The Lighthouse Diner – Part 2: The Light Comes On

The roof took eleven weeks. Gabe worked through the fog and the rain and one memorable week of gales that tore the sign off the porch and sent it cartwheeling into the sea. Lena brought him coffee every morning in a chipped mug, and he brought her a slice of pie every afternoon, and they argued about the paint colour for the windows until they both gave up and chose the one that matched the sea.

By June the diner was painted white and blue, the counter had new stools, and the grill had been coaxed back to life. The sign said Open in fresh letters, and the first summer customers were coming up the rocky road, sunburnt and curious.

"You're smiling," said Gabe, from the ladder.

"I'm not."

"You're smiling so hard it's making me nervous."

"That's your fault," said Lena. "You put up the sign crooked on purpose."

"I did not."

"You did. It's leaning towards the lighthouse."

He climbed down and stood beside her on the porch, looking up at the sign, and then at the lighthouse beyond the point.

"Maybe it's leaning towards something," he said quietly.

Lena's breath caught. She didn't say anything.

That night, a small crew from the coast guard came up the road with a van full of equipment. The lighthouse had been restored by a foundation, and tonight the lamp would be lit for the first time in twenty years. The whole village had turned out. People stood on the rocks with blankets and flasks of coffee, waiting for the dark.

Lena and Gabe sat on the diner's porch steps, watching the lighthouse. The sky turned violet, then navy, then black, and the first stars came out over the sea.

"Can I ask you something?" said Gabe, quietly.

"Yes."

"Would you stay for the rest of the summer? And the autumn, when the storms come in? And then tell me, honestly, whether this place is a diner you inherited or a home you chose?"

Lena looked at the lighthouse, tall and pale on the point, the rocks glowing in the twilight, the water moving softly below.

"I think I chose it," she said. "The day you brought the pie."

"Then can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me kiss you, here, on the porch, with the whole village waiting for the light? Because I've been wanting to since you told me my sign was leaning."

Lena laughed, low and bright. "Yes," she said. "But if I say stop, you have to finish the windows, and I'll tell you what colour they should be."

"Deal," said Gabe, and turned to her, his hand coming up to rest against her cheek, rough and warm from the work.

He kissed her slowly, the taste of coffee and salt on his lips, his arms coming round her as the crowd on the rocks began to murmur. She leaned into him, her hands finding his shoulders, steady and sure.

Then the lighthouse lamp flared on, a long golden beam sweeping over the water, and the whole village cheered, and the light moved across the porch, across the new paint, across the two of them, bright and warm.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Gabe.

"Green," said Lena. "Very green. Now let's go and make the pie. The whole village is going to want a slice, and I'm finally going to write the recipe down."

"Only for you," said Gabe, and took her hand, and they walked inside the diner together, under the warm, turning light of the lighthouse, towards the kitchen and the oven and the first sweet smell of blueberries.