The electrical wiring had been shot to pieces, the real estate agent had told me when I’d moved in, and the wiring was from the last century. There was woodworm in the ceiling, and before the historical society had gotten their hands on it, vagrants had set up camp inside, so it smelled a little like urine and rotten food. The disrepair of the three rooms of the keeper’s quarters couldn’t be solved with TLC—it needed something a lot stronger.

And so the historical society had outsourced the cleanup to a cleaning crew, and they’d come in and scoured the place clean. After that, the quarters and the lighthouse had changed hands a few times. Some rich guy had bought it with the intent of settling in Oar’s Rest, only to discover that small-town living didn’t agree with him. His asking price was sky-high, which meant no one was willing to buy it. He filed for bankruptcy a year later.

The historical society had scooped up the remodeled buildings again, hoping to maintain the place as a cultural monument of the town. They leased it out for a rock-bottom rent with the addendum that the new renter, me, had to provide tours during tourist season.

Inside, the quarters had been renovated into a museum. Glass cabinets housed relics and mementos of the past, like photographs taken by the families who had lived here and foghorns and thick, ancient knots of rope. Placards provided colorful visuals of maritime history, and one wall was reserved solely for a timeline of famous ships that had come in and out of harbor. Old pictorial maps were available to browse through, and everyone was enamored with the sparkling Fresnel lenses and Coast Guard medals.

To wrap up the tour, I recommended a few places for them to get lunch and locally made ice cream. The kids immediately began clamoring to leave, the youngest ones tugging on their parents’ hands and shorts.

I closed the cooler lid, watching as the tourists picked their way down the hill, hands outstretched to keep them balanced. I grinned at Levi. “Bet you’re glad you had a bike. Did you see their faces by the time they made it up here? Lobster red.”

He laughed, and I finally noticed how far he’d come on the painting. “That’s beautiful,” I said, taking a step closer, our shoulders grazing. “You got the colors just right.”

He’d managed to get the soft hues of the houses and the crocodile green of the grass. The upper left of the canvas had a curve overlooking the houses below. I looked closely at it until I figured it out.

“The lighthouse!” I turned to him. “It’s beautiful. I bet a lot of people would want this.”

He studied my face. “It’s not for sale.”