CHAPTER ONE
JESS TOOK ONE look at the lighthouse and knew that the search had been worth it. After weeks of wandering, and months before that of her pencils hovering over her sketch pad, the battered white-and-red lighthouse on Nova Scotia’s east coast stood firm against the brisk, briny wind.
In some regards she wondered if the lonely structure was her. Tall, a bit battered from the winds of life, but still standing.
Her agent was after her to do another show. “Your last one was such a success,” Jack had insisted. “An original Jessica Blundon commands top dollar right now.”
“You can’t rush the muse,” she’d replied, deliberately keeping her voice light. “I don’t paint to order.”
She hadn’t been painting at all. Not since Ana’s death. Her mentor. Her best friend. The older sister she’d never had. Losing Ana had devastated her and killed her creativity. Her life had suddenly become colorless and empty. No significant other. No children. No best friend.
She’d isolated herself far too much. So after a good year of grieving and moping, she’d decided to stop hiding away and go in search of what her life was going to look like. The best place to start, she figured, was finding her passion to paint again.
And while she didn’t “paint to order,” she did do this as her career. Like most creatives, it was impossible to separate what she did from who she was.
The biggest shock had been that when she was finally ready to put brush to canvas, she couldn’t. The block had been real and infuriating, until about six months ago, when she’d finally started sketching.
And traveling. She’d left behind the waters of the Great Lakes—Chicago—and gone west, to Seattle first, then San Francisco and down the coast to San Diego. The Pacific had been beautiful, but it wasn’t what she was looking for. She was searching for that feeling, right in her solar plexus, that told her when something was just right. The Gulf of Mexico hadn’t been it, either, though she’d adored her time in New Orleans and along the panhandle. She’d come closer to finding “it” the farther north she’d gone; past the barrier islands in the Carolinas, to the beaches of New Jersey and then the rugged coastline of Maine. On a whim she’d jumped on the CAT ferry in Bar Harbor and headed to Canada. She’d sketched lonely beaches, colorful coastal houses, gray rocks made black by the ocean waves. Trees budding in the mild spring weather. All lovely. But nothing that had felt inspiring. Nothing that created the burn to create.
Her sketchbook was full of drawings, but the lighthouse before her? It was that punch-to-the-gut feeling, and she relished the trickle of excitement running through her veins. “This is it, Ana,” she murmured. “It’s time.”
The brisk wind off the ocean tossed her hair around her face and bit through the light cotton shirt she wore. May was definitely not Nova Scotia’s warmest month, even though the sun shone brightly and warmed a spot between her shoulder blades. She needed to get a different vantage point. The angle here was too sharp. But the lighthouse stood on a bluff jutting out toward the sea, and the only path to it seemed to be from the property before her. And the gate that baldly pronounced Private Property—Do Not Enter.
“Private property,” she grumbled, peering over the metal barrier. She couldn’t see the house from here, and the drive led to the left while the lighthouse was off to the right and then south. Lips set, she swung her bag over her shoulder and put her foot on the bottom railing of the gate.
“Not electric.” She grinned and then nimbly hoisted herself over the metal railings and landed on the other side.
It didn’t take long for her to get a glimpse of the house. It was an imposing but beautiful structure, with gray siding and stonework and what would be marvelous gardens in another month or so. Fledgling hostas, their leaves still tightly furled, and a variety of tulips and hyacinths kept the beds from looking sad and naked. Jess expected that there were other perennials beneath the surface waiting for the summer warmth to wake them. The house had a fantastic panoramic view of the Atlantic coastline, and a sloped lawn led to what appeared to be low cliffs. She wondered if there was a beach below. And she’d like to look, but first she wanted to skirt the property and get to the isolated lighthouse, so she could take some pictures and perhaps make a sketch or two.
The ground was hard and rocky beneath her feet as she set off to the lonely tower. She’d made a friend at the nearby resort, and Tori had told her about the hidden gem, suggesting its semi-neglected state might add to its allure. She hadn’t been wrong. The weather-beaten clapboards on the outside were in sad need of fresh paint, and as Jess got closer, she realized that the gray wood was worn surprisingly smooth from wind and salt. There was rust on the hinges of the door, and she wondered if the thing would even open or what she might find inside if it did. Dirt? Mice? Other
