A Light Between Oceans Episode 24

Sandy and Lucas walked up the path to the imposing double doors of the Imperial.
Having talked non-stop through dinner, they had fallen quiet as the car purred back along the coast road to Belmouth, their silence broken only by the rhythmic crash of breakers as the tide came in.
It felt so natural, so companionable, and though Sandy couldn’t imagine what he could have locked in the safe at the hotel, her worries about Hattie had become strangely still.
She was only aware of the nearness of him: the faint lemony scent of his aftershave and his strong hand on the gear stick as he expertly manoeuvred the car around the curves.
They stepped into the warmly lit foyer, and the concierge glanced in their direction, his eyebrows slightly raised.
Lucas whisked Sandy to some chairs near the bar area.
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said quietly. “Let me get you a drink.”
“Thank you. Just some water.”
She had begun to feel nervous and she saw the tension in his face as well.
He gently squeezed her hand, then stopped at the bar before disappearing up the carpeted staircase.
A minute later a waiter set down a carafe of water and two glasses.
Sandy smiled her thanks, and as he turned on a polished heel and walked away she suddenly felt a strange feeling of dreamlike detachment from her surroundings.
She looked up and saw Lucas walking towards her, a large flat carrier bag in his hand, and the feeling of oneness returned.
She saw the urgency in his face along with excitement tinged with apprehension, and her heart began to pound as she felt it with him.
He turned the chair to face her and sat down, carefully placing the bag on the table between them.
Then he reached inside and took out a large rectangular piece of wood, covered in tissue.
He pushed the paper aside.
Sandy stared at an oil painting in a simple wood frame.
“It’s the lighthouse . . . and the cottage,” she said blankly. “It’s Belmouth. Where did you get it? It’s wonderful.”
“I know. It cost me enough. I saw it hanging in a little gallery in an area of New York that I rarely go to. The owner of the place didn’t want to part with it.”
“It was in New York?” Sandy asked. “How strange. What a fascinating style – almost primitive, yet it has a kind of elegance.”
She gazed at the glowing stretch of beach she knew so well, the waves sparkling and a woman carrying a basket in the distance.
“The sun on the lighthouse – I can almost feel it.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“Who is the artist?” She looked at the bottom of the painting, her head cocked to one side as she read. “Hans . . .”
“Van Bakkar,” he finished.
“Is that German? Lucas, what is this all about?”
Sandy looked up, and saw that his lip was quivering slightly.
“Hans Van Bakkar was my father.”
“Your father?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “But –”
“It was his name before we immigrated to America. He changed it to Henry Brook at Ellis Island.
“When I started school it was decided that I’d be called Lucas instead of Finn.”
“Your real name is Finn? It’s very nice. Do you like it?” Sandy asked.
He shrugged.
“Lucas is my middle name, so I’m used to it.”
“Finn Van Bakkar,” Sandy said slowly. “It does sound very distinguished.”
“I’m happy to be Lucas Brook.” He grinned. “And changing it back would take some explaining.”
She smiled.