The official summons arrived on a Tuesday, delivered by a mail carrier who looked far too cheerful for the crisp, legal-weight envelope he handed over. It felt heavier than paper ought to, weighted with the bureaucratic authority of the Town of Port Blossom.
Lena held it between two fingers as if it were contaminated. “Formal Hearing Regarding Property Code Violations at 1 Sea-Chaser Point,” she read aloud, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.
It was her lawyer voice, the one she used to drain the passion from a situation and see only the facts. “Attendance mandatory.”
Finn, who had been sanding a stubborn patch of water-damaged trim, set down his tools and wiped a streak of sawdust from his brow with the back of his hand.
“A hearing? She couldn’t just send another passive-aggressive note about our overgrown hydrangeas?”
“This is what happens when you ignore the notes, Finn,” Lena said, her eyes already scanning the document for deadlines, statutes, and procedural loopholes.
“Brenda’s escalated. She’s taking this to the town council.”
“Great. A public shaming. I’ll wear my Sunday best.”
He kicked lightly at a pile of wood shavings, his frustration a visible cloud around him. This was the part he hated—not the work, but the politics, the endless rules that had nothing to do with the honest labor of bringing something back to life.
“What does this even mean? Can they kick us out?”
“No,” Lena said, her focus absolute. The kitchen, with its half-painted walls and scent of turpentine, faded away.
She was in her element now, a battlefield she understood.
“Not yet. This is a preliminary step. They’ll hear her complaints, we’ll present our case, and they’ll make a ruling.
Best case, they dismiss it. Worst case, they impose fines or a legally binding remediation order with an aggressive timeline.”
Finn watched her, a reluctant sort of awe creeping in. The harried, perpetually stressed woman who argued with him over paint swatches was gone.
In her place stood the sharp, formidable attorney he’d once watched command a courtroom. Her shoulders were set, her jaw firm.
She wasn’t just reading a letter; she was analyzing an opponent’s opening move.
“So, what’s our case?” he asked, his voice softer now.
Lena finally looked up from the summons, her gaze piercing.
“Our case is The Lighthouse Accords. It’s our plan, our budget, our commitment.
It’s proof that we’re not delinquent squatters; we’re actively engaged in a good-faith restoration. And I,” she added, a flicker of steel in her eyes, “am going to make sure they understand that.”
***
The day of the hearing was gray and blustery, the sky the color of unpolished steel. Finn drove, his hands tight on the wheel of their beat-up truck.
Beside him, Lena was a stranger. She wore a charcoal gray suit, impeccably tailored, and low heels that clicked with quiet authority.
Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot, and she was reviewing a slim folder of documents, her face a mask of concentration. He’d forgotten what she was like in this mode.
It was like watching a hawk spot its prey from a mile up—intense, focused, and a little bit terrifying.
“You’re quiet,” he said, breaking the silence.
“I’m preparing,” she replied without looking up.
“Brenda will try to frame this with emotion. ‘An eyesore,’ ‘a danger to the community,’ ‘disrespect for our town’s aesthetic.’
I have to counter with indisputable facts and a clear, actionable plan.” She finally turned to him.
“Just let me do the talking. No matter what she says, no matter how insulting she is, you say nothing.
You just look responsible and nod. Can you do that?”
The instruction stung, but he knew she was right. His temper, when provoked by self-righteous busybodies, was not their strongest asset.
“I can look responsible,” he grumbled. “I’m a homeowner, aren’t I?”
Lena’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Finn. You are.”
The town hall was a modest clapboard building that smelled of old wood, floor polish, and weak coffee. The meeting room was packed, a testament to Port Blossom’s appetite for minor civic drama.
Brenda was already there, holding court near the front, dressed in a prim floral dress that belied the venom in her smile. She was speaking in hushed, earnest tones to a man Finn didn’t recognize.
He was tall, dressed in a suit far too expensive for a small-town council meeting, with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. His shoes shone with a city gloss.
As Lena and Finn entered, the man’s eyes flickered over them, a brief, dismissive assessment, before he turned back to Brenda.
Lena clocked him instantly. She saw the expensive watch, the confident posture, the way he surveyed the room not as a resident, but as a predator surveying a territory.
A small, uneasy knot formed in her stomach.
They took their seats as the council members, a panel of five grim-faced locals, called the meeting to order. Salty MacLeod was there, leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.
His presence was a small, solid comfort.
Brenda spoke first, her voice a syrupy blend of concern and condescension. She presented a slideshow of photos—the peeling paint, the overgrown yard before they’d started clearing it, the pile of salvaged lumber by the side of the house.
She spoke of property values, civic pride, and the “unfortunate but necessary” step of bringing this matter before the council.
“It’s simply a question of standards,” she concluded, folding her hands neatly.
“We all want to preserve the charm of Port Blossom. This… this dereliction is a blight on our beautiful coastline.”
Then it was Lena’s turn. She walked to the podium, not with a slideshow of excuses, but with her slim folder.
She was calm, her voice steady and clear as it filled the room.
“Mr. Chairman, members of the council,” she began.
“My name is Lena Petrova. My former husband, Finn O’Connell, and I are the current stewards of the Sea-Chaser Lighthouse property, by bequest of his late aunt, Maeve O’Connell.”
She didn’t dispute Brenda’s photos. She acknowledged them.
“The property is, as has been shown, in a state of disrepair. We do not deny this.
Maeve’s health declined in her final years, and the lighthouse suffered for it. Our task, as stipulated in her will, is not merely to occupy the property, but to restore it.”
She laid out their plan, referencing the document she’d placed before each council member.
She spoke of the budget she’d created, the phases of work they’d outlined in their ‘Lighthouse Accords,’ and the progress they had already made—the repaired porch railing, the secured roof, the cleared brush.
She spoke with a passion that surprised Finn, not just of fulfilling a legal obligation, but of honoring a legacy.
“This isn’t a commercial project,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the council.
“It’s the preservation of a historic landmark. It requires time, care, and a substantial financial investment on our part.
An investment we are fully prepared to make. All we ask for is the time to do it right.”
When she finished, the room was silent. She had dismantled Brenda’s argument not by attacking it, but by building something stronger, more reasonable, and more respectful right next to it.
Finn felt a surge of pride so potent it almost buckled his knees. He had been so focused on her pragmatism, on her seeing the lighthouse as a transaction, that he had forgotten the fierce, brilliant advocate she could be.
The council deliberated for a painfully long ten minutes. The chairman, a hardware store owner with a permanently worried expression, cleared his throat.
“Given the detailed plan presented by Ms. Petrova, the council is not prepared to issue fines at this time,” he announced.
“However, the concerns raised are valid. We are therefore granting a ninety-day probationary extension.
We expect to see significant and demonstrable progress in that time, at which point we will review the matter again.”
It wasn’t a dismissal, but it was a victory. A reprieve.
As the meeting adjourned, a low murmur filled the room. Finn stood, wanting to clap Lena on the shoulder, to say something, but she wasn’t looking at him.
Her gaze was fixed across the room. Brenda was again in a hushed conversation with the slick man in the suit.
This time, Lena saw the man place a reassuring hand on Brenda’s arm and give her a practiced, calming smile.
“Who is that guy?” Lena murmured, more to herself than to Finn.
As they filed out into the salty air, Salty met them on the steps. “Ye did good, lass,” he grunted, giving Lena a respectful nod.
“Had old Brenda sputtering into her tea.”
“Thanks, Salty. But it’s just a delay,” Lena said, her mind still on the man.
“Salty, who was Brenda talking to? The man in the expensive suit.”
Salty’s face darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening. He spat on the ground, a gesture of profound disgust.
“That,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, “is Julian Thorne. He’s a piranha in a thousand-dollar suit. Works for Sterling Development.”
Finn’s blood ran cold. He knew the name.
Everyone on the coast did.
“Sterling? The ones who built those glass monstrosities over in North Point?”
“The very same,” Salty confirmed.
“They buy up old family properties, anything with a view. They pressure folks, find code violations, make life difficult until the owners get tired of fighting and sell for pennies on the dollar.
Then they tear it all down and put up condos that nobody who grew up here can afford.”
The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity in Lena’s mind. The escalation from petty notes to a formal hearing.
Brenda’s polished, well-coached presentation. Thorne’s silent, predatory presence.
This was never about overgrown hydrangeas or peeling paint.
“She’s not just a concerned neighbor,” Lena breathed, the cool air suddenly feeling frigid. “She’s his cudgel.”
“Aye,” Salty said.
“Brenda gets to feel important and gets a fat check for her trouble, and Sterling gets a foothold. Thorne’s been sniffing around the lighthouse property for months, even before Maeve passed.
He sees that point, and he doesn’t see history. He sees a prime location for a luxury marina and a dozen waterfront townhomes.”
Suddenly, the ninety-day extension didn’t feel like a victory at all. It felt like the ticking of a clock.
They hadn’t just won a skirmish with a meddlesome neighbor. They had been officially put on notice by a powerful, ruthless enemy who wanted not just their inheritance, but the very land it stood on.
The stakes had just been raised from a nuisance to a war.
On the silent drive back to the lighthouse, the weight of this new reality settled between them, heavy and suffocating. The wind whipped around the truck, howling a lonely, mournful tune against the windows.
They weren’t just two exes trying to survive a year together anymore. They were defenders of a tiny, crumbling kingdom against a modern-day siege.
And they were utterly, terrifyingly, on their own.