Free Grace in Autumn by Lori Copeland

Zuriel caught up to the man as they passed the ferry office. “First time to Heavenly Daze?” he asked.
    The man nodded, his eyes set and serious beneath dark brows. “First and last, I hope,” he said, glancing up and down Main Street. “What is this place, a ghost town? Not a soul around.”
    â€œI wouldn’t say that,” Zuriel countered. “I’m here. Everyone else, I expect, is busy with their duties. We’ve just come through a busy tourist season, and most folks are settling down for winter and the holidays.” He nodded at Frenchman’s Fairest as they walked past. “That household is keeping a vigil. The owner, Edmund de Cuvier, is near death.”
    The man made a face. “That’s terrible. This place is bleak enough during the winter, but with death hanging over your heads—”
    Zuriel cast the man a reproving glance. “On the contrary, there’s nothing bleak about this island. You should come back when you have more time to look around.”
    â€œOne look is all I need. The magazine I freelance for wanted a shot of this lighthouse for its spring edition. Though how I’m going to make it look like spring is beyond me.”
    Zuriel laughed softly. “The northern part of the island looks pretty much the same year round, except when there’s snow on the ground. It’s rocky up there, so we don’t get much vegetation, even in summer. The landscape shouldn’t be a problem, but getting close enough for a good shot might be. The lighthouse caretaker is a mite zealous in his responsibility. He doesn’t like people getting too close.”
    â€œI’ve got a zoom lens,” the man answered.
    â€œYou’ll need it.”
    They passed through the intersection of Ferry Road and Main Street in silence. “Man,” the visitor said as they passed the mercantile, “I feel like I’ve stepped back in time.”
    Zuriel shivered as a gust of wind rocked the hanging sign outside the B&B. “Folks around here do like to keep things pretty much the same. That’s what brings the summer tourists. Everyone likes to take a walk down memory lane.” His voice softened as he thought about the two hundred years he’d passed on the island. “Even me.”
    He inclined his head toward the Graham Gallery as they approached. “Here’s where I live. Could I interest you in a cup of cocoa before you head on up to the lighthouse?”
    He stopped outside the tidy picket fence surrounding the property and noticed that his new acquaintance cast a longing eye toward the sheltering porch.
    â€œSomething hot sounds good,” the man admitted. “The boat ride about froze me solid.”
    â€œThen come in for a cup.” Zuriel opened the gate and gestured toward the cobblestone path. “Babette always keeps a pot of hot water on the stove, and there’s instant coffee or cocoa or whatever you like.”
    â€œYour wife?” the man asked, passing through the gate.
    â€œMy landlady”—Zuriel flashed a smile—“and co-owner of the Graham Gallery, home of the finest art and most humble pottery in these parts. You can look around while you drink your cocoa, and I’d advise you to drink until you’re pretty well defrosted. The lighthouse is still a good walk from here.”
    The bells above the door jangled as they entered, and a moment later Babette emerged from the kitchen, her face flushed and her hands wet. She hesitated, a question in her eyes, when she saw the stranger in her foyer.
    â€œBabette,” Zuriel stepped forward, “I was wondering if you had some hot water on the stove. My friend here is determined to walk out to the lighthouse, but I think we ought to fortify him for the journey by putting something warm in his belly.”
    â€œWhy, certainly.” Babette dried her hands on her apron, then came forward and smiled at the stranger.