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Chapter nine

Eric

T he ferry's diesel engine coughed to life beneath my feet, sending vibrations through the weathered deck planks. Wes needed fresh batteries for his weather radio, and we were running low on coffee. We could buy both from the co-op, but I used them to justify a trip to Whistleport.

I needed space to think, and twenty miles of choppy ocean water would help.

The crossing gave me forty minutes to watch Ironhook shrink behind us, its granite shores and scrub pine becoming abstract shapes against the horizon.

Gulls followed in our wake, their cries sharp above the engine's rumble.

Salt spray misted across the bow, leaving crystalline deposits on my jacket sleeves.

When we docked in Whistleport's harbor, the familiar bustle was almost overwhelming. Late-season tourists wandered the boardwalk with ice cream cones. Fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, their rigging clanking in the breeze like wind chimes made of metal and rope.

On the way to collecting supplies, my phone felt heavy in my pocket. I'd meant to call Dad since arriving on Ironhook, but the conversations we shared lately were brittle, like we were both afraid of stepping on landmines buried in seemingly innocent topics.

I dialed his number while walking past the boats in the harbor.

"Eric? Everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Dad. Just checking in." I settled onto a bench overlooking the water, watching a lobsterman secure his traps for the day. "How's work?"

"Same as always. Had a kitchen fire on Maple Street yesterday—a grease problem that got out of hand. Nothing we couldn't handle. How's the island treating you?"

"It's good, Dad. Really good. The research is going well." I picked at a splinter in the bench's surface. "Actually, I've learned some things about the night you saved someone from that car accident. Graduation night, sixteen years ago."

The line went quiet except for the faint static of our connection. I checked my phone screen to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"What brought that up?"

"The man you saved. He's on Ironhook. Wes Hunter."

Another long pause.

"That boy went through hell."

The assessment caught me off guard. Dad was suddenly sharing more about one of the people he'd helped than any other I could remember.

He spoke slowly as if he were pulling the words from someplace deep. "I should have reached out after everything settled and he left the hospital. He disappeared, and then... well, small towns talk, Eric. Sometimes, the talk drowns out everything else."

I spoke in a slightly defensive tone. "He's been taking care of Ironhook Island for sixteen years. He's good, Dad. Really good. The kind of person who notices when his neighbors' chimneys aren't smoking."

Another pause. The following words surprised me. "Tell him Chief Callahan remembers him as a fighter."

The unexpected softness in his tone nearly leveled me. This was the man who'd taught me that emotions were private things and strength meant keeping your feelings locked away where they couldn't complicate situations or cloud judgment.

I considered seeing him in person, but I knew that would make me late for the ferry back to Ironhook.

"I'll tell him what you said."

"Good." Dad cleared his throat, returning to the more familiar territory of practical concerns. "Be alert out there, Eric. Islands can be isolating. Don't lose yourself in someone else's story."

"I'll keep my eyes open."

"And Eric? When you return to the mainland, bring him with you if he's willing.

I owe him a conversation that's sixteen years overdue.

" He paused. "He was just a kid, but when we pulled him out of that wreck, he wasn't crying.

He was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet I've only seen in people who think they deserved what happened. "

The call ended with our usual exchange of love and promises to talk soon. I sat on the marina bench for several more minutes, watching the boats and processing what I'd learned.

Dad's carefully maintained professional distance had cracked, revealing the human cost of treating tragedy like a case file you could close and file away.

I made a quick stop to buy most of my supplies, but I decided the coffee would be something special. It was time to visit Whistleport's best coffee shop, Tidal Grounds.

The converted bait shop overlooked the working waterfront where lobster boats unloaded their daily catch. Silas Brewster worked behind the counter, efficiently remembering the orders of every regular.

"Eric Callahan," he called out when he spotted me in line. "How's island life treating you? Your usual?"

"Please." I appreciated that he remembered my order—medium roast with a splash of cream, nothing fancy. "Island life's been educational."

"I bet." Silas handed me the steaming cup. "Ironhook's got its own rhythm. Takes some getting used to."

The coffee shop's interior mixed nautical nostalgia with genuine working-class comfort.

Frayed rope hung from the rafters alongside vintage photographs of Whistleport's fishing fleet.

A bulletin board near the register overflowed with community announcements—yard sales, babysitting services, and advertisements for seasonal work.

I claimed a small table near the window, intending to review my notes while waiting for the return ferry. Despite my best efforts to mind my own business, the conversation at a neighboring table drew my attention.

An older man with paint-stained fingers—probably from the hardware store—spoke around a bite of blueberry muffin.

"Ironhook's lighthouse was acting up again last month.

It fixed itself real quick once Wes heard about it.

Say what you want about that boy, but Margaret Sinclair knew what she was doing. "

My pen stopped moving across the page.

His companion, a woman whose graying ponytail was escaping from under a Whistleport Harbor Festival cap, stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

"Remember how that place looked when old Pete tried to manage it after the fishing collapse?

Dock falling apart, half the trails washed out.

" She shook her head. "Wes turned it around in his first season. "

The man chuckled, but it faded quickly. "Still breaks my heart, though.

The kid had hands like magic on the ice.

I coached Little League when he was coming up—different sport, but natural athletes are obvious.

" He tapped the table. "Still got his trading card from the high school fundraiser in my desk drawer.

Marie keeps telling me to throw it out, but. .."

"Don't you dare." The woman's voice sharpened. "Derek Morgensen's the one who should've been run out of town, not Wesley. Everyone knew that boy was headed for trouble, driving around like he owned the roads." She lowered her voice. "What happened wasn't Wesley's fault; anyone with sense knew it."

The man gave a tired laugh. "Hell, I was assistant principal back then. We all knew something was off—teachers raised flags, and coaches tried to keep them apart. But once Derek's dad started making noise at the school board..."

He trailed off, then added more quietly, "It was easier not to push it. Safer, career-wise."

I froze.

I wanted to interrupt, to ask why none of them had reached out and why a community that recognized Wes's worth had allowed him to vanish into isolation. But what could I say to a man who'd once had the power to protect a kid and decided not to?

No one stopped it. They rearranged their deck chairs and hoped the iceberg wouldn't hit their part of the Titanic .

The ferry horn sounded from the harbor, cutting through the coffee shop's warm atmosphere. Conversations paused as some customers checked their watches and began gathering their belongings.

I drained my coffee cup and headed for the door, but Silas called out as I passed the counter.

"Give my regards to Wes. Tell him Silas says the island's lucky to have him."

I nodded. Something in his tone suggested it was a message that went beyond casual friendliness. Maybe Silas understood what the others didn't—that more than a decade of reliable service couldn't erase the damage done by a community's silence when it mattered most.

The ferry waited at the dock, its engine already running. I climbed aboard and found a spot at the rail, watching Whistleport's harbor shrink behind us as we headed back toward Ironhook.

As the island grew larger on the horizon, I looked forward to returning to the cottage and the complicated honesty of Wes's silence. It was a place where they measured people by their actions rather than the stories others told about them.

Ironhook's now familiar coastline emerged from the afternoon mist, granite cliffs softened by the ocean air that made everything appear slightly out of focus.

The small lighthouse stood sentinel on the island's northeastern point, its white tower stark against the gray-green backdrop of scrub pine and wild roses.

When the ferry docked, I shouldered my pack and headed up the path to the cottage. The trail wound through beach grass and wild goldenrod, past the weathered remains of fish weirs that spoke of the island's working past.

Halfway to the cottage, I spotted Wes working on the lighthouse's exterior walkway, his movements economical and purposeful against the white tower. I detoured toward him, knowing the old automated structure still required constant maintenance against salt air and weather.

"Need a hand?" I called out.

Wes paused, wrench suspended midair. For a moment, I expected dismissal. Instead, he nodded. "Could use someone to pass tools."

The ladder rungs were cold, and the wind was stronger as I climbed. "What are we fixing?"

"Railing supports. Storm loosened the joints." He gestured at the damaged section, fingers tracing bolt holes with practiced assessment. "Socket wrench."