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Chapter seventeen

Eric

T he scratch of pencil against paper drew my attention. Wes hunched over his weather log on the kitchen table, recording barometric pressure readings. His coffee steamed beside the notebook, untouched while he cross-referenced yesterday's predictions against what had actually materialized.

Pine needles tapped against the window glass in the morning breeze. The air outside was crisp and cold, meaning October was settling in for real—sharp enough to make us grateful for flannel and warm mugs.

"I need to make a supply run." I settled my mug on the coffee table where my research notes sprawled in organized chaos. "Whistleport. Few things I can't get from the co-op here."

Wes glanced up. "Ferry runs this afternoon if the weather holds. If you're quick, you'll be back by nightfall."

I spoke in a tone as casual as I could manage. "You could come with me."

The pencil stopped moving. Wes set it down and turned to face me.

"You want me to go into town?"

The disbelief in his voice was raw. He replied like I'd suggested he sprout wings and fly to the mainland instead of taking a twenty-minute ferry ride to a place he'd once called home.

I stood and moved closer, placing my hand on his shoulder. "I want to walk down Main Street with you. That's all."

Wes stared at me, and I watched him weigh the invitation against whatever fears welled up inside. He drummed his fingers on the table.

"Eric—"

"No pressure. If you'd rather not, I understand. I just thought..." I shrugged. "I'd like the company."

A beat of silence stretched between us. Outside, a gull cried sharp and lonely, its call echoing off the cottage walls.

Wes cleared his throat. "You'll need someone to help carry your gear."

It wasn't an enthusiastic tone—more resignation than agreement—but it was a yes.

After finishing lunch, we set out on the trail for the harbor. Most of the island's vegetation had already turned brown, victims of overnight frost.

The ferry's diesel engine hummed beneath our feet as we claimed a spot along the starboard rail. High clouds stretched across the sky, thin and wispy against the October blue.

Wes gripped the rail with both hands, knuckles pale against the rusty metal. He clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on the horizon where Whistleport's harbor grew larger with each passing minute.

I wondered how long it had been since he'd seen those familiar buildings. The entire sixteen years on Ironhook? Or ten? Or maybe only two or three?

The ferry hit a larger swell, and salt spray arced over the bow in a crystalline curtain. Most of it missed us, but a few droplets caught Wes square in the face. He blinked and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

The absurdity of it—Wes Hunter, master of maritime survival, ambushed by a handful of seawater—struck me as so perfectly ridiculous that I laughed.

He turned to look at me, eyebrows raised in mock indignation. "Something funny about getting doused by the ocean?"

"Just thinking the ocean's trying to baptize you before you return to civilization."

He rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure I'm beyond salvation at this point."

"I don't know. The sea's in an optimistic mood."

The harbor mouth opened before us, revealing the familiar cluster of aging buildings that made up downtown.

Lobster boats bobbed at their moorings, and tourists wandered the boardwalk, ducking into the few boutique shops still open.

It was the picturesque Maine scene that appeared on postcards and tourism brochures.

I suspected it represented something far more complicated than scenic beauty for Wes. It was the place that had shaped him, celebrated him, and ultimately turned its back when he needed support most. His return was a considerable act of courage.

The ferry's horn sounded once, deep and resonant, announcing our approach. Wes's grip on the rail tightened again, but he didn't look away.

He hung back as most of the crowd hurried to go ashore. The easy confidence he displayed on Ironhook evaporated somewhere between the ferry's rail and the gangway.

"Ready?" I asked, shouldering my supply bag.

He nodded once. His eyes warily swept the dock.

We descended the gangway together, our boots hollow against the metal grating. The dock stretched ahead of us, wood planks darkened by decades of salt spray and boat traffic.

"Well, if it isn't Wes Hunter, risen from the sea like a myth."

The voice came from our left. An older woman approached with a canvas grocery bag slung over her shoulder, her silver hair caught back in a loose bun that suggested she'd given up fighting with it years ago. Beside her walked a man roughly the same age, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

Wes froze, but he remembered her name. "Margot."

"Thought I saw a ghost," the man said, though his tone was friendly enough. He had the leathery appearance of someone who spent his days outdoors, with lines around his eyes that spoke of squinting into wind and sun.

I stepped slightly forward, offering what I hoped was a disarming smile. "It's Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Blake, right? I'm Eric Callahan. I'm doing research on Ironhook."

The man nodded and extended his hand. He was the father of Brooks Bennett, Whistleport's homegrown NHL star. His grip was firm, calloused.

He turned toward his companion. "And this force of nature is Margot Blake. Her son, Rory, teaches high school English, coaches hockey, and terrorizes teenagers into appreciating poetry."

Margot laughed. "Don't listen to him." She turned to me with genuine interest. "Research, you said? It's brave of you to spend time on Ironhook. Most people find it a bit too... remote."

"It's been educational," I glanced at Wes, who remained frozen beside me like a deer caught in headlights.

Reid rubbed his chin. "You know, I remembered your face as soon as I saw you. A few years older than Brooks. You were a hell of a winger. Could read the ice like—" He glanced at Wes and course-corrected. "Well. That was a long time ago."

Wes's voice was soft and raspy when he replied. "It was."

Margot sensed the tension and shifted her grocery bag. "Well, it's good to see you."

"I should—we should get going," The words escaped Wes in a rush. "Need to pick up supplies."

"Of course." Reid stepped aside, making room for us to pass. "Good seeing you both."

We walked away from the dock in silence. I glanced over at Wes and saw that his face had gone pale beneath his tan, and his breathing had turned shallow. The brief exchange had cost him more than I'd expected, leaving him visibly shaken.

The kindness in Reid and Margot's voices was genuine, but I was beginning to understand that for someone who'd spent so many years believing himself unwelcome, even kindness could feel like an assault.

Main Street stretched ahead of us. The familiar storefronts looked smaller than I remembered—Eugenie's Lobster Rolls with its hand-painted sign advertising fresh seafood, the bookstore with towers of used paperbacks visible through salt-stained windows, Miller's Bakery with its crooked wooden shutter that had needed fixing for as long as I could remember, and the old town hall where my father had attended more municipal meetings than any sane person should endure.

I nodded toward a storefront that used to house a dress shop. "They added a new gallery, mostly local artists. Seascapes and lobster boat paintings that tourists buy to remember their Maine vacation."

Wes grunted slightly.

"And the old pharmacy became a wine shop. Fancy stuff from California and France. Seems like an odd fit for Whistleport, but apparently, the summer people love it."

Another grunt, this one barely audible.

I kept up the gentle commentary as we approached Tidal Grounds, where the scents of coffee and fresh pastries drifted out onto the street. Through the windows, I spotted Silas behind the counter. A few customers occupied the mismatched tables.

"Want to grab coffee?" I asked. "Silas makes a decent cup."

"I'm fine."

"Come on. My treat. Besides, I could use the caffeine."

When I turned toward the coffee shop's entrance, Wes followed. The interior of Tidal Grounds enveloped us in warmth and the rich aroma of roasted beans. Silas looked up from the register, his engaging face breaking into a broad grin when he spotted me.

"Eric Callahan! How's island life treating you?"

"Can't complain." I approached the counter. "Two coffees, please. Medium roast, if you've got it."

"Coming right up." Silas's gaze shifted to my companion. "Wes Hunter, right? I've heard good things about your work on Ironhook."

Wes's shoulders tensed. "Thanks."

Silas poured coffee from a thermal carafe, his movements steady and practiced. "Cream and sugar are over there if you need them." He gestured toward a small station near the window. "Take your time."

We waited in comfortable silence while I doctored my coffee, and Wes left his black. The familiar sounds of the coffee shop—steam hissing, ceramic clinking, and the low murmur of conversation—cocooned us.

After a few moments among the gathered customers, Wes's shoulders tightened. His eyes tracked every customer who entered and every conversation that might include his name.

I nudged him. "Want to get some air?"

Relief flickered across his face. "Yeah."

I led him back out onto the sidewalk. "There's a bench down by the harbor. Good view of the boats."

The bench sat beneath an old maple whose leaves had turned the color of burnished copper. From there, we watched the working waterfront—lobster boats swaying at their moorings, gulls diving for scraps, and the occasional seal head popping up between the pilings.

Wes cradled his coffee in both hands, letting the steam warm his face.

"You okay?" I asked quietly.

"Don't know. Maybe."

"You don't have to be. Not all at once."

A kid ran past us, a hockey stick clutched in one hand and a backpack bouncing against his spine. His sneakers slapped against the pavement in an irregular rhythm, and he called something over his shoulder to a friend who trailed behind.

Something was off about his stride. It was the stick carriage and how his shoulders hunched forward—

Wes called to the boy. "Hey."

He skidded to a stop, looking back with the wide-eyed wariness children reserve for adults they don't recognize.

Wes hesitated, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. I watched him wrestle with sixteen years of conditioning that told him to keep his head down, stay invisible, and offer nothing that might invite judgment or rejection.

When he straightened his shoulders, I knew he'd decided to engage. "Your grip. You're choking up too high on the shaft. Try dropping your hands about three inches."

The kid glanced at his stick, then back at Wes. "Like this?"

"Yeah, but relax your top hand. The stick should feel like it's floating, not like you're trying to strangle it." Wes leaned forward slightly. "Now try taking a few strides."

The boy adjusted his grip and took off down the sidewalk. Even I could see the difference—his movement was suddenly fluid and natural like the stick had become part of his body.

"Whoa!" The kid spun around, his face lighting up with pure joy. "That's so much better! How'd you know that?"

Wes blinked. "I used to... I played hockey. A long time ago."

"Cool! You must've been really good to know stuff like that." The boy's friend had caught up. "Thanks, mister!"

They took off again, with the first boy demonstrating his improved form to his friend. Wes watched them.

"Damn," he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it. "I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"That it felt good. Helping someone get better at something I loved."

In thirty seconds, a kid with a hockey stick had accidentally given Wes back a piece of himself. Not the entire picture—that would take time—but a crucial fragment that proved the person he'd been wasn't dead, only dormant.

He watched them disappear around the corner. His voice was so quiet when he spoke again that I had to lean closer to hear him.

"I used to be someone here."

The words weren't bitter, exactly, but heavy with loss. He wasn't talking about fame or recognition. He was talking about belonging. About having a place in the world where people knew your name and expected to see you on familiar streets.

I wanted to tell him he could be someone here again, that people like Reid and Margot appeared ready to welcome him back. Unfortunately, the hurt in his voice suggested the wound ran deeper than a simple return could heal.

I reached over and covered his hand with mine.

I fought the urge to fill the quiet with reassurance. It wasn't the time for cheerful observations or gentle encouragement. Wes felt something locked away for over a decade, and my job wasn't to make it easier. I was only there as a witness.

"Funny thing about leaving. You tell yourself it's temporary. Just until things settle down and people forget." He set his foam coffee cup on the bench to his side. "Then, years pass, and you realize you're not the same person anymore. Maybe you never can be."

I reached out to touch Wes's thigh.

"Problem is," he continued, "you're not sure who you are instead."

A boat rounded the harbor mouth, heading out to sea. The captain must have been running late—most of the fleet was already out.

Wes turned to look at me like he saw me clearly for the first time that day. The careful distance he'd maintained since we'd left the ferry dissolved.

His voice was quiet. "Most people try to fill the silence. Patch things up. Make it tidy." He paused, then nodded toward the space between us. "You didn't. You just stayed."

The simplicity of his comments hit me hard. After years of isolation, every casual interaction we'd witnessed had been a small test of whether the world was safe enough to inhabit.

The day grew cooler, and I smelled wood smoke from chimneys already lit against the October chill. Somewhere nearby, a door chimed as someone entered a shop, followed by muffled voices and the shuffle of footsteps on worn wooden floors.

Wes breathed in deeply. Maybe this was the beginning of returning—not only to a place but to himself. To the man who'd once belonged somewhere and might, with time and patience, learn to belong again.

Beside me, his fingers twitched, and from somewhere out on the water, a buoy bell rang—soft and hollow—marking the moment like a heartbeat.