He'd paid for solitude and no one could say he didn't get what he'd paid for. The lighthouse squatted like a roosting owl among the pine trees in the chilly, gray afternoon light, and Dean felt a shiver skitter along his spine. This was home for the next two months while he worked on his latest novel in the sort of tranquil solitude found only on remote islands off the coast of Maine. The kicker was it was a functional lighthouse, complete with a lighthouse keeper. Dean had been fairly certain those didn't exist anymore, but apparently he was mistaken.