Chapter1
Emily Shaw had spent the last six months being called a thief and a fraud, but the Lockhart Lighthouse didn’t seem to care about her ruined reputation. It rose before her, its white tower catching the first rays of the sunset,and she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to feel the stitching dig into her palms.
After two days of driving, sleeping in rest stop parking lots, and living on gas station coffee, she’d arrived at a lighthouse at the edge of the Gulf, standing watch over water that stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
She’d made it. She’d actually made it to the edge of the world, or at least far enough from Chicago that maybe the whispers couldn’t follow.
The rental listing hadn’t done the lighthouse justice. Against the amber sky, the lighthouse looked eternal. Emily pulled her beat-up Honda into the parking area. Crushed shells and stones crunched beneath her tires. A pelican lifted off from a nearby post, its wings catching the last light as it glided toward the water.
She cut the engine. Sat there. Watched another pelican follow the first, then a third, their silhouettes dark against the fading sky. Counting gave her something to do besides think.
The engine ticked as it cooled. She should get out. Grab her bag. Walk up to the keeper’s quarters and pretend to be the kind of person who belonged in a place like this.
Instead, she pressed her forehead against the steering wheel and counted her breaths.
One step at a time. Just get through tonight.
She grabbed a suitcase that held enough for a night, the bare minimum she’d need, and headed toward the keeper’s quarters. Her sneakers caught on an uneven flagstone, and she threw her hand out, catching herself hard against the porch railing. Her palm stung. She stood there for a moment, steadying herself, then climbed the remaining steps.
The front door opened before she could knock.
A woman stood silhouetted in the doorway, silver hair swept into a neat bun. She looked Emily up and down in a single efficient sweep, taking in the wrinkled clothes, the unwashed hair pulled into a messy ponytail, and the dark circles that hadn’t faded in months.
“You must be Emily Shaw.” The woman’s voice carried a hint of coastal drawl softened by years. “I’m Winifred Lockhart, though everyone calls me Winnie. You look like you could use some coffee.”
Emily opened her mouth to decline. She didn’t want coffee and didn’t want conversation, but Winnie had already turned and walked inside, clearly expecting her to follow.
She followed.
The living room stopped her two steps in. Ship wheels mounted on the walls. Weathered maps framed behind glass. Faded photographs of lighthouses covering every available surface. Brass fixtures. A compass in a wooden case. A whole museum’s worth of maritime history crammed into one room.
The smell hit her next, with the aroma of strong coffee cutting through something older. Wood polish, salt air, decades of weather seeping through the walls. It smelled like a place that had witnessed things and kept them to itself.
Winnie pointed to a kitchen table scarred by decades of use. Knife marks, water rings, and one long gouge that looked like it might have a story. “Sit. You’ve had a long drive.”
Emily sank into the wooden chair. Her legs ached. Her back ached. Everything ached. Winnie placed a mug before her, and she wrapped her hands around it, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
The coffee was strong enough to strip paint, which was exactly what she needed.
Winnie settled across from her, her own mug cupped in weathered hands. She didn’t speak immediately. The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but watchful. Assessing.
“The cottage is ready for you,” Winnie finally said. “Starfish Cottage. It’s the smallest and oldest, but it has the best light.” She paused, and something flickered across her face. “North-facing windows in a small studio space. My father added them years ago for an artist friend who never quite made it down here. Most people use the studio as a sitting room now.”
Emily’s fingers tightened on the mug. The heat bordered on painful, but she didn’t let go.
Studio space. North-facing windows.
She took a long sip of coffee and said nothing.
Winnie watched her over the rim of her own mug. Her sharp eyes didn’t miss much. But Winnie didn’t press. Didn’t ask questions. Just sat there with the patience of someone who had learned that waiting told you more than asking.
“Storage,” Emily said finally. “I could use it for storage.”
Winnie’s expression didn’t change. “Of course. Whatever suits you.”
They finished their coffee in silence. Outside, the sky shifted from amber to rose to deep purple, and the lighthouse began to glow against the darkening horizon.
Winnie rose, moving with the careful precision of someone who’d learned to accommodate age without surrendering to it. “Come on. I’ll show you to your cottage before it gets too dark.”
