented. The floor is poured cement, but the walls are ringed by benches and, of course, a telescope.
June’s voice softens as she gestures toward the windows. “I always wanted to paint from here. Sunrise. Storms. You can see the whole world without leaving the island.”
Meredith’s tone is softer, too. “It’s beautiful.”
Ashton rests his hand on the small of June’s back, but she doesn’t cling. Instead, she angles forward, pressing both palms to the chilly glass.
I let my eyes drift over the dark water, past the spit of sand and the angry white line of surf. The inside of my chest finally slows. Maybe this is what “home” is supposed to feel like. Not perfect, not even close. But right.
We stand, shoulder to shoulder, letting the silence do the work. The wind scrapes at the window, and if I listen carefully, I can almost hear Dad’s laugh, rumbling up from the stone foundations.
June lets out a sigh, arms crossed, face turned toward the reflection of all of us in the window panes. “I kept thinking the closer I got to this, the more I’d want to run. But it actually feels better than I thought.”
Ashton’s voice is distant, almost forgotten. “I told you it would.”
June half-smiles but doesn’t glance over. “You can’t always fix things by buying them, Ash.”
He swallows—audible even from halfway across the room. “Maybe not, but I hope it helps.”
The tension drifts off, replaced with something softer. It’s then that I know he bought it for her, not in spite of her. And somehow, that makes letting him in feel a little easier.
June manages to guide us back down from the lantern room. At the landing, she throws open a door I hadn’t even noticed, leading us straight into the lighthouse’s heart.
The shift in vibe is instant. If the upper tower was all raw history, this room is pure June—equal parts gallery, old sea legend, and whatever honest comfort Nantucket can still offer.
Couches are pillowy, mismatched but intentional, swaddled in indigo throws and striped linen.
The coffee table is a slab of reclaimed wharf timber, and it’s covered in the kind of treasures only June appreciates.
The walls are a punch of bright, messy life.
June’s paintings hang alongside old black-and-white family photos.
A clock, barnacle-streaked and beautiful, dominates the space between two windows.
One corner is pure nostalgia—a battered trunk, probably Dad’s, heaped with faded blankets and a chessboard missing half its pieces.
We all claim various seats around the room. For a minute, nobody talks. It’s not awkward, just…charged. The kind of silence that might mean we’re finally ready to talk like grown-ups.
June breaks first, swinging her glass in a lazy arc. “So, welcome to the next chapter of my questionable decision-making. I know it’s not the beach house, but it’s the closest I’ll ever get to loving where I live.” She smiles at Ashton; it’s tiny but real. Her shoulder bumps his, almost a dare.
He meets it, straight-faced. “You’ve made it incredible. I couldn’t have done a tenth of what you did with it.”
“If you had, it’d be all brass fixtures and weird modern leather,” Meredith snipes, but there’s no real acid behind it. “June’s the only person I know who can make rope and blue glass look like design.”
June barks a laugh. “Spoken like a woman who once lived in a condo where everything matched the coffeemaker.”
Meredith rolls her eyes, but she’s clearly pleased.
Eddie grins, meeting Meredith’s gaze. “Your next design challenge is salvaging the space above Birdie’s.”
This sends everyone into a spiral of good-natured jabs and usual banter, with the Holloways poking at each other until the tension retreats.
Eventually, the chatter circles back. Meredith, glass balanced on her knee, gets serious. “So, are we supposed to be shocked you two didn’t just run away to Paris and start over? Or is this your way of telling us you’re back for good?”
June sits taller, drawing a line both real and metaphorical between herself and Ashton.
“We’re not making any declarations.” The rings on their fingers say differently.
“Not this time. I promised myself if I did this again, it’d be on my terms—no running, no hiding, and definitely no let’s-move-in-together-three-days-after-court. I want to do it right.”