Page 5

Chapter three

Eric

M rs. Henrietta Pelletier's hands told stories on their own—knuckles gnarled from decades of hauling traps, fingertips stained permanent yellow from handling buoy rope, and calluses thick enough to grip barnacle-crusted lobster shells without flinching.

She sat across from me on her front porch, balancing a steaming mug of herbal tea on the arm of her weathered Adirondack chair.

Meanwhile, I fumbled with my recording app and tried not to look like the nervous college kid I was.

"You want to know about resilience?" She pronounced it like someone asked her to translate a foreign word. "Nineteen ninety-two, that's when the bottom fell out. Cod stocks collapsed, lobster prices dropped to nothing, and half the island packed up and left before Christmas."

I nodded, stylus poised over my tablet screen. Behind her, the Pelletier house stretched back from the porch in a series of additions and repairs created over decades of making do.

Paint peeled from the clapboard siding in strips that curled like wood shavings. On the roof, different colored groups of shingles indicated past emergency fixes.

"My husband Frank, God rest him, said we should sell the boat and move to Portland. Get jobs at the shipyard." She sipped her tea and gazed at the harbor, where a handful of lobster boats bobbed at their moorings. "But I say you can't sell your blood to the mainland."

Mrs. Pelletier's grandson, Noah, appeared from around the corner of the house, carrying a stack of glossy brochures. He'd inherited her sharp cheekbones and steady gaze, and he radiated the restless energy of a man trying to build something new from old foundations.

Mrs. Pelletier gestured for him to join us. "Noah, tell him about the tour business."

He dropped into the third chair and spread the brochures across the porch table. "Authentic Maine Lobster Experience," the headlines promised, with photos of weathered fishermen hauling traps against picture-perfect sunrises.

"We figured out people would pay to pretend they were us for a few hours," Noah said, and I heard the tone of irony in his voice. "City folks from Boston and tourists from Bar Harbor want to haul a few traps, take some pictures, and eat lobster rolls on the deck of a working boat."

I studied one of the brochures, noting how the marketing copy emphasized words like "authentic" and "traditional" while adroitly avoiding mentioning economic collapse or families forced to leave their homes.

Noah continued his explanation. "It's still making our living with the sea. Only now, the product is a little different."

Mrs. Pelletier reached over and straightened the stack of brochures. "Some of the old-timers don't like it. Say we're turning ourselves into a circus act."

I raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

She was quiet for a few moments. We all watched a gull work its way along the dock, checking for scraps. "I think survival isn't pretty, but it's better than the alternative."

I made notes, capturing not only her words but also how she and Noah moved around each other. It was the casual intimacy of people who'd shared tight spaces through long winters and learned to read each other's moods without asking questions.

Mrs. Pelletier set down her mug. "And you? What are you adapting to?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd prepared for interviews about fishing quotas and tourism revenue, not probing questions about my personal life.

"I'm only here to learn." I followed my comment with an attempt at a disarming smile.

Her gaze didn't waver. "Everyone's adapting to something, dear. The trick is knowing whether you're growing or hiding."

I clicked off the recording app and tucked my tablet into my bag, suddenly aware that Mrs. Pelletier saw more than I'd intended to show.

She had the unsettling talents of people who'd spent decades reading weather patterns and tide tables—she could spot storms coming long before they appeared on any forecast or on a person's face.

"Thank you for your time." I stood and shouldered my gear bag. "This has been incredibly helpful."

Noah walked me to the edge of the property, where the path split. One direction led to the harbor and the other back toward Wes's cottage.

He glanced back at the porch where Mrs. Pelletier was still watching us. "Fair warning about Gran. She's got a talent for asking questions that stick with you."

What are you adapting to?

The question followed me down the path.

A rhythmic scrape of metal against wood, punctuated by the occasional snap of breaking rope, drifted toward me from the cottage.

I rounded a corner and found Wes hunched over a pile of lobster traps.

They were a mess, looking like they'd been through a hurricane.

They had torn wire mesh, and their wooden frames split along the grain.

He'd shed his flannel shirt in favor of a faded gray t-shirt that clung to his back muscles as he worked. Thick leather gloves protected his hands while he fed new rope through the trap's framework.

I settled on the cottage steps with my tablet, organizing the morning's interview notes but finding my attention drawn to the quiet competence of Wes's repairs. There was something mesmerizing about watching someone who knew precisely what they were doing.

Sweat darkened the collar of his shirt, and I followed the movement of his shoulders as he worked a particularly stubborn section of mesh back into place.

When he reached for his water bottle, tilting his head back to drink, I forced my eyes back to my tablet screen and tried to remember what I'd been writing.

"You writing a story or just watching me work?"

When I looked up again, he was watching me. Warmth bloomed in my cheeks. "Sorry, I was—umm—your process is interesting. The repair work, I mean."

Wes set down his water bottle and removed his gloves, flexing his fingers. "What about it?"

"The traps. They're not yours, are they? I mean, you don't fish commercially."

"Nope." He picked up a length of rope and began working it through his hands, checking for weak spots. "Found them washed up after that storm last week. Owner's probably written them off by now."

"But you're fixing them anyway," I observed.

"Old gear. Still useful if you know what you're doing," Wes said. He paused, studying my face. "Not everything broken has to stay that way."

I knew those words had meaning beyond the traps, but I wasn't sure what it was.

Instead of turning away like he usually did after dropping a cryptic observation, Wes stayed put. He picked up a section of torn mesh, testing the break with his thumb. "You want to see how I do it?"

I didn't expect the question. He hadn't offered to show me anything since I'd arrived. "Sure."

Wes gestured for me to join him beside the trap. When I crouched down, our knees were nearly touching, and I smelled the briny ocean in the distance and the lingering scent of coffee on his breath.

"First thing," he said, selecting a length of new rope from the coil beside him, "is understanding that the break is never really where you think it is."

His fingers traced the torn edge of the mesh, following it back to where the wire had started to fray. "See? Failure starts way before it shows."

I nodded, trying to focus on the lesson instead of how his hands moved with absolute certainty like they'd spent decades learning the correct pressure and angle.

"Now, you don't only patch over the weak spot. That'll fail again in the first storm." He handed me one end of the rope. "Hold this."

The rope was rougher than I'd expected, stiff with salt and age. Wes's fingers brushed mine as he positioned my grip, adjusting the angle with precise movements.

"Feel that tension? That's the weight the whole trap has to carry. If the splice can't hold that, it's useless."

I felt it—the way the rope wanted to slip. Wes's hands covered mine, guiding them through the first twist of the splice.

"Don't fight the rope. Let it find its own way around the break, then lock it in place."

His palms were warm against my knuckles, callused in places. I followed his lead, feeling how the rope wanted to move and learning the rhythm of over-under-through that would make something stronger from something broken.

We worked in complete silence, breathing in sync, our hands moving together with almost choreographed precision.

When he guided my fingers through the final lock of the splice, I understood why he'd been so meticulous with the pressure—too loose, and it would slip; too tight, and it would snap under strain.

"Test it," he said.

I pulled against the repair, feeling how the rope held firm and the splice had become the strongest part of the entire section.

"It'll outlast the rest of the trap now." Wes sat back on his heels. His eyes met mine, and momentarily, I saw something unguarded—recognition. It was an acknowledgment that he'd shared something he'd never taught anyone before.

"Why?" I was more direct than I'd planned. "Why show me?"

Wes studied my face. Then he stood, brushing rope fibers off his jeans. "Maybe I'm tired of being the only one who knows how to fix things.

He headed toward the generator housing without another word, leaving me crouched beside the trap with rope burns on my palms and the sudden realization that he'd trusted me with something more valuable than a repair technique.

As I watched him check the fuel gauge and adjust something on the control panel, I flexed my fingers, feeling the ghost of his hands guiding mine.

"Dinner's in an hour," he called over the generator's hum.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to be steady if I answered in words. When he disappeared into the cottage, I remained beside the trap, staring at our joint handiwork and trying to decode what had just happened between us.

The cottage felt smaller at night. The lamplight left the corners dark, closing the walls in.