“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?”