Page 8 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

ONE SOUND brEAKS THE SILENCE.

It’s Shane’s booted feet landing on the wooden steps later that morning.

On the long stairway to the sea, he’s about to fulfill his last-day duties here.

The sea breeze lets up as the sun rises higher.

The squawking gulls settle down. A few perch on various railing posts and seem to watch him.

He descends the stairway about a dozen or so steps.

His work pail holds random items—cordless hand drill, sandpaper, small soft-bristle brush, measuring tape, partially filled cloth pouch.

Beneath the October sunshine, Shane takes off his zip sweatshirt and hangs it on one of those railing posts.

Shoves up the long sleeves of his flannel, too.

Adjusts the newsboy cap on his head. With his work boots, he scuffs aside some of the dune grasses he’d hacked back yesterday—then gets busy.

On this calm, coastal morning, his cordless drill occasionally whirs.

Sandpaper scritches. When he gets too close to a big white gull perched on a post, the bird gives a guttural murmur.

“Good morning to you too, my friend,” Shane tells it.

Then he measures, drills, brushes and eventually finishes the stairs—completely.

It takes a couple of hours, but it’s good.

He’s satisfied with the job. All that’s left to do is sweep up the fallen dune-grass clippings from when he cut those grasses back.

So he carries his work pail up all the steps, walks through the hidden path atop the bluff and swaps out his gear: big pail for a stiff-bristle push broom leaning there.

And for the next half hour, that’s the only sound.

The swishing of those bristles brushing aside blades of grass and grains of sand.

He works with the utmost care. One step at a time, all the way down to the very last one at the bottom.

Once there, Shane heads onto the small beach.

The tide is out, so there’s a spit of exposed sand giving him room to stand back and take in the rising sight of the finished stairway.

Behind him, gentle waves lap ashore, breaking in a froth near his booted feet.

But before him now, those wooden stairs rise high, high up the bluff. The thick rope railing loops up beside all those dozens of meticulously leveled and secured steps.

Everything’s perfect. Everything—just so.

It hits him then—the beauty of the last few weeks.

Of bullshitting with Jason out here. And with Kyle.

Of the race the three of them had all the way up the stairs.

Of talks he’s had with Elsa, Maris. With Celia.

With Ted Sullivan, too, telling him the right road is often the difficult road to take.

Shane also thinks of Maddy keeping him company.

The German shepherd loved hanging out with him here, beside the sea.

Shane wouldn’t trade a minute of any of it.

The midday sun sits high in the sky now. There are no shadows falling on the stairs. They glisten beneath the golden light, beneath that blue sky. The trimmed dune grasses cascade on the sandy, sloping bluff. From behind Shane comes the small splash of lapping waves, rhythmic, over and over again.

He takes a long breath of that close salt air. One of the perched seagulls fluffs itself on a railing post. Shane bows his head for a moment before looking up again.

“For you, Mr. Barlow. Neil. Jason.” Shane’s voice is low, carrying on a slight salty breeze hitching off the water. He lifts off his newsboy cap and taps it to his heart. “It is finished.”