Page 2 of The Lightkeeper

One more reason I kept to myself. Having to see the look on Jamie’s face, wanting to help me and knowing there was nothing he could do, was one of the worst things.

“How are you? How’s the lighthouse?” She drew back, a serene smile on her face. Her warm brown hair was braided back on both sides, every strand collected and contained—which was one hundred percent Lou.

“Still shining.” I ignored her first question. “How’s work?”

“Good. Busy.” She moved back behind the counter. “Your usual?”

Plain black coffee.

“Yeah. And a bag of fresh grounds, please.” I pulled my hat off and took a seat at one of the counter stools, watching as she poured the piping hot brew from the fresh carafe.

“Are you stopping to see Mom and Frankie and Gigi?”

Both my sisters lived with Mom and our grandmother, Gigi, on a farm just outside of town.

“Planning on it.”

“Good, because Frankie’s been worried.”

I sighed and took the travel cup from her. She knew better than to pour it in a regular mug; I wouldn’t stay for long.

“Frankie should worry about herself a little more,” I muttered and took a sip of the fresh, hot coffee, savoring the treat.

Once a month, I was reminded that the coffee I made myself every morning was a poor substitute for the real thing.

“Never.” Lou laughed. “She has a bag of candles and jam for you, and Jamie had to talk her out of bringing it to you on Friday.”

I took another drink, swallowing down my groan.

Lou and Frankie were paired together like day and night, essential to each other but opposites. They both had the same warm brown hair we all got from Mom, their eyes the same chocolate as their father’s, but that was where the similaritiesended. Lou was reserved while Frankie was bold. Lou was thoughtful while Frankie was daring. Lou was temperance while Frankie… Frankie was trouble.

“One day, those plans of hers are going to come back and bite her in the ass,” I grumbled.

“Hopefully that day comes before they bite me in the butt, too,” Lou said with a sigh. “She tried to set me up with one of the Fulmer boys last week—‘Elouise, he’s perfect’—it was horrible.”

The only person who ever called her ‘Elouise’ was Frankie, and usually when Frankie was concocting one of her hair-brained plans and roping Lou into it.

“Sorry.” I grimaced.

Lou pursed her lips. “You’re just happy she’s not trying to set you up.”

“She’s too smart for that.” There was no setting up a man who lived in a lighthouse.

“She does like a challenge…” Lou grumbled and then changed topics. “Did you drop off any new stuff at the gallery?”

“No.” I cleared my throat. “Still working on something new.”

I never intended for my paintings to become a business, but art took up space—space I didn’t have in the lighthouse keep, so I started selling them. Well, I paid Lou to sell them for me. Half of every commission. First, at a booth at some small local fairs and festivals. Pretty soon, the fairs weren’t frequent enough, so I rented a small gallery space in town.

It was two blocks from the Maine Squeeze, and I only went inside when I dropped off paintings, which was once a month, if that. I’d set them inside the door, and then Lou would arrange them in the space when she worked there on the weekends. If it weren’t for her—if it weren’t for the money it was making her (I was still paying her half of the commissions), I probably would’ve just tossed the paintings when I was done with them.

Art was my escape. Most of the time. Lately, though, that wellof creativity felt bone dry. It was the time of the year, I told myself. Once the anniversaries were over, it would get better. It had to.

“I told you the painting of the lighthouse all wrapped up in lights for Christmas sold in minutes, right?”

“Oh, yeah?” I grunted. I didn’t pay much attention to what sold and what didn’t; that was Lou’s job.

“Yeah. Everyone loved that one.”

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