“It’s a very you sentence,” I say.
Back at the lighthouse, the porch light burns steadily. We climb the steps, and before we go in, she stops and pulls me by my shirt into a kiss that feels like punctuation. Not a period—an em dash. A continuation.
“Lock the door,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Deadbolted,” I promise.
We let the night have the town. We keep the lighthouse for ourselves. And somewhere between the second laugh and the third kiss, winding down stops sounding like an ending and starts sounding like the right kind of beginning.
Chapter Twenty-five – Bailey
I wake to the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs, to the sound of seagulls and a hammer tapping rhythmically somewhere along the boardwalk. The town feels alive again, lighter, as if Coral Bell Cove had collectively exhaled. Every porch flag is flying, every window chalked with hearts and book quotes. Even the air seems grateful.
Crew’s side of the bed is empty except for the imprint of his body and the cat curled on his pillow like a smug crown. I stretch, my muscles humming in that way that isn’t sore so much as satisfied, and smile into the sheet. The last few days have been chaos, and somehow we survived them with more than we started with.
Downstairs, Crew is barefoot, hair damp from a shower, standing at the stove in a T-shirt that saysREAD LIKE A CHAMPION TODAY. He’s flipping pancakes with unnecessary flourish, singing off-key to whatever old country song is bleeding from the radio. There’s batter on his cheek and a grin that could power the entire lighthouse.
“Morning, boss,” he says when he sees me.
“You’re in my kitchen,” I remind him, tying my robe tighter.
He slides a plate toward me. “Breakfast diplomacy.”
The pancakes are uneven and perfect. He leans a hip against the counter and watches me eat, eyes soft. “You realize yesterday we broke the internet.”
“I realize the internet is easily broken,” I say. “We just gave it something wholesome to panic about.”
He laughs, pours more coffee, and the sound wraps around me like sunlight through the windows.
When the courier knocks an hour later, the moment shifts. The envelope he hands me is thick, official, stamped with the emblem of the Virginia Coastal Heritage Foundation. My name is typed neatly beneathA Page in Time Preservation Grant Application.
My fingers tremble. “It’s early.”
Crew wipes his hands on a towel and joins me. “Open it.”
I do. The words blur at first, then sharpen.Congratulations.Approved. Full award amount. Restoration of the lantern room authorized under the Virginia Historic Revival Initiative.
I blink, laugh, maybe cry. Crew picks me up off the floor like I weigh less than relief and spins me until the cat yowls from the counter.
“You did it,” he says into my hair.
“We did,” I correct. But then I see the fine print—matching funds required within thirty days.
My stomach dips. “There’s a catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” he says, setting me down gently. “How much?”
I tell him. He whistles low. It’s not impossible, but it’s large enough to sting.
He squeezes my shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
By noon, half the town knows. Coral Bell’s grapevine moves faster than Wi-Fi. Mrs. Winthrop brings champagne and scones “for tax purposes.” Ivy printsRESTORE THE LIGHTposters in pastel blues. Lila starts a spreadsheet titledMATCHING MIRACLE FUND.Crew builds a donation box out of reclaimed wood and hand-paintsHOPE BUYS HINGESacross the top.
We set it by the register. Within an hour, it’s half full of bills, coins, and one IOU written in crayon from a kid named Henry who promises “to sell seashells if necessary.”
The shop hums all day. I’m signing receipts when Crew ducks behind the counter and whispers, “Close your eyes.”
“I’m working.”
