“It’s definitely not working. Actually, I’m a little worried about…” he trails off, scratching his beard as he stares up at the old lighthouse.
“Worried about?” I prompt, but he just shakes his head and smiles at me.
“It’s nothing. Probably just needs elbow grease.” A pause. “And a little love.”
I try not to blush at the way he looks at me when he adds that on and instead roll my eyes and hustle past him to the door of his uncle’s — now his — lighthouse.
It hits me the moment I cross the threshold.
This isn’t a place that knows what it is anymore.
I pause, my hand on the gently curved wall.
The interior of the lighthouse always felt like a fortress, a place I was slightly intimidated by as a kid, then a place that had all the cozy mystery that my teenage angst adored. The view from the round windows provide an unmatched view of the ocean, saltwater blending with sky in the deepening night.
Boxes are stacked to the side of the door, some perfectly taped and labeled with their contents, others open and half-empty, a reminder of Silverlight Shore’s loss.
Of Caleb’s loss.
The brick-lined walls are still the same red-brown and white, the brass accents warm in the lamplight. Pictures of Caleb and I as kids are still on the shelves, my sisters and I blowing bubbles while our grandmother laughs in the background, hands clasped together. A scrimshaw whale I bought for Caleb’s uncle sits next to it, and for a long moment, grief’s fingers tighten around my throat.
“I miss him, too.” Caleb stands next to me, following my gaze.
“I know,” I say. I do.
“He’d be glad you’re here now,” Caleb tells me, his eyes crinkling at the corners, light winking off his glasses.
“Something smells good,” I say, unable to sit in this moment. This in-between grief of losing someone I loved and being near to someone I thought I’d loved and lost.
“Garlic and butter are hard to get wrong.” He strides past me to the tiny kitchen against the wall, the round window above the sink propped open just enough to let the cooking smells out and the ever-present scent of the sea in.
“I thought Pike was sending food over.” I don’t know why I said it, it’s obvious that Caleb is cooking —and has been for a while.
“He did. He sent over the fresh linguine and the clams from Saltline. I just did the rest. Oh, except the bread. Owen droppedoff a huge basket of baked goods.” He nods towards the worn table, a table his uncle used to tell us was made from the hull of a sunken pirate ship, where a loaf of crusty bread sits on a marble board.
“How can I help?” I set my purse down on the plaid couch. Gunner sits while I take his leash off, making himself at home on the rug next to the little pot-bellied fireplace.
“Cut the bread?” He knows better than to insist I’m a guest, or do that awkward dance of the few dates at men’s homes I’ve been on.
Not that I’ve been on many. Not that this is a date.
“I think I can manage that.” I know where the knives are, and while he strains the linguine and finishes the sauce, I slice the bread into perfect slices. It keeps my hands busy, but it doesn’t silence my brain.
I’m not sure anything could.
I take my time cutting it though, grateful for the task, grateful to have something to do besides watch Caleb competently plate the clam and linguine dinner.
“There,” he says, brushing his hands off and waving me into a chair beside him. Not across — because the main pillar of the lighthouse runs straight through the table, and while it makes sense and is functional, blocking the sightline of the person you’re having dinner with does in fact make things unnecessarily awkward.
“It’s been so long since I’ve had a meal out here.” My chair squeaks across the floor as I sit.
“Me too,” Caleb says, sliding a glass of water in front of me. “I thought about going down to the wine bar, but I ran out of time.”
“No, this is fine,” I say it so fast I almost interrupt him. “I have to be up early to work tomorrow.”
There. That almost sounded normal.
Gunner makes a chuffing sound, and we both glance over at where he’s dreaming, feet jerking in his sleep.
