Nothing Less Than Everything

by Maggie C. Gates

I started in the direction she had pointed out. “You doing okay in there?” I tapped the top of her head. Wren leaned over the console and rested it on my shoulder. “Yeah. I just wanna show you something.” She stared out the window at the passing houses as I weaved through the neighborhood and down a backroad. There was an introspective aura radiating from her body. Her normally perky demeanor was softer. More subdued. Her brows were creased and her lips were pursed as she watched the landscape fly by. We broke free of the residential area and cruised down a service road along the shoreline. The sun was a vivid orange as it sank low in an early December sunset. “Here,” Wren said quietly, pointing at the entrance to a long drive, shrouded by overgrown vines and barren trees. Brick pillars were cracked and crumbling from decades of coastal New England weather. I gave her a wary look as the SUV bumped down the pothole-riddled drive. “Where are you taking me, Little Bird?” A coy smile curled at the corner of her mouth as we rounded a bend marked by a naked weeping willow. “The house.” I stomped on the brakes the moment the house came into view. I remembered her telling me about the Victorian on the coast that she dreamed of renovating. What she had failed to tell me was that the house was actually a lighthouse. Wren was already unbuckling her seatbelt. “What are you doing?” I asked. She looked at me, then at the house. “I wanna go in. We’re already down here. Might as well.” I ...