Page 32 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

THE NEXT TWO DAYS BLUR.

Shane feels it—right away. Saturday melts into Sunday.

That’s what happens when you have to return to your real life. The pileup of chores and responsibilities keeps him plenty busy all weekend.

There’s a pileup of something else, too. Of quiet.

Here in Maine, his silver-shingled, harborside house is noticeably quiet.

Startlingly quiet.

Eerily quiet.

There are no sounds of hammering stairs.

No sounds of Jason calling his name as he arrives with a white Scoop Shop bag.

No Maddy barking into the salty wind.

No sweet little Aria cooing at him in stolen moments with Celia.

No conversations with Celia sitting on his back porch .

No ribbings, no pranks, from Kyle.

Just quiet.

And a blur.

Saturday, Sunday? They’re one and the same. Shane’s not sure when he’s doing what, but he goes through the motions regardless.

He seriously buys groceries for his empty house. Stocks the shelves, the fridge. Lunch foods. Cold cuts, cheeses. Tomatoes, lettuce. Rolls. Bread. Dinners. Steaks. Pork chops. Burgers. Eva’s cutlets get put in the freezer, too.

He picks up his mail from his neighbor Bruno.

At Red Boat Tavern, he and Bruno pass the bearded swashbuckler statue. They sit at the bar. The tavern’s dark paneled walls are shadowy. Shane treats Bruno to a brew for looking after his house all these months that he was back and forth to Connecticut.

But Shane’s no longer back and forth. So he lingers in the bar. Shoots the shit with Bruno, has another beer. Catches up with the tavern owner—Landon.

“Enjoy your grog, matey,” Landon tells him. “Glad you’re back.”

Shane has dinner there. Waves to a few familiar faces who stop in. Talks fishing with one of the crew from another lobster boat. Hears that the catches have been up. Captains are in good spirits.

Saturday, Sunday. Who knows which? The only constant is the quiet in his home.

In that quiet, Shane finishes unpacking. Puts away his clothes. His toiletries.

He sets up Aria’s portable crib again—though he’s not sure why.

It stings every time he glances at it. Hell, Celia’s enmeshed in her Connecticut life.

And he’s enmeshed here—five hours away. Living beside Rockport Harbor in Maine.

A picturesque harbor where lobster boats are moored and the bell buoy clangs and lobster pots are stacked on the docks and the scent of the sea is intoxicating .

So he gets his lobster work gear set out. His lunch bag. His gloves. His bib. His boots and gauges and hat and knife and sweatshirt.

He does some yard work. Mows the grass. Rakes leaves.

Waters his window-box mums.

Pays bills.

Dusts off his stolen, framed paintings.

Watches the local news on TV.

Throws a steak on the grill.

Eats on his deck.

Feels the ocean’s mist.

Smells the scent of salt air laced with the scent of spruce.

Lives his life.

Here.

***

And on Monday, Shane’s alarm clock goes off at an ungodly hour.

The thing is? This would all be so much easier to leave behind—if he didn’t like the lobstering life.

If it didn’t suit him.

Challenge him.

Test him.

Push him .

Fulfill him.

But it does.

***

Before sunrise, he’s at the shingled coffee shed on the docks.

Weathered buoys hang from a rope on the shed’s side wall.

A couple of old wooden lobster pots are stacked near the doorway.

Shane’s coffee is strong as hell—and tastes pretty sweet.

It’s an acquired taste. And he’s got one—for all of this sea life.

He walks the damp docks. The wooden boards creak beneath his step. Seawater sloshes below. A seagull perched on a pier ruffles its feathers when he passes. He tips his cap at it and keeps walking.

Walks straight to his captain’s docked boat.

Lobster traps are stacked five-high on deck.

Captain’s in the wheelhouse. Shane stops beside the boat.

His duffel is heavy with gear and lunch.

When he tosses the duffel on deck, there it is—the satisfying thump when it lands.

The sound that precedes a full day on the sea.

A day of keeping his mind and body busy.

A day of setting baited traps in the ocean. Of throwing the gaff hook for all he’s worth to snag pot buoys. Of attaching trap lines to the hauler. Of lifting dripping pots of lobsters from the salt water. Of banding the keepers and throwing the rest back to that mighty sea.

A day of breathing the Atlantic’s salt-air tonic. Of taking sea spray on his face. Of being in a seemingly different world—far from land. Of watching the sun travel across the vast ocean sky. Of returning to harbor as that sun drops lower .

Damn, he’s actually missed this. He feels that, now that he’s back here.

Back at it.

Back to the grind.

Back in the groove.

Back to the earth moving beneath his feet now as he leaves terra firma behind.

As the wind whips his hair.

Aboard ship, he grabs the orange waders from his duffel. Steps into those bib pants before adjusting the straps on his shoulders. Puts on his deck boots, too, so he won’t be slipping on the wet floor.

He talks and shakes hands with the crew—Captain, included.

When the boat begins motoring through the calm harbor, Shane maneuvers past the stacked pots to the stern. Steals a last look at his distant harborside house before the captain throttles the boat to open water. Says a silent prayer that he’ll see that house again.

“Yo, Bradford!” a crewmate’s voice calls behind him. “Let’s get a move on. You daydreamin’ over there?”

Shane, in all his gear now, adjusts his cap and turns. It’s Hunter razzing him. Shane laughs, too, as he crosses the deck and stops near the hydraulic hauler.

“You’re like a greenhorn again,” Hunter says over the sound of the chugging engine. “Except you was fired, then rehired. Don’t you be wicked slow and distracted, ya hear me now?” He gives Shane a good shove. Tests him. “Got your sea legs on, loser?”

“I got ’em, punk,” Shane says. He also hooks an arm around Hunter’s shoulder as the lobster boat picks up speed and leaves a frothy wake behind it. “Come on. Let’s do this.”