Page 8 of Past Lives
Moira looks past him toward the open sea. “Take the west channel. They say a baleen whale just washed up blind on the straits. That means something bad is happening under the surface.” She blinks. The sun rises, casting red light under the clouds, and her eyes look like stormy glass. “Write if you reach Blackwater.”
He wants to tell her how much he’ll miss her hands and how her laughter makes him forget his worries, but men in Galloway don’t say such things before a journey. Instead, he forces a smile and holds her hand, warm and rough. “If you see smoke at the headland tonight, it’s me. I’ll burn off the worst of the fog for you.”
She holds on a moment longer. “Promise?”
“As sure as the stars,” he says. He pulls himself away, his boots loud on the planks, each step full of longing and dread, every muscle tense against the storm inside him.
The first night brings sleet, then a thick fog. Halden hunches at the helm, his fingers stiff, beard wet with spray. The cutter rides high, moving quickly along the shoals. Every shadow feels dangerous, every shift of weight could mean trouble. He thinks of Moira in the lighthouse, walking the iron stairs, her brown hair shining in the lamp’s light. She’ll keep the glass clean, hishandkerchief under the star-charts, her father’s boots ready for the season.
Halden imagines Moira alone in the lighthouse, watching the horizon, her heart racing with every flicker of light that could be him. It should have taken three days, four at most. But the world has its own plans, and worry eats at them both.
A gale hits Halden just over a league from Portpatrick. It howls across the boat, throwing casks loose, tearing canvas, and breaking the cutter’s wooden spars. He fights the tiller, jaw tight, eyes burning. The squall seems alive, sometimes pinning him to the deck, sometimes pulling him up, as if daring him to survive.
He crawls to the hold, secures what he can, and says a quick prayer, half for Moira, half for any god who might let him see another dawn.
In the village, rumors grow each day. First, Halden is late. Then, he is gone. Someone says they see wood planks in the bay, but it’s only a broken fish crate. For twelve nights, the lighthouse stays lit, and Moira keeps the log, records the storms, and waits. Her father won’t get out of bed now that his knees have failed. So Moira goes out to the cliffs in borrowed boots, morning and evening, facing the gossip and the quiet, pitying looks from the fishwives.
Then the big storm comes, strong enough to pull chimneys from roofs and sweep sheep into the ravines. Even the bravest men stay inside. But Moira stays at her post, her lamp pointed at the sea, as if she believes her light might guide him home.
By the time the sea gives up its dead, winter has stripped paint from the doors and left the village worn. Driftwood and canvas are found in the coves, and a man’s name is whisperedin fear and mourning, as if the sea is still listening. There is no funeral except the quiet in the lighthouse, where Moira sets a shaking candle in the window and holds the locket he gave her, knuckles white.
That night, in the warm glow of the lens room, she stays silent. She winds the gears, polishes the copper, and keeps the log. When her father dies years later, Moira stands watch alone. She lights the beacon each night, records tides and winds, her notebook full of notes, proof that hope can outlast even the worst storm.
When the lamp finally goes out, so does she. Her body is found at the foot of the stairs, locket pale in her hand, eyes still looking out across the rocks, as if love might return on the tide.
Chapter 6
Maya
On the terraceof my hotel, the last bits of sunlight fade from the stone. Cold air wraps around my ankles. I keep checking my phone: 6:58, 7:01, 7:10. Eventually, I realize I’m just searching for an excuse to cancel. Maybe I’ll text Heath something apologetic—a deadline, a stomach ache, or a sudden dislike of handsome men. But then he appears, two steps below me in the foyer, and my whole body feels like it’s vibrating.
He wears a cable-knit jumper under a waxed Barbour, the kind of thing that should look affected, but somehow doesn’t. Maybe it’s the weathered jawline or the way he moves through space without apology. There’s no sign of the city-boy arrogance you expect from an American tech billionaire. If anything, he stands too still, watching the revolving doors. He notices me, and all at once, I’m a specimen pinned to black velvet, every flaw magnified.
“You’re early,” I say, and it feels like a dare.
Heath’s mouth quirks, but his eyes stay serious as he replies, “I’d rather wait twenty minutes than keep you waiting for one.”
If I wanted, I could interpret that line in a hundred ways: creepy, old-fashioned, or maybe just sweet. The part of me that’s been alone for too long wants to pick the sweet one for once.Instead, I put on my coat and gesture toward the street. “You’re lucky. I’m only strict about punctuality after a second date.”
He walks beside me down the hill, matching my pace and letting me lead with my quick steps. For someone who could easily dominate a conversation, he seems comfortable with silence, letting it linger between us like the mist over the Grassmarket. My mind fills the quiet with possible conversation starters and endings—folklore, history, even murder. My true crime podcasts are piling up. Maybe I have a romantic death wish, or maybe it’s just the third gin and tonic from the train, but I want to see where this goes.
The restaurant, when we reach it, is a little warren of exposed stone and touchscreen wine lists. It’s both trendier and more intimate than I expected from Heath. Our table is bracketed by a tartan curtain, and the low-watt candelight makes him look years younger. His gray temples are almost a party trick. We order wine, and for a while neither of us speaks, content to let the night fill in the blanks. When the first round of small plates arrives, he breaks the silence with a single, accurate question. “So, what are you really doing in Edinburgh? ‘Research’ seems a little thin for you.”
I roll a roasted carrot between my fingers. “My family thinks I’m here to write a new travelogue. My mother has this dream of me becoming the next Rick Steves, minus the khakis. In reality, I was supposed to see the Galloway lighthouse just west of here. There’s a ghost story attached to it—natch—a whole shipwreck narrative. I’m trying to reconstruct the truth.”
He watches me carefully, eyes unreadable. “Why that place?”
“Because it’s overlooked,” I say, the answer automatic. Then softer, “Because someone should remember it.”
Heath touches the rim of his glass, turning it a fraction. “You know, I have a thing for lighthouses too,” he admits.
I bark out a laugh, though part of me is nervous he’s playing to impress. “No, you don’t. That’s a guy on a dating app pretending to be deep.” My skepticism slips out sharper than I intend, betraying how much I want to believe him, and how much I fear being fooled.
He holds up his phone and, with a few quick swipes, shows me photos of lighthouses from all over—Maine, Sardinia, an old Art Deco tower in Venezuela. Each one is labeled with its location, like a personal trophy wall. “Can’t help it,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m fascinated by them.”
“Did you want someone to rescue you?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Heath’s gaze turns inward, the kind of pause that means he’s actually thinking. “Not until recently,” he says. “But sometimes you don’t notice how far out you are until you look back at the shore.”
