CHAPTER 2
Jane
Leaning my stomach against the counter’s edge, I stare through the open plantation shutters as I sip my coffee. It should be a crime for a man to look that good. No, actually a sin. It should be a sin to look that good, and it should be addressed in the Bible. Or maybe it is, because I’m pretty sure the way I’m coveting my neighbor has probably been written about a time or two.
It’s relatively mild for the middle of May in Misty Harbor, and I saw the forecast is actually going to hit the upper sixties today. It will still dip back down to the forties tonight, but, for now, I’m loving this weather. It means my window is open to let in the spring breeze, my shutters are thrown wide, and my neighbor across the private lane that separates our properties has his shirt off as he power washes the light tower.
It’s a truly marvelous day.
Inhaling deep, I take in the smell of sea spray and the viburnum that’s started to bloom under my kitchen window, and my lips curve upward. I love spring so much—the way it represents renewal and hope. The winter this past year in Misty Harbor was brutal, but it’s over now. I’m looking forward to spending as much time outdoors as my schedule will allow.
My little cottage sits on the west side of Cranberry Lane, just across the dusty road from my new neighbor, a man I’ve yet to meet in person even though he’s been here a few months. There’d been a rumor that the town council was looking to replace old man Boggs as the keeper of the Gray Birch Lighthouse, as he’d let the tower and attached caretaker’s cottage fall into horrible disrepair. In addition, the council wanted to open the lighthouse up for tourists in the summer as a means to bring in a little bit of income into our small town. We didn’t quite have the influx of people visiting the way Bar Harbor did across Frenchman’s Bay.
The rumor was laid to rest when old man Boggs actually fell down the spiral staircase that led up to the tower in January and suffered a broken femur. A quick hunt was on to fill the position, and, before I knew it, I saw my new neighbor move in on a snowy night back in early February when his old pickup truck rumbled up to the caretaker’s cottage. He had nothing but a large duffel bag that he carried in, and I know this because I watched silently from my kitchen window while I made a cup of hot chocolate.
Now that the cold weather is gone for good, I expect I’ll be seeing him outside a lot more as he makes repairs to the property. I will not be averse if it’s done without his shirt on like he’s doing now. While he’s a good hundred yards away, I can see that the top half of his back is covered with tattoos, as well as his ribs on his right side and most of both arms. He turned toward my house once to adjust the power washer, and I saw a large tattoo over his chest that crawled slightly up his neck. The details weren’t ascertainable—it would require binoculars to see such a thing—but I’m not that much of a stalker at this point.
My iPhone rings and when I glance down to where it sits on the counter, I see it’s Miranda calling. I pick it up and answer. “Good morning.”
“Whatcha doin’?” she sort of mumbles, and it’s clear she’s eating while talking.
“Spying on my hot neighbor as he pressure washes the light tower,” I tell her as my gaze narrows back in on said man. “Whatcha eatin’?”
“Corn Flakes.” I hear her take another slurping bite, after which I think she asks, “What’s he wearing?”
“Jeans,” I tell her. “Faded. Well fit. Work boots. Oh, and tattoos. He’s wearing lots of tattoos.”
“I’m on my way over, Jane,” she says, her speech now remarkably clear. I have to smile at her train of thought because while my best friend Miranda and I are about as opposite as night and day, we both share a healthy appreciation for a hot man in our little out-of-the-way town.
“Can’t spy with me today,” I shoot her down not so gently. “Margery’s going to be here any moment for her lesson.”
“Piss on Margery,” Miranda grumbles.
“She’s ten years old,” I chastise her with a laugh. “You can’t say that about a kid!”
“I can when she stands between me and ogling hot, tattooed man candy,” she retorts.
“You’re so bad,” I reprimand her, but she’s all talk. Miranda loves Margery as much as I do. “Want to grab some dinner with me later?”
“Can’t. I’m working tonight. But you could come hang out for a drink.”
I wrinkle my nose. Miranda works three jobs, one of which is slinging drinks at a seedy bar here in Misty Harbor called The Lobster Cage. She only works a few nights a week there, but it helps to supplement her main job as a hairdresser. She is also a waitress at one of the popular restaurants when she can manage to pick up a few shifts. While Misty Harbor’s population will swell somewhat in the summer months, it’s hard to stay afloat doing haircuts and highlights for a town of less than a thousand permanent residents, particularly since she’s not the only hair stylist around.
“Have you met him yet?” Miranda asks, turning the subject back to the man I’m still staring at.
“Not yet,” I say glumly. I’d left a basket of baked goods on his doorstep a few weeks ago with a handwritten note welcoming him to Misty Harbor, but I hadn’t heard a peep out of him. He didn’t even have the good graces to return my basket. “I made some muffins and left them at his doorstep a few weeks ago, but he’s not come over to thank me yet.”
“Probably because he broke a tooth on one of them,” Miranda says bluntly, and while most would be offended, I’m not. Sometimes my baking leaves a lot to be desired. Not even pausing to see if she hurt my feelings—which she didn’t—she says, “Just go over right now and introduce yourself.”
“Can’t,” I return quickly and remind her, “Margery’s coming.”
“Well, after Margery’s lesson… go over there.”
“Maybe,” I hedge, because while there’s safety and security in leaving a basket of muffins that may or may not have had the consistency of bricks, I’m not sure I’d have the guts to actually approach him.
“Okay,” Miranda says firmly. “I’m coming over tomorrow. We’ll both go over and introduce ourselves, okay?”
“Maybe,” I say again, and I’m pretty sure my hesitation means I’m just content to ogle from a distance. There’s something about the man that seems a bit dark and dangerous—which is probably just the large amount of tattoos he’s sporting—and that is so not my type.
“Alright, chicky,” Miranda chirps into the phone. “I’m going to go hop in the shower. Talk later?”
“Sure. Talk later.” I disconnect and set my phone down, resuming my lean against the counter. I watch my neighbor and wonder what his story is.
After he arrived in February, I hardly saw him emerge from that little cottage during the winter, although I know he must have as he needed groceries at the very least. I never saw him around town, though, and that was nearly impossible to do because Misty Harbor was tiny. Its entire length could be walked in ten minutes. Everyone knew everyone, and while the fishermen and lobstermen could be crusty bastards at times, most everyone was friendly and outgoing.
Miranda did tell me that she’d seen my strange neighbor come into The Lobster Cage on two occasions. By her accounts, he just sat at the bar and quietly drank, not engaging in conversation with anyone. He’s definitely a loner and isn’t here because of any ties to the area. This makes me wonder how he even got the job as the lighthouse keeper, because it’s a pretty plum assignment from what I hear.
Tending the Gray Birch Lighthouse doesn’t take much. The light that warns boats of the rocky jetty and shallows that must be traversed around before entering Misty Bay runs on electricity with a backup generator, so it’s pretty self-sufficient. Past that, the keeper also has to keep the tower and cottage in good repair, but those are mostly patch jobs and spring cleanings that are done once a year. The job’s pretty cushy. I imagine it doesn’t pay a lot, but I’ve heard the rent on the cottage is super cheap.
A soft knock at my door startles me. With one last lingering look at the hot guy pressure washing the lighthouse, I set my coffee cup down and head to my front door.
When I open it, little Margery Dennison beams up at me with a bright smile. “Hi, Miss Cresson.”
“Good morning.” I beam back at her as she walks in. “You ready for your lesson?”
She nods enthusiastically. “I’ve been practicing.”
My smile brightens because Margery has a lot of talent and takes her studies seriously. I started giving her private art lessons about three months ago when it was clear she was heads and shoulders above my other students at Schoodic Middle School. After I talked with her parents, they gladly sent her to me for a weekly private lesson. I was more than happy to supplement my teacher’s income with the lessons, even though I also taught art at the junior and high schools as well. Our school district was so small that I had to teach at three schools, and I was still struggling to make ends meet. The private art lessons were the perfect way for me to have some breathing room, so I wouldn’t have to work at The Lobster Cage with Miranda.
Margery shrugs her lightweight coat off and starts to tug at the hoodie she has on underneath. While it might get up into the sixties today, it’s still a bit brisk.
“Keep your hoodie on,” I tell her.
Her head tilts to the side in question.
“We’re going to sit outside on my front porch,” I tell her, hoping I’m not going to go to hell for using this time to continue to ogle my neighbor. “We’ll work on a watercolor of Gray Birch Lighthouse today.”
“Cool,” she says in response.
I turn toward my studio, which is nothing more than my spare bedroom converted into a place I can work on my own stuff when I have time. “Come help me get all the materials, and we’ll get set up.”
And maybe… just maybe, if my neighbor sees us sitting out front painting the lighthouse, he might be inclined to come over and thank me for those muffins I left him.