Page 6

Chapter six

Jack

T he copper pipes of the espresso machine didn't gleam as bright as usual against Tidal Grounds' weathered walls when I pushed through the door for my regular morning visit. A handful of regulars hunched over their mugs, their hushed conversations rising and falling like tide pools at dawn. The familiar scent of coffee and cardamom wrapped around me, but something had changed since yesterday's carnival—the air was thinner somehow, brittle as frost.

Silas stood behind the counter, his movements precise and mechanical as he tamped down espresso grounds. No trace remained of the man who'd shared a blanket with me by the fire pit.

He didn't look up when I approached. At least I still merited a greeting. "Morning." The word was clipped and professional. "The usual?"

"Please."

When Silas set my coffee on the counter with barely a glance, the sleeve sat slightly crooked—a small tell from someone whose attention to detail was impeccable. "Here you go."

At a corner table, Rory Blake sat grading papers, red pen poised over what looked like student essays. He glanced up, catching the edge of our stilted interaction, before he began gathering his things.

We reached the door at the same time. Rory held it open, the bell chiming softly above us. As I stepped through, he spoke barely loud enough for only me to hear: "That one's got ghosts."

The word followed me onto the sidewalk. Ghosts. They must have been a malicious kind that made a man pull back at the moment connection seemed possible.

I'd known my share of ghosts in New York—they lounged on the empty side of the bed and filled the space where morning conversations used to live. Silas's ghosts were different. They weren't about endings. They were about not letting things begin.

A salty breeze tugged at my jacket as I walked, carrying the faint rhythms of a town waking up. Early February in Whistleport meant bundled-up lobstermen heading to their boats, the scrape of shovels clearing overnight frost from sidewalks, and the distant clatter of lobster traps being loaded onto trucks. This day would be slightly warmer than usual, making it excellent for a brisk walk.

I wasn't ready to head home and face the boxes I still hadn't unpacked. Instead, I crossed the street to Miller's Bakery. The storefront windows steamed invitingly, and the door stood propped open, releasing waves of butter and vanilla into the morning air.

June Miller stood at the counter, her silver hair escaping its neat bun as she arranged pastries in the display case. She looked up at the bell's chime, offering a warm smile.

"Morning. You must be Jack St. Pierre." She straightened, dusting flour from her apron. "I saw your boy at the carnival shootout. That second goal was something else."

"News travels fast around here."

"Oh, honey, that's not news—that's good hockey. It's a vital part of life." She gestured at the display case. "What can I tempt you with? The blueberry Danish are fresh out of the oven."

"Smells incredible." I studied the array of pastries. "What's your personal favorite?"

"Depends on the day." June selected a Danish with practiced ease. "But this morning? This is what you need. Trust me on it."

As she wrapped it, she added, "You know, if you're out for a walk to chase away the winter blues, there's a trail behind the old cannery that runs along the cliffs. Most tourists don't know about it, but it has the best view of the harbor anywhere in town. Just watch your step—can be a little slippery this time of year."

The paper bag crinkled as she handed it over, warmth seeping through. "Though fair warning—you might run into my husband George up there. He claims he's birdwatching, but the reality is he's avoiding his honey-do list."

I found myself genuinely laughing for the first time that morning. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Good man. And come back tomorrow. I'm trying out a new maple-pecan recipe that needs honest opinions."

The cliffside trail wound away from town, a narrow path through scrubby pines and patches of stubborn snow. Each step crunched softly. My morning frustration with the chilly reception from Silas began to ebb as I walked, replaced by the calming rhythm of waves breaking against the rocks below.

June's directions had been perfect. The path curved around an outcropping, and suddenly, the whole harbor spread before me—lobster boats dotting the gray water like watercolor brushstrokes and the lighthouse standing sentinel on its distant point. From there, Whistleport looked both smaller and larger than I'd imagined—a cluster of weathered buildings nestled against the coast, surrounded by endless sea and sky.

I found a relatively dry boulder and sat, pulling out the Danish. The pastry's warmth had faded, but the first bite still melted on my tongue, rich with blueberries and cardamom.

Below, a lobster boat chugged out of the harbor, its wake cutting a clean line through the morning swells. The sight reminded me of something Cody had said last week: "Dad, it's weird, but I like how the boats always know where they're going."

I hadn't known how to explain that sometimes, knowing where you're going isn't the same as knowing where you'll end up. My morning experience at Tidal Grounds was proof enough of that.

A gull swooped past, crying out as it dove toward the water. Near the harbor mouth, another boat was heading out, this one larger—probably one of the deep-sea fishing charters I'd heard about.

I pulled out my phone, snapping a photo to show Cody later. He'd been fascinated by the working harbor since we arrived. It was so different from the sanitized tourist marinas we'd known in New York.

The sound of footsteps on gravel made me turn. An older man approached, binoculars hanging around his neck—George, I presumed, ducking his honey-do list. He nodded as he passed, then paused.

"Tide's turning," he said, gesturing toward the harbor. "Best time to watch the boats head out. If they catch the current just right, it saves on fuel."

I hadn't noticed, but now I saw the subtle shift in the water's movement. "You've been watching this a while."

"Forty-three years from this spot." He patted the wooden railing. "Used to work those boats myself, before the knees went. Now, I keep an eye on them and make sure they're doing it right. This is the best time of year to watch. Not many boats out in the cold means you get a good look at the ones that are out."

The path back toward town from the cliffs wound down to the docks, where the morning's earlier quiet had given way to the steady rhythm of the active harbor. Past the rows of pleasure boats, their winter covers still in place, I found myself drawn to where weathered vessels crowded the commercial pier.

An older man knelt on the dock beside stacked lobster traps, his experienced hands weaving new netting into place. Dark hair streaked with gray peeked out from under his wool cap, and his weathered jacket bore the name "Knickerbocker" across the back.

He glanced up as I approached. "Morning. You're the new hockey dad, right? Jack?"

"Word gets around."

"Small town." He set his tools down and stretched his back. "Knick Knickerbocker. Saw your boy at the carnival—that second shot was clean as they come."

"Thanks. Your son, Ziggy, made quite an impression on him."

"Yeah, he's got a way with the kids." Pride colored his voice. "Actually, I'm heading down to Orono next weekend to see him play. Been trying to convince him to come home after graduation and help run the boats." He patted the trap beside him. "Starting to think about stepping back a bit myself. Let the younger generation take over."

I sat and watched him return to his work, fingers moving with the surety of decades of practice. "Must be hard to step away from something you've built."

"Easier than you'd think when you trust who you're handing it to." He selected a fresh piece of netting. "There was a day I envisioned turning this all over to Silas Brewster. You might know him; he runs Tidal Grounds. He used to help me work on these traps during summer breaks after his dad took off. Probably the only teenager I ever met who listened when I explained the proper way to mend mesh, and I'm counting Ziggy now, too."

The casual mention of Silas caught me off guard. "Silas worked the boats?"

"Three summers. Quick learner, steady hands. Could've made a good lobsterman." Knick tested the tension on his repair. "But some people need to find their own way of anchoring themselves. For Silas, that turned out to be his coffee shop." He glanced up at me, eyes sharp despite his casual tone. "Though it seems to me he's still learning when to trust the tide and when to fight it."

Before I could respond, a voice called from one of the boats. Knick waved in acknowledgment. "Looks like they need me. Tell your boy good luck with the team—though from what I saw at the carnival, he's already making his own luck."

I nodded my thanks, continuing along the dock as Knick returned to his work. His words tumbled around in my mind, mixing with Rory's comment about ghosts.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in my kitchen, staring at the stack of cardboard boxes I'd labeled "PICTURES" in thick black marker. They sat where I'd left them three weeks ago, untouched since the movers had deposited them against the wall.

The house creaked around me, its old bones expanding with the warmer weather. Morning sun spilled through the bay window, catching dust motes that danced above the boxes. From somewhere upstairs came the muffled thump of the radiator kicking in—a sound that had startled me the first few nights but now was oddly comforting. Cody called it the attic army.

I pulled down the packing tape on the nearest box, cardboard edges softened from multiple moves. Inside lay the framed memories of our life in New York: Cody's first day of school, birthday parties at Chelsea Piers, and summer afternoons in Central Park. And buried deeper, photos from before—Edward and me in Provincetown, sun-drunk and laughing on the beach, neither of us knowing what lay ahead.

I slid the Provincetown photo back into its box. Some memories belonged in storage, at least for now. Instead, I opened another box and pulled out a shot from a few short weeks ago. It was Cody on the ice at his first Whistleport practice, showing off his jersey. I'd framed it and stashed it with the rest of the photos, figuring I'd place all the items at once.

That was certainly a picture that deserved an honored place on the wall.

I decided on one more errand before lunch. I set out on foot, walking through a neighborhood of solid old homes

As I pushed through the heavy doors, the arena smelled of fresh ice and leather. It was quiet just before lunch with school in session. My footsteps echoed across the empty lobby.

Brooks Bennett stood by the skate rental counter, sorting through flyers. He glanced up, a knowing look crossing his face. "Jack. I wasn't expecting to see you until Saturday's practice."

"I'm checking the schedule for next week." I gestured toward the bulletin board, though we both knew Cody's practice times were already programmed into my phone.

"Uh-huh." Brooks set his papers down. "How're you finding our little slice of hockey heaven?"

"It's good. Different from New York, but good." I ran a hand along the counter's worn edge. "Cody's settling in."

"And his dad?"

The question hung there, deceptively casual. I'd forgotten that Brooks had grown up in Whistleport with Silas and probably witnessed whatever ghosts Rory was talking about.

"Still finding my feet," I admitted.

Brooks nodded slowly. "You know, we've got pickup games on Sundays. Nothing fancy—locals burning off their weekend chowder. Some of us can skate, others..." He grinned. "Well, let's say enthusiasm counts for more than skill."

"I don't really—"

"Play? Neither did half the parents when they started." He pulled a flyer from his stack, sliding it across the counter. "This Sunday. Two o'clock. Bring whatever gear you've got, and we'll loan you the rest."

I stared at the paper. "I'd probably spend more time eating ice than playing."

"That's half the fun." Brooks's expression turned serious. "Look, Jack. Sometimes, the best way to understand this town is to be part of it. Even if that means falling on your ass a few times."

I was halfway to the door when Brooks called after me. "Hey, you want to see something?"

He led me across the empty rink to a wall of team photos, his skates dangling from one hand. The images marched through the decades in neat rows, each capturing a different generation of Whistleport's hockey history.

"Here." Brooks tapped a frame from 2009. "Check out the back row, second from right."

A younger Silas stared back from behind thick-rimmed glasses, his smile slightly uncertain compared to his teammates' confident grins. Even in the faded photo, something about his posture spoke of someone trying to belong.

"He joined junior year," Brooks said. "Most of us had been skating since we could walk, but Silas? He'd barely touched the ice."

"What changed?"

"The rink started opening early for maintenance. Five AM." Brooks smiled at the memory. "I'd come in some mornings—captain's privilege to use the ice whenever—and there he'd be. I think he liked something physical before the school day. He was always practicing stops and doing edge work. Basic stuff we all learned as kids."

The image settled into place—Silas in the pre-dawn quiet, falling and getting back up, over and over.

"He'd record these drills on his phone," Brooks continued. "Study them at night like he was prepping for finals. Wouldn't let anyone help at first. Too proud, maybe. Or too scared of looking foolish."

"What changed?" I asked again, softer this time.

"Rory did, actually. He started showing up on those mornings too. Didn't make a big deal about it, just casually demonstrating proper form while doing his own practice. Pretty soon, half the team was joining the dawn sessions." Brooks shook his head. "Silas fought it at first, but eventually, he figured out that getting better meant letting people in."

I studied the photo again. "Did he make varsity?"

"Made the second line by season's end. He wasn't the most talented player but worked harder than anyone." Brooks straightened, his expression turning thoughtful. "Funny thing is, he's still doing it. Taking on everything himself, like he's got something to prove."

"Or something to protect," I said quietly.

Brooks gave me a sharp look. "Maybe. But you know what I learned from coaching? Sometimes the biggest plays happen when you trust your teammates enough to take the shot."

He clapped me on the shoulder, heading toward his office. "Sunday at two. Bring whatever gear you've got."

The afternoon sun cast long shadows through Tidal Grounds' windows when I returned. The morning rush had ebbed, leaving only a scattered handful of customers nursing their laptops and lattes. Behind the counter, Silas methodically wiped down the espresso machine, his movements unnaturally intense and precise like in the morning.

"Just missed the lunch crowd," he said without looking up.

"Actually came to check your Sunday hours." I pulled Brooks's flyer from my pocket, smoothing it against the counter. "Thought I might need coffee before attempting to skate with the locals."

"You're joining the pickup game?"

"Brooks made a convincing argument about community spirit. And eating ice."

"He can be persuasive." Silas finally met my eyes with an unreadable expression. "Though I'm pretty sure watching you attempt a slapshot wasn't part of his sales pitch."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I managed a small smile. "Don't suppose you'll be there?"

The cloth resumed its circular motion on the machine. "I usually help Sarah open on Sundays."

"Right." I let the silence stretch for a moment, then added quietly, "I don't regret it, you know."

His hands faltered just slightly.

"I have to finish up here."

I nodded, understanding the dismissal.

Maybe Rory was right about ghosts, but I was starting to think somebody needed to challenge them, even if that meant risking a few falls along the way.