The bedroom door is open.
The bed’s empty.
A blanket-covered woman sleeps slumped over the desk I made when I first came to live here. Her computer screen is black. Sleep mode like its owner, I guess. Black-rimmed glasses hang off her face, half covered by messy dark hair escaping a lopsided bun. I trudge back downstairs, making a beeline for the front door. Coffee in hand, I track over the small gravel path between the towering lighthouse and small cottage originally built to be storage space.
The wind is up, bitter and cold.
The days are shorter than usual. The workload for this self-sufficient little island is still as long as the summer months. I haul my windbreaker over my arms, shrugging it up around my shoulders. Draining the last of the coffee, I pull on my beanie. My days of solitude have been spent doing chores for as long as I can remember. Living semi off-grid, growing my own food, and building things from scratch takes hard work and long hours. Add that to my lighthouse duties, and my days are full. Just how I like them.
There is so much to Fire Island that nobody else will never see or know about. Like the fishing hut my father built on the southern end. The depths of the small forest filling the land between here and there. Among other things. I flip the collar of my jacket up and stalk my way to the greenhouse.
The inside of the large hot house is stifling. A sweltering contrast to the frigid outdoors. Sitting my coffee down on a potting table, I tug the windbreaker off and tuck the beanie into my back pocket. The large area is defined by four rows of aboveground beds, host to every vegetable, herb, and salad fixing I could get to survive in the salty coastal air. Doing the rounds, I tend to each plant and harvest anything ready for the picking.
With arms full of vegetables, a few handfuls of fruit, and a fresh bunch of garlic, I head for the enamel sink. The water is damn freezing, so I clean up fast. The wind howls outside, and I send my thoughts to firepit nights with s’mores. To summer fishing. To swimming in the freshwater lake at the heart of the island...
The door to the greenhouse opens, letting a frigid gust of wind into the sanctuary from the tempest.
Swinging back, I find her standing in the doorway with her arms hugging her chest. She shivers where she stands. I point at the door, the scowl on my face deepening with every second she lets the cold wind in.
She finally shuts the door and moves into the warm space, and I turn back to the cleanup.
Great, just fucking great.
She walks around, slowly, taking in the plethora of plants. Running her hands over the soft tips of the shallots, she stops mere feet from me. “I thought I smelled coffee?”
I turn off the water and scrub the carrots in the sink roughly. I’ve always only ever picked enough for each day. Waste not, want not, and all that. Now, with another mouth to feed, I guess this morning’s haul is warranted. She better not be damn fussy.
My hands burn with the icy water, and I do my best to focus on that and not her.
When I don’t reply, she shifts on her feet. “Would it be possible to go back to the mainland? I need some groceries.”
I toss the carrots on the draining board and pluck the stems from the tomatoes, tossing the green waste into a container for compost. With a sigh, she turns on her heel. The gravel-covered ground crunches under her feet. The sound fades, and the door opens and closes, and I hang my head.
The last thing I wanted was company.
Let alone nine months of it.
But over my dead body are they decommissioning this lighthouse. It’s been the biggest part of our family legacy for so long. Then the thought hits me. If I make her uncomfortable, she’s going to leave.
Along with the money her publishing house pays for her to accommodate my home.
With a grunt, I bundle the day’s pickings into my arms. Running through the options of how to ensure she stays, preferably with minimal interaction, I push through the cottage door and dump the food on the small table under the far window.
This lot should be in the fridge, in the house. Not sitting around here to wilt.
Reluctantly, I gather my load up and cross the path to the house. Remembering the house is not my own at the moment, I turn and knock with my elbow, trying not to lose my load in the process.
A moment later, the door opens. Soft brown eyes find mine, a small, nervous smile pushing her lips up briefly. Still bundled up in a sweater, jeans, and boots, she’s added a scarf that’s wrapped around her neck.
I nod to the load in my arms, and she steps aside, allowing me inside.
I deposit the fruit and vegetables in the fridge. Rummaging through a drawer, I find string and tie the garlic to the curtain rod over the sink. She watches me as I work, leaning on the small dining table. “You grow all your food?”
Her small talk could use some work, since she was literally standing in the greenhouse moments ago. Not responding, I head for the door. Her arms unfold from her chest, her hands hanging by her sides. Fingers pale and the tips of her nails blue—she’s cold. The fireplace has died down. Probably got no idea how to stoke it.
With a sigh, I wander to the wood rack and pluck up three logs. Opening the fireplace door, I toss them in. With the fire iron, I poke at the coals, and the logs catch. I shut the door tight and open the flue a little way to get the flames higher. When it’s crackling away, I rise to my feet and adjust the settings again. No need to burn the fuel up too fast. I’ll only have to come back in that case.
Glancing around the living room and kitchen, I make sure the windows are still shut tight. A little frown pulls her face down, her bottom lip between her teeth. For a moment, I take her in. The long dark hair that flows over her shoulders, her pretty face, the curve of her hips that rise to a slim waist. Jean-clad legs that go for damn days...
