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 Iexplained 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—Edwardand 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.
