The Lighthouse Keeper’s Daughter
Chapter 13 : The Morning After
Fiona woke to the smell of coffee.
She opened her eyes. The cottage was still dark, the fire reduced to embers, but a thin line of gray light was seeping through the cracks in the shutters. Dawn was coming.
Cole was not beside her.
She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, and found him in the kitchen. He was standing at the wood stove, pouring coffee into two mugs, his back to her. He had put on his jeans but not his shirt, and the scars on his shoulders caught the dim light.
“You’re up early,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I smelled coffee.”
He turned, handed her a mug. “It’s not good. But it’s hot.”
She took a sip. It was terrible — bitter, over-brewed, the kind of coffee that had been sitting on the stove too long. But it was warm, and he had made it for her, and that made it perfect.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For the coffee or for last night?”
“Both.”
He sat down beside her on the couch, his shoulder touching hers. The fire had died, but the cottage was still warm — from the stove, from their bodies, from the heat that seemed to linger between them.
“I didn’t sleep,” he admitted.
“Neither did I.”
“What were you thinking about?”
She looked at the window, at the gray light, at the lighthouse just visible through the glass.
“I was thinking about my mother. About how she never had this — someone who made her coffee in the morning, someone who stayed.” She turned to look at him. “I don’t want to be like her. I don’t want to run.”
“You’re not running.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He set down his mug and took her hand. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
“That’s not true. You survived a bullet.”
“Surviving isn’t the same as living. You’re teaching me how to live.”
She leaned into him, and they sat together as the sun rose, the lighthouse light catching the first rays of dawn.
The letter arrived at noon.
Silas had braved the aftermath of the storm to deliver the mail — a small bundle of envelopes that had piled up in Port Ellis. Most were bills, junk, the detritus of modern life. But one was different: heavy, cream-colored, with a return address that made Fiona’s stomach drop.
Drake Development Group, Boston, MA.
She opened it with shaking hands.
Ms. Callahan,
Despite your emotional testimony at the town meeting, the fact remains that Blackwood Island Lighthouse is in a state of disrepair. Our engineers have assessed the damage from the recent storm and concluded that the tower is structurally unsound.
We are prepared to offer you $750,000 for the property — a reduction from our previous offer, reflecting the increased risk. If you do not accept by the end of the month, we will pursue legal action to have the island declared a public hazard.
We look forward to your cooperation.
Sincerely,
Harrison Drake
Fiona read the letter twice, then handed it to Cole.
“He’s lowering the offer,” she said.
“He’s trying to scare you.”
“It’s working.”
Cole read the letter, his jaw tightening. “This is extortion. He’s using the storm to make the lighthouse look worse than it is.”
“Is he wrong? The shed collapsed. The roof is leaking. The generator almost died.”
“None of that makes the tower structurally unsound. He’s lying.”
Fiona took the letter back. “It doesn’t matter if he’s lying. He has lawyers. He has money. I have a crumbling lighthouse and a bank account with less than two thousand dollars.”
“You have me.”
She looked at him. His eyes were fierce, his jaw set.
“You’re a marine biologist, Cole. You can’t fight a developer.”
“I can stand beside you while you do.”
They spent the afternoon researching.
Cole had a satellite internet connection — slow, unreliable, but functional. They sat at the kitchen table, laptops open, searching for legal precedents, historical preservation grants, anything that might help.
Fiona’s legal training came back to her like a muscle she hadn’t used in months. She found cases where historic lighthouses had been saved from developers, nonprofits that specialized in coastal preservation, and a state law that protected landmarks over fifty years old.
“There’s a loophole,” she said. “If the lighthouse is declared a historic landmark, Drake can’t touch it.”
“How do we do that?”
“We need to file a petition with the state historic preservation office. We need documentation — photographs, engineering reports, a history of the lighthouse. And we need it fast.”
“How fast?”
“The end of the month. That’s when Drake’s offer expires.”
Cole looked at the calendar. “That’s three weeks.”
“Then we have three weeks.”
They worked until dark.
Fiona wrote letters, made phone calls, and filled out forms. Cole took photographs of the lighthouse, the cottage, the damaged shed — evidence that the storm, not neglect, had caused the problems.
At midnight, she collapsed on the couch, exhausted.
“We’re not going to make it,” she said.
“Yes, we are.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met. And that’s a compliment.”
She laughed — a tired, surprised sound. “Is that your way of saying you love me?”
“It’s my way of saying I believe in you.”
He sat beside her, pulling her close.
“Whatever happens,” he said, “we face it together.”
She closed her eyes.
“Together,” she whispered.