Surprise has me glancing over at Rose. “Yes, it is. Are you familiar with it?”
Rose turns her head, catching me mid-stare. Her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before I hastily look away. She smiles softly, pushing up her sleeve to reveal a tattoo on her upper arm – the lighthouse rendered in perfect detail against a stormy sky. “One of my favorite artists painted that lighthouse,” she says, her voice tinged with awe. “I loved it so much I had it tattooed on my skin. Whenever I feel lost or down, I look at it, and somehow… it helps me find my way back to myself.” She gently traces the inked lines before gesturing toward the actual lighthouse. “The original painting was a view from the land with the ocean as a backdrop, and I always thought it was stunning. But seeing it here, from the water…” She shakes her head, clearly moved. “It’s even more breathtaking. The painting doesn’t hold a candle to this perspective.”
Her words stir something in me – a mix of pride and joy that bubbles up from my core. This is my adopted home. Over the last few years, these waters and shores have become a part of me, and I never expected that I would enjoy sharing their beauty with a stranger. “The Cape Vesna Lighthouse,” I explain, my voice warming as I point to the stalwart structure standing guard in the distance, “was built in the mid-1850s, when Maine’s maritime trade was booming. For over 170 years now, it’s been a silent sentinel, guiding ships safely into our harbor through storm and calm alike. And you’re right – there’s something special about seeing it from out here on the water. It’s like you’re seeing it the way the sailors do, the way it was meant to be seen.”
Rose listens intently as I share some of the local history and lore surrounding the lighthouse. To my surprise, I find myself enjoying the role of storyteller. Rose is an attentive audience, asking thoughtful questions and seeming genuinely interested in what I have to say.
As we continue our journey along the coast, I highlight other landmarks and share more about the area’s history. Rose soaks it all in, her artist’s eye clearly at work as she studies the rocky shoreline.
“Can we stop for a moment?” she asks suddenly, reaching for her waterproof bag. “I’d love to do a quick sketch if that’s okay.”
I nod, guiding us to a calm area where we can float without drifting too far. Rose pulls out a small sketchbook and pencil, carefully balancing them on her lap. I watch, fascinated, as her hand moves swiftly across the page, capturing the essence of the landscape before us with just a few deft strokes.
“That’s amazing,” I say, unable to keep the awe from my voice. “You’re talented.”
Rose blushes slightly at the compliment, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you. It’s just a rough sketch, but I’dlove to return and get some photos of the area. I only brought my phone today, and now I wish I’d packed my good camera.”
“I could show you some other great spots for painting,” I offer, surprising myself. “If you’re interested, I mean.”
Her face lights up. “I’d love that, Levi. Thank you.”
As we continue our journey, I find myself relaxing more and more. Conversation flows easier now, punctuated by comfortable silences as we take in the scenery. I share more about the local flora and fauna, pointing out different species of seabirds and explaining the types of fish that inhabit these waters.
Rose, in turn, tells me more about her art and her life back home in the desert. I learn that she’s from a big city and that this is her first time seeing the Atlantic Ocean. Her excitement about everything – from the salty air to the cry of the seagulls – is infectious, making me see my familiar surroundings through fresh eyes.
Before I know it, we’re approaching the small, secluded beach where I had planned to have our picnic lunch. As we near the shore, I guide Rose on safely bringing her kayak in.
“Okay, we’re going to ride this small wave in,” I instruct. “When I say ‘now,’ start paddling hard towards the shore. Ready?”
Rose nods, excitement and nervousness washing over her face. I watch the waves, waiting for the right moment. “Now!” I call out.
We both paddle hard, letting the wave carry us towards the beach. As we near the shore, I hop out of my kayak into the shallow water, quickly moving to steady Rose’s kayak as it glides onto the sand.
“We did it!” Rose exclaims, laughing as I help her out of the kayak. Her hand is warm, and I am reluctant to let go.
“You’re a natural,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Ready for some lunch?”
We pull the kayaks onto the beach, securing them well above the tide line. I retrieve the picnic basket from my kayak, and we find a comfortable spot on the sand to set up our meal.
CHAPTER 5
Rose
As Levi unpacks the basket, I can’t help but marvel at Koko’s thoughtfulness. The spread before us is a feast for the eyes as much as the stomach – hearty sandwiches, a few wedges of cheese that make my mouth water, a container of cut fruit, and, of course, a selection of pastries. There’s even a bottle of local wine nestled among the treats.
However, I find my attention drawn more to Levi than the food. The afternoon sun catches in his blond, sun-streaked hair, giving it an almost ethereal glow. A smattering of freckles dusts across his nose and cheeks, evidence of countless hours spent outdoors. His movements are purposeful and strong, his broad shoulders and lean muscles shifting with quiet power as he sets out our picnic. When he looks up at me, I’m struck again by his eyes – a stormy blue that reminds me of the deepest parts of the ocean.
Heather’s right – he’s just plain hot. But there’s more to him than just his looks.
“Wow, Koko went all out, didn’t she?” I exclaim, turning my focus away from contemplating how handsome my guide is.
Levi nods, a fond smile playing on his lips. “She likes to make sure everyone feels welcome.”
Levi begins to assemble a plate for me. He selects half a sandwich, adding some fruit and a small assortment of local cheeses and crackers on the side. His hands, which I’ve watched confidently guide his kayak through the ocean, now move with deft precision as he arranges the food. There’s something endearing about watching this reserved man take such care in this simple act.
“Here,” he says, offering me the plate. “I think you’ll like this.”
Thanking him, I take a bite of the sandwich. The flavors explode in my mouth – layers of thinly sliced, herb-roasted turkey, tangy cranberry chutney, and sharp cheddar cheese, all nestled between slices of rustic sourdough bread. It’s a perfect balance of savory, sweet, and tart, with a satisfying crunch from the toasted bread. The sandwich tastes like autumn in New England, reminding me of the colorful foliage and crisp air I’ve only seen in movies of this region.
