Rafe Sorensen, 62, spent 28 years manning the Point Detour lighthouse on Lake Superior before the Coast Guard automated the station, and he’d spent the six years since his retirement doing his level best to avoid every social gathering within a 30-mile radius. His wife Linda had died of ovarian cancer seven years prior, and he’d convinced himself that letting any new person occupy the quiet space she’d left behind was tantamount to betrayal. He only agreed to show up to the fire department’s annual fish fry because his next-door neighbor had fed his coonhound, Max, for three days while he recovered from knee surgery earlier that spring, and he owed her.
He parked his beat-up F-150 at the edge of the fairgrounds, grabbed a can of Pabst from the cooler by the entrance, and leaned against a pine tree, half-hidden by shadow, planning to slip out after he’d eaten a plate of fried perch and fulfilled his obligation. The air smelled like lake water, battered fish, and charcoal, string lights strung between the pines buzzed soft and low, and the distant call of loons carried over the water from the bay. He was halfway through his beer, calculating how much longer he needed to stay, when someone bumped hard into his left side, sending a cup of iced tea sloshing over the cuff of his gray wool flannel.
“Jesus, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the woman said, grabbing a handful of paper napkins from the stack on the nearby picnic table and leaning in to dab at the wet spot on his sleeve. She was close enough that he could smell lavender lotion mixed with the faint, sweet scent of clover honey, and when she looked up at him, he recognized her immediately: Clara Bennett, Linda’s younger brother’s ex-wife. He hadn’t seen her since the divorce was finalized two years prior, and she looked exactly the same as she had at their family Christmas back in 2019, same dark curly hair streaked with gray at the temples, same smattering of freckles across her nose, same wide, crinkly smile when she laughed at her own clumsiness.
She didn’t step back right away, her shoulder pressed light against his chest, and she held his gaze for three beats too long, her thumb brushing the back of his wrist when she handed him an extra napkin to wipe the rest of the tea off his hand. “Rafe, right? I thought that was you. I saw your name in the paper when you won that ice fishing tournament up at Munising back in February. Nice work.”
He grunted, surprised anyone remembered that, and gestured to the empty picnic table at the far edge of the fairgrounds, away from the crowd of locals yelling over each other at the raffle table. They sat down, and she told him she’d moved up to the area six months prior, working as the county extension agent for native pollinators, keeping a couple dozen beehives out behind the small cottage she’d bought on the other side of the bay. He told her about the lighthouse, about how he still drove up there once a week to check on the grounds, even though the Coast Guard didn’t ask him to, about Max’s obsession with chasing squirrels through the woods behind his house.
He kept waiting for the guilt to hit, for that sharp twist in his chest that always came when he spent too long talking to someone who wasn’t Linda, but it never came. Instead, he found himself laughing when she told him about the time a bear broke into her beehives last month and ate half her honey stock, leaning in a little closer when she pulled out her phone to show him photos of the baby bluebirds nesting in the birdhouse on her porch. He didn’t even notice when the raffle ended, when most of the crowd packed up their coolers and headed home, until the fire chief walked by and told them they were locking up the gates in 10 minutes.
The sky had clouded over, and a light, cold drizzle was starting to fall when he walked her to her beat-up Subaru pickup parked a few spots down from his F-150. She stopped with her hand on the door handle, turning to face him, and she didn’t look away when he leaned in, like she’d been waiting for it just as long as he had. The kiss was soft, no rush, her hand coming up to rest on the back of his neck, her lip balm tasting like cherry, the rain cold on his cheeks where they weren’t pressed together. When they pulled back, she smiled, and told him she’d never forgotten that time he’d taught her to skip stones on the lake at Linda’s 40th birthday party, that she’d thought about that afternoon more times than she’d ever admit.
They made plans to drive up to the lighthouse next Saturday, he’d bring the smoked whitefish he cured in his smokehouse out back, she’d bring a jar of the honey she’d harvested earlier that summer. He drove home with the window rolled down, the rain coming down harder now, the smell of wet pine drifting through the cab. Max was waiting for him on the porch when he pulled up, tail thumping hard against the floorboards when he opened the door. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, sat down on the porch swing, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel guilty for looking forward to something that didn’t center on the memory of his wife. He picked up his phone to text her a photo of the lighthouse at sunrise he’d taken the previous week, his thumb hovering over the send button for half a second before he pressed it.
