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Chapter twenty-three

Eric

T he scents of cinnamon and vanilla roused me from sleep. Olive Knickerbocker's baking infiltrated my dreams and transformed them into something warm and edible. I surfaced slowly, consciousness arriving in layers.

The guest room held Wes and me wrapped in faded floral wallpaper and hand-stitched quilts. When I rolled over, I discovered he was already awake.

He looked at me with the attentive gaze he usually reserved for weather patterns and mechanical repairs. His hair stuck up at impossible angles, and pillow creases marked his left cheek.

"Morning," I whispered, voice scratchy with sleep.

"Morning."

Neither of us moved. We lay there, tangled under Mrs. Knickerbocker's wedding ring quilt, legs intertwined, and my arm draped across Wes's chest. The previous day's cliff adventure had left us both with an assortment of bruises and scrapes, but nothing that prevented us from finding ways to fit together in the narrow guestroom bed comfortably.

Wes reached up, thumb tracing the purple bruise that decorated my temple where I'd connected with the granite. "How's your head?"

"Functional." I caught his hand and pressed it flat against my cheek. "How's your knee?"

"Ornery, but nothing I can't handle. I went to the bathroom in the night, and it served its function to get me there."

The floorboards in the hallway groaned under rapid footsteps. Someone outside the room was on a mission. As I leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Wes's cheek, a rapid knock on the door interrupted.

"You two alive in there?" It was Ziggy's voice pitched low enough to be considerate but loud enough to ensure we'd hear him. "Mom's been stress-baking since five AM, and if you don't get down here soon, I'm eating all the evidence."

Wes groaned, burying his face in the pillow beside my head. His voice came out muffled. "That kid has more energy before breakfast than most people manage all day."

I bit back laughter, not wanting to encourage the campaign to roust us from bed. Through the lace curtains, the October morning painted everything in shades of amber and copper—a perfect autumn morning.

"Last call for muffins and chaos!" Ziggy's voice rose to normal volume, no longer focused on gentle waking.

"We're coming," I called back.

"Excellent! Fair warning—Dad's already made three pots of coffee, and Mom's interrogating everyone about whether they want scrambled or over easy. The kitchen's basically a breakfast war zone."

Ziggy's footsteps retreated down the hallway as he hummed the wedding march.

Wes lifted his head from the pillow, hair even more disheveled than before. "Think he knows?"

"About what? That we shared a bed in his parents' guest room after nearly dying on a cliff?" I chuckled and stretched, working out the kinks that came from sleeping on a mattress older than both of us combined. "I'm pretty sure figuring us out doesn't require a degree in rocket science."

"Point taken."

The smell of bacon joined the cinnamon-vanilla symphony drifting upstairs, and my stomach growled. Wes sat up with the quilt pooling around his waist. "Guess we should face the music."

I rolled out of bed, immediately missing the warmth of our shared body heat. The hardwood floor was cold enough to make me dance from foot to foot while I searched for the clothes I'd abandoned the night before.

Wes watched me from the bed. "Yesterday, when we were stuck on that ledge..." He paused, searching for words. "I meant what I said about wanting you to stay."

"I know you did."

From somewhere below us, Mrs. Knickerbocker's voice rose in mock exasperation: "Zachary Knickerbocker, if you eat that entire batch of blueberry muffins before our guests make it downstairs…"

We expedited our dressing process. When we arrived in the kitchen, Mrs. Knickerbocker moved back and forth from counter to stove with a spatula in hand.

Ziggy perched on a wooden stool beside the center island, one foot planted firmly on the floor while the other swung in restless arcs beneath him.

He'd already conquered half a blueberry muffin, crumbs decorating the front of his UMaine hockey sweatshirt.

"There they are!" He gestured with the remaining muffin half as Wes and I appeared in the doorway. "The survivors of yesterday's geological experiment. How'd you sleep? Any nightmares about falling rocks?"

I accepted the mug of coffee Mrs. Knickerbocker pressed into my hands before I fully entered the room. "I think you were the interrogator in my dreams, Zig."

Mr. Knickerbocker stood guard over the coffee station, treating the ritual of pouring fresh cups with the ceremonial gravity of a priest blessing communion wine. He handed Wes a steaming mug with exaggerated solemnity.

"Big day of sitting in lectures and eating sad food service grub ahead?" he asked Ziggy, who was already fidgeting with the car keys he'd pulled from his pocket.

"Gotta make it back to Orono before the dining hall runs out of tofu surprise. It's Thursday—if I'm late, I'll be stuck with mystery meat casserole for dinner."

Wes gasped as he settled onto a stool. "The horror."

"Exactly! See, this guy gets it." Ziggy bumped Wes's shoulder. "You should come visit campus sometime. I'll give you the grand tour of institutional mediocrity."

Mrs. Knickerbocker emerged from the pantry carrying a brown paper bag. "For the road," she announced, pressing it into Ziggy's hands."

The bag disappeared into his backpack. He stood, stretching his arms overhead until his joints popped in a symphony of snaps and cracks.

"Damn, I'm getting old. Twenty-two years on this planet, and I already sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies."

Wes offered a dry response. "Wait until you hit thirty-five. You'll understand true mechanical fatigue."

"Terrifying prospect." Ziggy wrapped Mr. Knickerbocker in a bear hug that lifted the older man's feet off the ground, then moved to Mrs. Knickerbocker.

When he reached me, instead of a hug, he ruffled my hair with the kind of big-brother energy that had characterized our friendship since elementary school.

"Try to keep this one out of trouble," he said, nodding toward Wes.

"And by trouble, I mean any activity that involves heights, unstable surfaces, or trusting his sense of direction. "

"I'll do my best."

Finally, he turned to Wes and offered a mock military salute that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and respectful. "Try not to fall off any cliffs this week. I've grown attached to having Eric as a functional human friend instead of a mere puddle of anxiety."

"No promises, but I'll aim to keep us both intact."

At the kitchen door, Ziggy paused for a final wave. "See you all soon. Try not to make any significant life decisions while I'm gone—I hate missing the good stuff."

The screen door banged shut behind him, followed immediately by the sound of his ancient Volkswagen coughing to life in the driveway.

Through the kitchen window, I watched him reverse onto the street with the kind of controlled recklessness that had gotten us both in trouble throughout our teenage years.

The kitchen settled into a different rhythm with his absence—quieter but no less warm. Mrs. Knickerbocker began collecting the scattered breakfast dishes while Mr. Knickerbocker refilled coffee mugs.

"That boy's energy…" Mrs. Knickerbocker shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder how you've kept up with him all these years, Eric."

"Superior stamina and questionable judgment," I replied, earning a snort of laughter from Wes.

He added, "And an impressive tolerance for chaos. It's an essential skill when befriending human hurricanes."

Wes and I claimed the island stools, nursing second cups of coffee while the refrigerator hummed its mechanical lullaby. He'd commandeered another blueberry muffin, methodically pulling it apart.

Outside the window above the sink, Whistleport harbor stretched toward the horizon, dotted with lobster boats heading out to sea. My phone suddenly buzzed in my pocket. The caller ID displayed a number I didn't recognize—Maine area code, but not one I could place.

"Eric Callahan," I answered, expecting a wrong number or maybe a robocall about my car's extended warranty.

"Mr. Callahan? This is Dr. Ellen King from the Maine Historical Trust. I hope I'm not calling too early."

The name meant nothing to me, but the professional warmth in her voice suggested it wasn't a casual conversation. I straightened on the stool.

"Not at all. How can I help you?"

"I'm calling because we'd like to help you. Dr. Greene forwarded us some of your preliminary research on coastal community resilience, along with your oral history documentation from Ironhook Island. Frankly, we're impressed."

I froze with my coffee mug halfway to my lips. Dr. Greene had shared my work? Without telling me? I'd never expected my thesis project to attract attention beyond my university.

"I'm... thank you. That's very kind."

"We'd like to make you an offer. We've received a significant grant to document oral histories and traditional knowledge across Maine's coastal communities. The project would run for two years initially, with a strong chance at an extension."

I focused on the conversation. Wes noticed my expression change, and his features sharpened with concern.

"We're looking for researchers who understand that communities aren't only economic data points.

You've proven that the real story lives in the voices of people who've chosen to stay, adapt, and build on a way of life worth preserving.

" She paused. "Your approach to documenting not only what has happened, but why people make the choices they do. .. that's precisely what we need."

"I... could you tell me more about the scope of the project?"