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Chapter six

Wes

M y coffee mug warmed my palms while I pretended to examine the horizon. Every few seconds, my attention drifted to the cottage behind me, listening for the sounds of Eric waking up.

We were two days out from the storm, and the air felt sharp and clean. Salt spray misted up from the rocks below, and a lobster boat's engine puttered against the tide somewhere in the distance.

The screen door's familiar squeak announced Eric's arrival before I saw him. He emerged carrying a silver thermos and a canvas tool bag slung across his shoulder. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his unguarded smile spread across his face when he spotted me.

"Morning." He settled against the porch railing, close enough to smell his shower soap. "Did you sleep okay? It's so quiet out here when a storm isn't blowing."

I grunted something that could pass for an answer. He twisted the cap off his thermos, releasing steam with hints of cinnamon and vanilla.

"I was thinking." He paused to sip from the thermos. "About that rink. The clearing I found yesterday."

"What about it?"

"I'd like to go back. Clean it up a little and get a better sense of what it was like when it was active."

The word "no" formed on my tongue, ready to end the expedition before it started. When I arrived on Ironhook, they'd already abandoned the rink. I came to the island partly to create a clean separation from my hockey-filled past. Some sleeping dogs needed to stay down.

Eric must have read my expression because he held up one hand. "I'm not asking you to come with me. I know it's..." He searched for the right words. "I know it's complicated for you."

I kept my thoughts to myself. Most people would have pushed and assumed they knew what I needed or what would be good for me. Eric offered space instead.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another Polaroid—one I hadn't seen yesterday. The image showed the far end of the rink, where the fence met a stand of young maples that had grown up through the boards.

Eric spoke quietly. "Nature's taking it back, but slowly. Like it's a respectful takeover."

I stared at the photograph. Something about the composition—how the organic and artificial elements had woven together—hit harder than I expected. It wasn't an image of destruction. It was a tribute to transformation.

Silence reigned. Eric didn't fidget or try to fill the quiet with unnecessary words. He waited.

Finally, I set my mug down on the porch rail. "Let me get gloves."

My tool shed sheltered remnants of projects I'd abandoned over the years—coils of rope with frayed ends, a rake with teeth bent from prying rocks out of stubborn soil, and work gloves stiff with salt and old sweat. I grabbed what we'd need, testing the rake's handle for give.

Eric waited by the gate that marked where my property ended, and the island's wilder spaces began. He'd added a canvas jacket over his morning clothes. I offered him a machete while I carried the rake and clippers.

"Ready?" He was enthusiastic but kept his emotions under control.

"I know a shortcut." I nodded toward a path that disappeared into a tangle of beach rose and wild cherry. "Stay behind me for the first stretch. Some of these thorns will draw blood if you're not careful."

We fell into a single file. The path had been maintained in the past—probably when the rink was still active—but nature had spent years reclaiming what humans had carved out.

Sumac branches crowded the walkway, forcing us to duck and weave around obstacles. I used the rake to push back the worst, clearing space for Eric to follow.

After fifty yards, the path widened enough for us to walk abreast. Eric moved up, matching my pace without conscious effort.

"How often do you come this way?"

"Not often." I guided us around a small patch of poison ivy. "A handful of times over the years. Usually when the fence line needs checking."

"The whole island's like this, isn't it?" He gestured at the succession happening around us. "Human spaces getting integrated back into the natural ecosystem."

I paused to consider his observation. "Everything here is temporary. People like to think they're building permanent things, but the ocean has other ideas."

We reached a section where sumac had grown thick across the path, creating a tunnel of red-orange branches that forced us to stoop. I handed Eric my clippers.

"Cut close to the main stem with clippers. No machete. Sumac bleeds sap that'll dull your blade if you hack at it. One clean cut through the joint."

He followed my lead, working with more precision than I'd expected. When his elbow knocked against mine as we worked at the same tangle, neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact was brief and accidental.

"Like this?" Eric held up a severed branch for inspection.

"Good. Now, watch for the shoots coming up from the roots. Those need to come out, too, or you'll have the same problem next season."

We cleared a passage wide enough for easy walking. Eric asked practical questions—how to tell healthy wood from rotted and where to make cuts that wouldn't encourage regrowth. I explained techniques I'd learned through trial and error over the years.

By the time we'd cleared the worst overgrowth, our jackets showed scratches from thorns, and our gloves bore stains from plant juice. Eric had a smudge of dirt across one cheekbone, and his hair had collected a few small leaves.

I stepped back to survey our work. "Should be easier going from here."

"Thanks for showing me how to do that properly. I would have made a mess of it on my own."

We resumed walking, the rink still hidden somewhere ahead through the trees.

The fence appeared first—that same industrial-grade mesh I'd glimpsed years ago, now half-buried beneath Virginia creeper and wild grape vines that had woven themselves through every diamond-shaped opening.

Eric pushed aside a curtain of hanging vegetation, revealing the gate that had once controlled access to the rink.

The metal latch had seized with rust, but a few sharp blows from the rake handle convinced it to give way. The gate swung open with a groan.

"Wow." Eric stepped through the opening, his voice soft and surprised. "It's huge. Yesterday, I didn't make it through the gate."

He was right. From outside the fence, we caught glimpses of cracked asphalt through the undergrowth, but standing at ice level, the full scope of the place revealed itself. It was a regulation-sized surface that stretched away toward boards thick with moss and saplings rooted in the goal creases.

I'd expected worse. Decades of New England weather should have reduced the rink to rubble and twisted metal. Instead, the bones remained intact. Solid.

Eric set down his tool bag and walked a slow circle around the perimeter, taking pictures with the Polaroid camera he carried everywhere. I watched him frame shots where overgrown plants created almost artistic patterns.

He crouched to examine where the boards met the asphalt. "The construction standards are impressive. Look at these footings. They went deep."

We approached the task of clearing differently. Eric attacked the obvious problems—pulling down vines that obscured the boards while raking back years of accumulated leaf litter from the corners where drainage had failed. He was methodical and systematic.

I focused on minor repairs. A section of the fence had come loose from its posts, and the boards had warped enough to create gaps where debris had collected. They were problems that bothered me more than they would others.

"Hand me that rope," I called to Eric. He tossed me the coil, which I used to lash the loose fence section back into alignment. The work was familiar—not from this specific place, but from years of maintaining things that wanted to fall apart.

His gaze lingered while I secured the knot. "You've done this before."

"Maintenance is maintenance." I tested the fence section's stability with my shoulder. It was solid enough to last another winter. "It doesn't matter if it's a dock or a hockey rink. Same principles apply."

We worked for an hour without much conversation beyond practical coordination. While we passed tools and performed wordless coordination of who would tackle which section, we stumbled into the kind of intimacy that takes most people years to build.

Our bodies learned to anticipate each other's movements—when Eric needed the rake, and I would shift left to give him room. We developed a vocabulary of grunts and gestures that were more honest than any word-infused conversation we'd had.

Eric's technique improved as he worked. He learned to read which vines would pull free easily and which needed cutting at the root. He stopped trying to rush the process and started paying attention to what each plant was doing and how it attached itself to the structure beneath.

"Eric." I called him to where I'd been clearing debris along the far boards. "Look at this."

Half-submerged beneath decades of moss and fallen leaves, the curved end of what had clearly been a player's bench emerged like the prow of a buried ship. The wood was weathered gray but intact.

Eric knelt beside me, running his fingers along the exposed edge. "Someone put serious craftsmanship into this."

Together, we began the careful work of excavation. I used the rake to scrape away larger debris while Eric worked with his hands, feeling around the buried sections to understand the bench's full dimensions.

When we finally freed the entire piece, it was more substantial than we had expected. Eight feet long, designed to seat maybe six players, with armrests at both ends that showed evidence of careful sanding and finishing.

"Look at the joinery." Eric traced one of the corner connections with his thumb. "No nails or screws. Everything fitted together with wood joints."

I studied Eric's hands as he examined the craftsmanship. When he looked up and caught me watching, I turned my attention back to the bench.