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Chapter twenty-two

Wes

T he sound of the boat motors grew more substantial. Salt spray misted across our faces as I squinted toward the water below.

Eric reached for the thermos at the exact moment I did, our fingers colliding over the metal surface. His hand was cold, knuckles scraped raw from our fall.

"Drink," I said, pushing the vessel toward him. "You need it more than I do."

"We both need it." He unscrewed the cap, steam rising in thin wisps. "Arguing about who's most hypothermic seems counterproductive when our rescue's actually happening."

The boats drew close enough to identify figures moving on the deck. "You two about ready to come back to civilization?" It was Chief Callahan from a bullhorn below.

Eric's laugh bubbled up, half-hysteria and half-genuine amusement. "Civilization, as if sitting on a granite shelf qualifies as wilderness survival."

"Technically, we are stranded."

"Technically, we're idiots who got too close to an unstable cliff edge."

The sound of equipment being deployed filtered down from above—metallic clanking, the whisper of rope against stone, and voices coordinating in the clipped shorthand of professionals who'd done this dance before. A shadow passed overhead, followed by the distinctive squeal of pulleys.

The basket appeared. It was metal mesh, with reinforced corners and safety harnesses dangling from the sides.

"Precisely like I predicted."

Eric stared at it. "Seriously? How do you—"

"Not my first time stuck somewhere I shouldn't be."

The basket touched down with a soft scrape against granite. Eric pushed himself to his feet, favoring his left ankle where he'd landed harder than he'd admitted.

"Ladies first?" he asked, gesturing toward our mechanical chariot.

"Get in the basket, Callahan."

He climbed in, and a harness settled around his shoulders. He slowly fastened the buckles.

Eric offered a slight wave. "See you at the top."

I watched the basket rise, carrying him up and away from our shared exile. His face shrank with each foot of altitude, but his eyes never left mine until the cliff's edge swallowed him whole.

Momentarily, I was alone with the ocean and the wind on my granite perch. When the basket descended again, I pushed myself upright, testing my weight on the knee that had been complaining since our landing. A familiar ache pulsed through the joint, but it was bearable.

"Ready down there?" The voice drifted from above, professional and patient.

I raised my hand in acknowledgment, then gripped the sides as machinery engaged with a mechanical sigh. The ledge dropped away beneath me, revealing the full scope of our predicament.

It was barely five feet wide and had felt manageable when we sat on it.

We were fortunate the weather cooperated with our rescue.

Wind and water from a storm would have plucked us off the granite face without breaking a sweat.

From my new, suspended perspective, it looked like a miracle we'd survived with nothing worse than scraped palms and wounded pride.

The basket cleared the cliff's edge, and hands reached for me—steady, competent, familiar. Chief Callahan had come ashore and helped me out of the basket.

"Chief." I offered the word like a handshake.

"Wes." He returned it the same way.

I turned to find Eric approaching through the cluster of rescue personnel. Someone had wrapped him in a thermal blanket that made him look like a refugee from a disaster movie, but his grin was pure sunshine breaking through dark clouds.

"Told you we'd make it." He'd kept his ridiculous optimism intact despite everything.

"Never doubted it for a second."

Eric's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Liar."

Chief Callahan insisted that we be taken to Whistleport. He didn't want us alone for the night after the harrowing experience.

We climbed aboard the Coast Guard vessel. As it cut through choppy waves, Eric and I claimed a bench section along the starboard side.

"How's the foot?" I asked.

"Functional." He flexed it experimentally, wincing slightly. "Nothing that won't heal with proper respect and possibly some of Mrs. Knickerbocker's legendary chili."

Chief Callahan approached and settled onto the bench across from us. For several minutes, he didn't speak. When he finally broke the silence, it was with the same measured voice of authority I remembered from that night so many years ago.

"You two should come to dinner. My place, or the Knickerbockers'. Olive wants you to spend the night there."

Eric started to respond, probably with some polite deflection about not wanting to impose, but I cut him off before he could retreat into unnecessary courtesy.

"We'd be grateful for the company."

Chief Callahan nodded. "Good. Knick says she's been cooking since she heard about your little adventure."

As we approached, the early evening lights of Whistleport harbor grew brighter—dock lights, streetlamps, and the warm rectangles of windows where people were settling in for the evening. Silhouetted on the dock, two figures waited.

Eric spotted them at the same moment I did. "It's the Knickerbockers! I'd recognize Knick and Olive anywhere."

The boat nudged against the dock with a gentle bump. The engine's rumble dropped to an idle, then cut entirely, leaving only the slap of water against pilings and the creak of rope under tension.

Mr. Knickerbocker didn't wait for the gangway to be secured. The moment our feet touched the dock planks, he strode toward us, his weathered fisherman's jacket flapping behind him like the wings of a determined seabird.

"You boys look like you've seen the world's underbelly." His voice carried throughout the harbor. He'd probably had decades of practice shouting over engine noise and storm winds.

Before I could say anything in response, his hand landed on my shoulder—not the careful, professional contact of the rescue crew, but something warmer and more personal.

"Grateful you're both walking around to tell the story." He smiled. "Would've been a hell of a thing to explain to Ziggy if we'd lost his best friend to the chipping of old granite."

Mrs. Knickerbocker materialized beside her husband with her arms reaching for Eric. The hug looked like it could crack ribs, full of fierce maternal energy.

"Your ears get red when you're cold." From the depths of her oversized canvas bag, which probably contained everything short of a spare anchor, she produced a knit hat in shades of blue and green.

"Mrs. Knickerbocker, you don't need to—" Eric started, but she was already tugging the hat down over his ears.

"Nonsense. That's much better, Eric. Now you look less like a shipwreck survivor and more like someone who might live through dinner."

"Right then." Mr. Knickerbocker began ushering us away from the dock. "You're both coming home with us. Dinner's already underway, and I'll be damned if we're letting you disappear back to that island tonight. Emma's out at a friend's tonight, so we've got plenty of room."

I spoke for both of us. "We'd be honored."

"Outstanding. Tom, you're invited too, of course."

Chief Callahan nodded. "Appreciate that. It's been too long since I've had a proper home-cooked meal."

It was only a few blocks walk. As a lifelong lobsterman, Knick Knickerbocker had settled and started his family close to the docks.

The Knickerbocker house exhaled warmth the moment Olive pushed open the front door. The layered scents of family life greeted us: the faint vanilla of candles burning and a hint of wood polish. Most prominent was the smell of savory chili simmering on the stove.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing me toward the chair with the authority of someone who'd been managing household logistics since before I learned to walk. "That knee's bothering you, don't try to pretend it isn't."

I wanted to argue—some reflexive need to maintain the fiction that I was fine and our morning's adventure had left no lasting marks—but the chair looked too inviting, and my knee was sending up complaints that were getting harder to ignore.

I settled into the leather, which creaked welcomingly under my weight, and let her tuck the blanket around my legs.

"Better," she pronounced, stepping back to assess her work.

"Eric, you're next. Upstairs, second door on the right, towels are in the linen closet.

And don't argue—you smell like seaweed." Eric started to protest, probably something about not wanting to impose or track dirt through their house, but she was already pushing him toward the staircase.

A collection of family photographs clustered on the mantelpiece—formal portraits mixed with candid shots of fishing trips and birthday parties. This was what a home looked like when it belonged to people instead of serving as a refuge from them.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Eric's return. He appeared in the doorway looking scrubbed and considerably younger, wearing flannel pajama pants that were slightly too short and a UMaine sweatshirt that had seen better times.

The table was set with mismatched bowls—ceramic and pottery in different patterns that somehow worked together. Thick slices of bread waited on a wooden board, still warm enough to release steam when Mr. Knickerbocker broke the first piece.

I transferred from chair to table with minimal fuss. Eric took the seat beside me while Chief Callahan settled across from us. Mrs. Knickerbocker wielded a ladle, filling each bowl with chili.

Around the table, the conversation started small—comments about the meal and gentle ribbing about our morning's adventure. Gradually, warmer emotions began building in the spaces between words.

Knick set down his spoon and raised his water glass. "To dumb luck, a good thermos, and this guy"—he nodded toward me—"who apparently keeps his cool even when disaster strikes."

Chief Callahan chuckled. "That sounds about right."

The front door exploded inward, announcing the arrival of Ziggy Knickerbocker. He stood framed in the doorway like he was auditioning for a one-man show about righteous indignation. With his right hand, he clutched a white bakery box in a protective grip.

He turned to Eric. "Seriously? You nearly die on a hike and don't text me? I had to hear it from Silas!"

His chest rose and fell like he'd been running.

Eric laughed so vigorously that he nearly choked on his chili. "Hi, Ziggy."

"Hi, Ziggy? That's what you've got? I spend the afternoon convinced my best friend since childhood has been reduced to shark chum, and you give me, 'Hi, Ziggy'?"

Even as he spoke, his expression started to soften around the edges. He reached Eric in three strides and hauled him up from his chair into a vertebrae-crushing hug.

After they parted from the embrace, Ziggy pointed at me. "And you."

I sat straighter under his scrutiny. There was something about his energy that demanded attention.

"You're not allowed to be a reclusive mountain man anymore. You're officially back in the Whistleport narrative."

Before I could speak, Ziggy moved again, setting the bakery box on the table. "Apple pie," he announced. "From Miller's. Figured if you were going to have a proper welcome-back-to-civilization dinner, you needed a worthy dessert to go with it."

Mrs. Knickerbocker emerged from the kitchen. "Ziggy Knickerbocker, did you at least knock before you broke down my door?"

"Extenuating circumstances. Emergency pie delivery has unique protocols."

Laughter broke out around the table, sparked by Ziggy's running commentary. Chief Callahan chuckled, and even Mr. Knickerbocker—who'd been playing the role of dignified patriarch—began sharing stories that had him wiping tears from his eyes.

"See?" Ziggy said during a lull, gesturing around the table with his iced tea glass. "This is what happens when you stop hiding on rocks in the middle of the ocean. People get to know you, and it turns out you're not nearly as scary as advertised."

An hour later, the kitchen held the aftermath of a well-appreciated meal—bowls stacked beside the sink and the lingering aromas of cumin and garlic. From the dining room, voices drifted through the doorway in comfortable waves.

I stood at the sink, running hot water over my bowl while steam rose around my hands. Eric appeared beside me, carrying his own bowl. We worked without speaking. I washed; he dried.

Eric spoke softly. "Thanks for staying calm back there."

"Thanks for not letting me fall apart."

He wrapped an arm around my waist. "You know, if I had to get stuck with somebody, I'm really glad it was you."

From the dining room, Ziggy's voice rose in mock outrage over some detail of Chief Callahan's storytelling, followed by a burst of collective laughter that seemed to shake the house's foundations with pure joy.

Eric grinned at the sound and then looked at me. "Ready to go back out there?"

I nodded toward the doorway where our chosen family waited with pie and coffee and the kind of unconditional acceptance I'd forgotten existed. "Lead the way."