By Laura Handleton
Rebecca Mercer left her desk early to reach Mulholland Lighthouse before sunset. The October wind came in brisk and cold off the Atlantic; it carried the scent of brine and the look of an afternoon surge of the incoming tide. Mulholland Lighthouse stood like a sentinel at the edge of the cliff; its white tower streaked with years of salt and weather. The lamp room glowed faintly against the gray afternoon, a warm pulse in the gathering fog.
Rebecca tightened her wool coat as she walked up the narrow path toward the lighthouse. As she reached the bottom step she noticed a reflection of her destination in the bay to the east. She had visited every Thursday for the past three months, ever since the Maritime Office assigned her to deliver updated shipping logs to the keeper. It was supposed to be a simple errand that she could do on the way home from work. It was routine, forgettable. But nothing felt routine about the man who waited in the one-hundred-year-old lighthouse that helped dozens of ships through the Lubec Narrows every week.
Thomas Hampton was not what she expected of a lighthouse keeper. He was young, clean shaved, well spoken, and no more than thirty. His dark hair curled when the mist touched it and a quiet steadiness made her feel at ease. He had taken over the post after his father’s passing, and though he rarely spoke of it, Rebecca sensed an unwanted solitude in him.
When she reached the lighthouse door, it opened before she could knock. “You’re early,” Thomas said, his voice warm despite the cold. “The fog must’ve hurried you along.”
“Or the wind,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “It’s determined to blow me straight off the cliff.”
He stepped aside to let her in. “Then I’m glad you made it here before it succeeded.”
Inside, the lighthouse was dim but cozy, lit by the soft glow of oil lamps. Thomas’s father had continued to use oil lamps even after the electric was installed, he often said, “I do what I know is right for me.” The walls of the service room held the day’s chill, yet the space felt welcoming.
Rebecca handed Thomas the leather-bound logbook, but he didn’t open it right away. Instead, he studied her with that thoughtful, searching expression she had come to know. “You don’t have to rush off today,” he said. “Stay for tea, and I just finished a batch of those cookies, you like. Besides, the fog’s thickening. Stay a while, at least until it lifts.”
She hesitated, though she wasn’t sure why. She wanted to stay. She always wanted to stay. “All right,” she said.
They climbed the spiral staircase to the lamp room. Thomas had added a small table with two matching chairs, a small table lamp to light the room, and a leather sofa that he often used for afternoon naps. From there, the world below was nothing but swirling gray, the sea hidden beneath a shroud of mist. The beacon rotated slowly, casting long arcs of light into the void.
“It’s strange,” Rebecca murmured. “Everything looks so uncertain out there. But from here, it feels … safe.”
Thomas leaned against the railing; his gaze fixed on the fog. “I suppose that’s the purpose of a lighthouse. To make the uncertain a little less frightening.”
She turned to him. “Does it work for you too?”
He met her eyes, and something unspoken passed between them—something that had been building for weeks.
“Only when you’re here,” he said.
His words settled over her like a warm blanket. She felt a warmth rise in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she stepped closer, the soft hum of the rotating lamp filled the silence between them.
“I worry about you up here,” she admitted. “All alone with the storms and the fog.”
“You know, don’t you,” he said, “I only feel the loneliness after your visits end.”
That simple statement made her heart ache. She reached out, her hand brushing his. He didn’t pull away. Their fingers intertwined, tentative at first, then certain.
Outside, the fog thickened, swallowing the horizon. But inside the lamp room, the world felt small and bright, illuminated by more than the turning beam.
Thomas lifted her hand to his lips, a gesture so gentle it nearly unraveled her. He kissed her forefinger. “Rebecca,” he whispered, “I think I’ve been waiting for you longer than I realized. But that is a story for a different time.”
She smiled and agreed the sun would set before she could get home. She leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder as she said, “Good night.”
The lamp continued its steady rotation, casting light into the unknown even as the fog pressed hard against the glass of the staircase window
Later, Rebecca and Thomas knew that for the first time in months neither of them felt alone even if they were miles apart.