And knowing her mom never stood up for her… My grip tightens on the steering wheel. For the first time, the parallels between John’s family and that of my own come into focus. Judy may not have left physically, but it sounds as though she checked out a long time ago.
My heart aches as I gaze at Iris. She’s gone through her entire life with no one on her side, no one being there for her when she needs them. The more I learn about her, the more I want to be the one to shield her from the world. I know I shouldn’t. Not when there are a thousand reasons not to.
But I’m not sure how much longer I can convince myself they matter.
21
AIDAN
We drive the rest of the way in silence until I turn off the main highway into Wetherly Cove. Nestled between the dunes and the woods, it’s a historic town with a population of 4,000. As we head down Main Street, Iris presses her face to the glass. Most of the shops are housed in clapboard buildings with weathered shingles and old hand-painted signs, adorned with cheesy nautical-themed names like The Salt Box Café, Tide’s End Bookstore, and Sea Glass Blooms. This seems to delight Iris, who turns to me with a grin.
“How cute is this town?”
I chuckle, following the main stretch along the beach, heading for the lighthouse. We pass the marina, where sailboats sit shrink-wrapped for the winter, a large boat shed on the shore with lights glowing in its windows, orange against the gray-green Atlantic, and Wetherly Cove Preparatory School, three stories of ivy-clad stone looming over the sea. Despite the freezing temperature, Iris lowers the window, sucking in a lungful of briny sea air, her eyes closed in bliss. The softest smile curls along her lips, and I’m so mesmerized by it, I have to be careful not to swerve into the dunes.
The road winds up the hill, climbing to the lighthouse, and at last we pull into the gravel parking lot. I shut off the engine, leaning forward to get a better look at the structure through the windshield. Built in the mid-nineteenth century, it stands a little over forty feet tall, wide at the base and tapering toward the lantern room, constructed of weather-beaten brick on a stone foundation. The thing looks even more dilapidated than I thought, beaten back by the relentless wind and salt air. I frown at the broken windows, peeling white paint, and pale streaks of salt running down its side like old scars. And as I think about our conversation in the car, irritation flares inside me again. What am I really going to prove with this project?
Iris tugs her beanie back on, then steps from the car with a grin. I follow, wind tugging at me as I pull on my coat, bracing against the cold. The sky is an oppressive dull gray, air thick with the threat of snow, and I’m not sure it will hold.
We cross the small parking lot, boots crunching on the gravel as we approach the lighthouse, where a man in his mid-sixties, with white whiskers along his jaw and cheeks ruddy from the wind, waits at the base. This isn’t Thomas Waterman, the guy I met last week. He must be coming to the later meeting. I had hoped we could get this over and done with in one go, but apparently not. Even if the next meeting is little more than box-ticking bureaucracy, John will expect me to be there.
I shake the man’s hand, introducing myself and Iris.
“Bill Templeton,” he tells us gruffly. “Local historical society chair.” He runs his eyes across us both, no doubt deciding we’re a pair of city-slickers who have no business out here at a decommissioned lighthouse at what feels like the end of the earth, and I’d have to agree. He pulls a jumble of keys from his pocket, fitting one to the lock, and the old iron door creaks open.
We follow Bill inside, darkness descending as he closes the door against the elements. The only light comes from the smallporthole window in the door, rendering the damp space mostly in shadow, the sharp tang of rust and oil mingling with the smell of salt and stone. The building groans above us in the wind, and I glance at Iris as my eyes adjust to the dim light, resisting the urge to reach for her hand, to reassure her I’m here, but she doesn’t need me. She’s too busy taking in the scene with rapt interest.
“Great storage down here,” she murmurs, and I stifle a snort as I step over kerosene cans, old coils of rope, and other indistinguishable shapes littering the floor.
“This way,” Bill grumbles, footsteps ringing out as we ascend the iron spiral staircase. I hover behind Iris, ready to catch her in case anything gives way. The place has been exposed to salt and storms for over a century, and it’s possible the rock itself has shifted over time. It’s not only cosmetic issues we need to look for, it’s structural, too.
We make it to the next level in one piece, where light filters through small cracked windows, muted by the low gray clouds outside. This looks like it used to be the old keeper’s quarters. The wooden floorboards creak underfoot, and Iris pulls out her notebook to jot some notes, gaze moving from the rusted cot on one side to the cast-iron stove on the other.
Bill doesn’t say much, just lets us explore the space for ourselves, and I exhale heavily at the daunting task before me. Circular walls, making furniture placement and interior design tricky. Every aspect would have to be custom-fit, and that’s before we get to the narrow staircase, completely impractical for moving materials or furniture. Not to mention a lack of insulation, minimal plumbing, and only one electrical line. Retrofitting anything new will be a logistical nightmare.
“The floor looks great in here,” Iris notes aloud, scribbling, and I begrudgingly agree.
We head up the stairs again, toward the lantern room on the top floor. I pause halfway to inspect the walls more closely, noting the corrosion and flaking paint. Then we step into the lantern room, where light floods through the glass, even with the overcast sky. After being on the darker lower levels, I stop, blinking in the light.
Beside me, Iris gasps. “Wow,” she breathes, looking around in awe.
Despite myself, I tug my gaze from the room to look at her. At the way her lips part as she takes in the sweeping views of the town, the dunes, the sea. The way her eyes sparkle with delight as she lifts a hand to the cold, salt-clouded glass. The wind is louder here, whistling through the panes, but she doesn’t mind. Where I see rot and ruin and disrepair, she sees magic.
I notice the original Fresnel lens is gone, leaving only a circular mount and a few old wires where it once sat. There’s a narrow catwalk that runs around outside the glass walls, and Iris steps toward the small door as if to go outside, but I stop her with a hand on her arm.
“It might not be structurally sound,” I warn, and her face falls.
“Of course.” She seems to catch herself, reining in her enthusiasm, and returns to her notebook. To see how entranced she is by this place plucks at a tender place in my chest. How she sees what I miss. She was like this with the Bushwick studios, too. I was too far up my own ass to notice.
But now, it’s all I can see. Her enthusiasm. Her wonder. Her ability to overlook everything that’s wrong with the place and see what’s good. She did that with me, too, after I was such a jerk to her. After I treated her like her father, pointing out her mistakes, complaining, snapping at her. She could overlook it all.
And the way she listened to me in the car, so moved by my pain, as if it was her own. I didn’t realize I needed that, butfuck,I do. I need so much more from her. Things I can’t even admit to myself.
I wrench my gaze away, turning to stare out to sea. I should be grateful I’ve had the chance to kiss Iris, that we’ve already been intimate, but it kills me that I never got to actuallybewith her. Make love to her.
God, listen to me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted tomake loveto anyone in my life.
But it’s true. What would it be like to make love to Iris? To have more than the two clandestine, stolen moments we’ve had. Moments that have brought little satisfaction.
