Page 2 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

SHANE brEATHES EASIER THE NEXT morning.

He and Celia are still together. And Heather’s letter is history.

The way Celia handled that letter? She’s actually one of the strongest people he knows—which is why he’d recently given her that gold mariner necklace. He maintains she’s as strong as a boat’s anchor chain.

Maintains that even more so today. The self-control, the restraint she employed last night to protect her peace, her life, her choices, was sobering.

Celia cut the rope with her mother in San Francisco, and again yesterday in his cottage living room.

Now, early Wednesday, a mess is left behind.

A mess that Shane gets to in the fireplace.

Using the poker, he nudges what remains of the now-cooled logs.

They crumble to nothing beneath the poker’s prodding.

So he breaks down any wood chunks until they just disintegrate into dust. That done, he carefully lifts the cast-iron grate and sets it on newspaper on the living room floor. All that’s left is the cleanup.

In more ways than one , Shane thinks.

He’s been doing a lot of that lately, cleaning up.

Cleaning up his own head after Shiloh’s death.

Cleaning up the messy relationship with his estranged brother this summer.

Cleaning up the Barlow stairway to the sea.

Cleaning up his whole life, actually, before an imminent return to lobstering.

Cleaning up his cottage, too, before the lease is up next week.

But the toughest? Cleaning up after Heather Gray and the San Francisco fiasco with Celia.

And now this. Cleaning up after Heather again . Here, this time. Right in Shane’s rented cottage at Stony Point.

Well, one thing’s for damn certain. Everything changes in morning’s light. Relief shines through. All the indecision with Celia and her mother is done.

It’s over.

Which is why Shane doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty with what’s left of the night before.

This mess is a fine one to scoop up and sweep away. It’s freeing, actually.

So while early rays of sunlight glint through the paned living room windows, Shane cuffs back his flannel shirtsleeves.

Grabs the fireplace shovel next and starts piling up the ash.

Over and over, that small shovel scrapes along the fireplace floor.

The sound of metal against stone is harsh and rhythmic.

But with every scrape, there’s more distance between Heather’s letter and Celia’s handling of it.

The door is closed on all of it—for good now .

While bent into the fireplace, another sound comes from behind him. A door slamming closed off the kitchen. After more noises—the aqua kitchen cabinet creaking open; a coffee decanter thunking down; a spoon clanking against a mug—footsteps approach.

“Did you find the pail?” Shane calls over his shoulder.

“In the utility closet,” Jason’s voice answers. “Right where you sent me.”

“Okay, good.”

“So let me get this straight.” Jason picks up their talk upon returning to the living room. “Are you seriously telling me that Celia tossed her mother’s letter right into the fire?”

“I am. Just like that. Sent it up the chimney in flames.” Shane pauses his shoveling and looks at Jason behind him.

He’s dressed for work—gray crewneck sweatshirt with an untucked white tee beneath it, all over black cargo pants and trail boots.

He’s also got a silver pail in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other.

“Celia didn’t even open that envelope. She just threw it in the fire, sealed up and intact. ”

Jason sets that metal ash pail near the hearth. “Which means she didn’t read any of what Heather wrote?”

“Correct.”

“Did you?”

“Thought about it. You know, before Celia was here. But… negative.”

“Huh. Must’ve been tempting.”

“It was. Shit, what I wouldn’t give to know what Heather wrote. But I drew the line. Wasn’t my place.”

“That didn’t stop you before.” Jason sits on a wood chair near the blue and green glass fishing floats. “When it clearly wasn’t your place to confront Heather at her rented cottage here.”

Shane scrapes his shovel beneath the ash pile in the fireplace. “I guess I know when to draw the line, Barlow. And I drew the line with that letter.”

“Okay. So here’s a question.” Jason sips his coffee. “You apparently had some lengthy conversations with Heather.”

“I did.”

“Well… what do you think she wrote to Celia?”

“Jesus.” Shane pours a shovelful of ash into the metal pail. “Could be anything. Maybe just two words? I’m sorry?”

“Or some serious story-spinning to suit her?”

“No. I didn’t get that sense when we last spoke. Heather was upset.”

Jason nods. “Got it. So maybe she actually extended an olive branch to Celia this time.”

“Who knows?” Shane shovels up another mound of cooled ash. “There could’ve been a Thanksgiving invite in that damn letter. A message that she’d hold a chair at her table for Celia and the baby.”

“Or…” Jason takes a swallow of coffee, then knocks on one of those fishing floats. “Or she said nothing much. Just some well-wishes and vagueries.”

Shane, shoveling up the last of the ashes, nods. “We’ll never know. Whatever she wrote is all in here now.” He pours the ashes into the pail, then reaches for a whisk broom and dustpan. “Don’t get me wrong, man. It’s not that Celia didn’t want to read that letter. ”

“Why’d she burn it, then?”

Shane kneels on the hearth and reaches the broom into the fireplace.

“Because she’d finally made peace with the situation—with herself, too.

Reading that letter would’ve undermined everything.

Would’ve opened the door to God knows what.

Her heart sinking deeper?” he says over his shoulder.

“Her curiosity didn’t outweigh the risk. So she tossed it.”

“I could get that,” Jason reasons from his corner chair. “Sounds like Celia really has her priorities straight. But there’s one thing I don’t get.”

“What’s that?”

“Celia didn’t dump your sorry ass while she was at it?” Holding his coffee, Jason crosses the living room. He lifts the poker from where it leans against the fireplace bricks and hooks it on the tool stand. “After learning everything you did behind her back this week?”

“No.” Shane sits on his haunches and gives a short laugh. “Not yet, anyway.”

***

And hopefully, never.

But Shane doesn’t say that. Instead, he takes the whisk broom, brushes off the interior fireplace walls and sweeps up the last of the ash and cool embers.

He knows he came this close to screwing everything up when he privately met with Heather this past week.

But that’s all, well, it’s dust in the pail now.

So after telling Jason he needs to clean out the cottage freezer, too—what with his imminent lease expiration— they do this.

They microwave and toast a few frozen bagels, slather cream cheese on some, peanut butter and sliced banana on another, down a second coffee at the old kitchen table—then get to work.

After grabbing a jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, Shane leads Jason outside to the shed. “Thanks for stopping by today, man. On top of you lending an ear, this is a huge help,” Shane tells him as they cross the leaf-strewn lawn.

“Figured something was up when you texted me last night,” Jason says.

“Yeah. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.” Shane pauses while unlocking the shed doors. “Fill you in on what went down with Celia and that letter,” he adds, opening the double door.

“And get a chore done?” Jason asks.

“You got it, guy.” Shane steps into the shed and pulls a dangling string.

A bare light bulb shines on framed pictures and artificial potted plants and a rolled area rug.

“This is all Celia’s staging gear. For her class and for cottages Eva’s having her stage.

I picked it all up in my truck Monday night.

At her father’s place.” Shane lifts a carton stuffed with throw pillows and hands it to Jason.

“With Elsa around at the inn…” Shane lifts two framed modern-art paintings now.

“Makes my life a lot easier if you drop this off at Celia’s instead of me. ”

“Don’t sweat it.” Jason hefts up that box of pillows and heads to his SUV in the cottage driveway. “So you were at Celia’s father’s?”

“Yeah. Moved this stuff from his shed to mine.”

“How is Gavin?” Jason asks as he loads the pillows into the cargo area of his SUV .

“He’s good. Gave me a grand tour of the office you designed, too.” Shane leans the framed paintings on the floor of the SUV’s backseat. “Have to hand it to you, Barlow. Nice digs.”

“Yeah, thanks. Gavin had a lot of good ideas in mind for the project.”

They’re back and forth from Jason’s vehicle to the shed then.

Faux potted plants get shoved in the SUV cargo area.

A couple of floor vases wrapped in blankets get tucked beside the plants.

Lastly, they both carry the woven blue-and-tan area rug.

The rug is rolled up; they each hold an end and set it across the backseat.

All the while, the talk never stops. A little of this, some of that, with Shane saying that in an hour or so, he’ll get himself over to Jason’s stairs on the bluff.

“Finishing up this morning,” Shane lets on as they finagle that rolled rug.

“Shit. Last day on the job, huh? Hard to believe.”

“It is, guy. Time marches on.”

Finally, they close up the SUV’s rear doors and the vehicle’s packed.

“Celia know I’m coming?” Jason asks when he climbs in the driver’s seat.

“Yeah. I called her earlier.” Shane gives a one-two knock on the SUV roof. “You’re good to head there now.”

“Okay.” Jason puts the SUV in reverse and backs out to the street. Once there, though, he lowers his window and leans out. “Still, man,” he calls to Shane standing in the driveway. “Got to wonder what the hell was ever in that letter.”