He didn't respond. I'd apparently exhausted the conversation quota for the evening.
He finished his dinner in silence and disappeared into the kitchen. "Coffee's in the cabinet."
I sat alone at the table, picking at the remains of my fish and listening to Wes wash his dishes. The wind outside had picked up, rattling windows and finding every gap in the cottage's defenses.
Day one summary: Caretaker speaks in riddles, cooks excellent fish, and appears committed to maintaining emotional distance.
I finished my dinner and brought my plate to the kitchen, where Wes was drying the cast-iron skillet with the care of someone who understood that tools lasted longer when treated with respect. He glanced at my plate, nodded toward the sink, and continued his routine without comment.
I did my best to be a hospitable guest. "Thanks for dinner. It was delicious."
He hung the dish towel on its designated hook and turned to face me. "Breakfast is at seven. Don't expect conversation."
Then, he was gone, footsteps disappearing down the hallway toward what I assumed was his bedroom, leaving me alone in a kitchen that smelled like fish and salt air. I made coffee with water that tasted faintly of minerals and salt. It was strong enough to dissolve tiny rocks.
After retreating to my room, I opened my laptop, and the screen flickered to life. I clicked through the folders of background research I'd compiled—demographic data, economic reports, and newspaper archives dating back fifteen years. I was scrolling through an article about Maine's declining fishing industry when a photograph stopped me cold.
It was a sports page from thePortland Press Herald, dated sixteen years ago. I read the headline: LOCAL HOCKEY PHENOM WESLEY HUNTER MYSTERIOUSLY WITHDRAWS FROM UMAINE. The grainy photo showed a younger version of the man who'd just cooked me dinner—same storm-gray eyes and same powerful build, but with the kind of bright confidence that belonged to someone who'd never learned that dreams could be taken away.
I stared at the screen, my heart speeding up its pace. Wesley Hunter. Not just the island caretaker. Not just some guy who'd chosen solitude.
He was a rising hockey star who'd vanished from the sport without explanation.
Lying in the narrow bed and listening to the cottage settle around me, I stared at the ceiling and tried to process the day. The ferry ride that morning might have happened in a different lifetime. Silas's cheerful send-off and my sunshine confidencehad carried me across twenty miles of open ocean before dissolving when I came ashore.
I'd come chasing stories of survival. It hadn't occurred to me that I might need one of my own.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, knowing that tomorrow would bring the real work of understanding this place. And understanding the man who'd settled here when he needed to.
Chapter two
Wes
The Atlantic stretched before me like a pewter plate blanketed with mist. I stood in my doorway, bare feet against cold wood, steam rising from my coffee mug in lazy spirals.
Ironhook had always been about silence. Not the hollow kind. It was the full kind that lets you breathe without wondering what comes next. Where the only sounds were those that belonged: waves against granite shores, wind through the scrub pines, and the distant bark of seals on the ledges.
That silence lasted until precisely seventeen minutes past sunrise.
The voice that shattered it came with the shuffle of socked feet on the kitchen floor. "Oh, wow. This place is incredible."
I didn't turn around. If I ignored him long enough, maybe he'd take the hint and keep his observations to himself.
"Is there coffee? I mean, I can make my own, but I didn't want to—"
"Cabinet above the sink. Filters are in the drawer."
"Thanks." A pause. "Do you always drink your coffee outside?"
I took a deliberate sip, letting the bitter heat anchor me. On clear days, you could see all the way to the mainland. Today, with morning fog, the world ended about fifty yards from my front door.
Kitchen sounds interrupted the peace—cabinet doors opening and closing, the kettle's whistle, and the chair's scrape. Eric was settling in, making himself at home in a space that had been mine alone for most of the past sixteen years.
"This view." He approached the doorway again. "I can see why you'd want to wake up to it every day."
I stepped outside, letting the screen door bang shut behind me. The fog swallowed the sound almost immediately, but not before I heard Eric's soft intake of breath from inside. Conversation wasn't part of the package.
Ironhook used to be a place to disappear. Now, it sounded like a dorm room on move-in day—all shuffling feet and curious questions.
