I saved the document and turned to find Wes emerging from his bedroom. He'd changed into a clean flannel shirt, soft blue that made his eyes look less gray and more like deep water.
"Still working on stories about me?" He nodded toward the laptop screen and settled into the chair across from me.
"Trying to figure out how to write about you without making you sound like a research subject."
"Good luck with that." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'm pretty boring when you get down to it."
"You fixed three separate systems today before noon, checked on Mrs. Lin's propane tank, and finally wrestled the stove top into acting like its normal self." I closed the laptop. "If that's boring, I need to recalibrate my excitement scale."
"Most people would call it maintenance. Basic upkeep."
"Most people don't understand the difference between maintenance and devotion."
I reached for Wes's hand across the table. His fingers were warm and callused, real and solid against mine.
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"For what?"
"For being you."
Chapter fourteen
Wes
The village post office squatted between the co-op and what used to be a tackle shop, its cedar shingles faded to the color of driftwood. Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays—that was my routine. Thirty-seven steps from the harbor path to the front door, nineteen more to the wall of mailboxes lining the back wall.
I'd been repeating the walk for years, and somehow, Eric had turned it into something worth examining. The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd spent decades perfecting the art of invisibility, and now I caught myself wondering what he'd think of Mrs. Lin's hand-painted sign advertising fresh eggs or Noah Pelletier's pulley system he'd rigged to haul his lobster traps up from the dock.
"Morning, Wes."
I turned to see Sarah Lancaster emerging from the co-op, a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She was Dr. Whitman's nurse, had been for fifteen years, and possessed the steady competence that made people confess their troubles without realizing it.
"Sarah."
"That young man staying with you—Eric? My Tom ran into him yesterday down by the old wharf. Said he was asking smart questions about storm damage patterns."
She shifted the bag's weight and studied my face. "Tom was impressed. Said the boy's got eyes that actually see what he's looking at."
"He's thorough."
"Tom said more than thorough. Said he listened like what we had to say mattered." Sarah smiled. "Island could use more of that kind of attention. The good kind, I mean."
I grunted something that might have passed for agreement and continued toward the post office. Box 47, my box, held the usual assortment—a propane bill, something from the marine supply catalog, and a seed company circular. Underneath, I found a white envelope heavier than the rest.
The return address made my hands go numb.
Morrison & Associates, Attorneys at Law, Caribou, Maine
It was Derek's hometown before his family moved to Whistleport when he was in kindergarten.
I stood in the narrow space between mailbox rows, my fingers trembling. The paper was expensive—the kind that suggested serious business conducted in paneled offices.
Opening it in the post office was risky. I needed privacy for the mystery envelope.
Eric was in the guest room when I returned to the cottage. I sat at the kitchen table and pulled out the unexpected envelope. My hands shook badly enough that I had to set it down twice, pressing my palms flat against the scarred wood until the trembling subsided.
The letter was brief. Professional. Devastating.
