I wanted to interrupt, to ask why none of them had reached out and why a community that recognized Wes's worth had allowed him to vanish into isolation. But what could I say to a man who'd once had the power to protect a kid and decided not to?
No one stopped it. They rearranged their deck chairs and hoped the iceberg wouldn't hit their part of theTitanic.
The ferry horn sounded from the harbor, cutting through the coffee shop's warm atmosphere. Conversations paused as some customers checked their watches and began gathering their belongings.
I drained my coffee cup and headed for the door, but Silas called out as I passed the counter.
"Give my regards to Wes. Tell him Silas says the island's lucky to have him."
I nodded. Something in his tone suggested it was a message that went beyond casual friendliness. Maybe Silas understoodwhat the others didn't—that more than a decade of reliable service couldn't erase the damage done by a community's silence when it mattered most.
The ferry waited at the dock, its engine already running. I climbed aboard and found a spot at the rail, watching Whistleport's harbor shrink behind us as we headed back toward Ironhook.
As the island grew larger on the horizon, I looked forward to returning to the cottage and the complicated honesty of Wes's silence. It was a place where they measured people by their actions rather than the stories others told about them.
Ironhook's now familiar coastline emerged from the afternoon mist, granite cliffs softened by the ocean air that made everything appear slightly out of focus. The small lighthouse stood sentinel on the island's northeastern point, its white tower stark against the gray-green backdrop of scrub pine and wild roses.
When the ferry docked, I shouldered my pack and headed up the path to the cottage. The trail wound through beach grass and wild goldenrod, past the weathered remains of fish weirs that spoke of the island's working past.
Halfway to the cottage, I spotted Wes working on the lighthouse's exterior walkway, his movements economical and purposeful against the white tower. I detoured toward him, knowing the old automated structure still required constant maintenance against salt air and weather.
"Need a hand?" I called out.
Wes paused, wrench suspended midair. For a moment, I expected dismissal. Instead, he nodded. "Could use someone to pass tools."
The ladder rungs were cold, and the wind was stronger as I climbed. "What are we fixing?"
"Railing supports. Storm loosened the joints." He gestured at the damaged section, fingers tracing bolt holes with practiced assessment. "Socket wrench."
I found the tool and placed it in his palm, our fingers brushing briefly. "How do you know so much about this stuff?"
"Trial and error." He threaded the new hardware into place with careful precision. "Years of keeping things from falling apart teaches you what works."
"Got family in construction?"
"No. Learned what I needed to learn."
An observation slipped out before I could stop it. "I'm starting to think resilience looks a lot like your hands."
"They're only hands."
"No, they're not." I leaned closer, close enough to smell the salt air that clung to his jacket. "They're hands that know how to fix things. They keep an entire island from falling apart."
We worked through the remaining repairs in comfortable companionship. By the time we'd secured the last bolt and gathered the tools, the afternoon had shifted toward evening.
As we walked back toward the cottage, tools clanking softly in their bag, I thought about how many repairs Wes had made over the years. Maybe that was what resilience really looked like—not the dramatic resistance to catastrophic failure, but the patient daily work of keeping things whole.
Back at the cottage, Wes hung his tool bag on its designated hook and washed his hands in the kitchen sink. I watched him scrub the day's work from his hands—salt stains and stone dust disappearing under hot water. There was something unexpectedly intimate about observing this simple ritual, the careful way he cleaned under his fingernails and worked soap between his fingers.
"Coffee's still warm," he said without turning around, testing the thermos's temperature with the back of his hand. "Made it before I headed out to the lighthouse."
Wes filled two mugs without asking if I wanted it, adding the splash of cream he'd observed me using since my first morning on the island. I accepted the mug he offered, our fingers brushing briefly during the exchange.
"Thanks." I settled into the chair that had become mine by unspoken agreement.
I opened my laptop and began organizing the day's accumulated observations, trying to make sense of the conversations I'd overheard in Whistleport and the growing complexity of my research focus.
Wes retrieved a thick notebook from the kitchen drawer and spread it open beside his coffee mug. His handwriting filled the pages in neat, economical lines—weather observations, maintenance schedules, and what looked like supply inventories. It was the kind of careful record-keeping that kept an isolated operation running smoothly.
