The pencil stopped moving. Wes set it down and turned to face me.
"You wantmeto go into town?"
The disbelief in his voice was raw. He replied like I'd suggested he sprout wings and fly to the mainland instead of taking a twenty-minute ferry ride to a place he'd once called home.
I stood and moved closer, placing my hand on his shoulder. "I want to walk down Main Street with you. That's all."
Wes stared at me, and I watched him weigh the invitation against whatever fears welled up inside. He drummed his fingers on the table.
"Eric—"
"No pressure. If you'd rather not, I understand. I just thought..." I shrugged. "I'd like the company."
A beat of silence stretched between us. Outside, a gull cried sharp and lonely, its call echoing off the cottage walls.
Wes cleared his throat. "You'll need someone to help carry your gear."
It wasn't an enthusiastic tone—more resignation than agreement—but it was a yes.
After finishing lunch, we set out on the trail for the harbor. Most of the island's vegetation had already turned brown, victims of overnight frost.
The ferry's diesel engine hummed beneath our feet as we claimed a spot along the starboard rail. High clouds stretched across the sky, thin and wispy against the October blue.
Wes gripped the rail with both hands, knuckles pale against the rusty metal. He clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on the horizon where Whistleport's harbor grew larger with each passing minute.
I wondered how long it had been since he'd seen those familiar buildings. The entire sixteen years on Ironhook? Or ten? Or maybe only two or three?
The ferry hit a larger swell, and salt spray arced over the bow in a crystalline curtain. Most of it missed us, but a few dropletscaught Wes square in the face. He blinked and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.
The absurdity of it—Wes Hunter, master of maritime survival, ambushed by a handful of seawater—struck me as so perfectly ridiculous that I laughed.
He turned to look at me, eyebrows raised in mock indignation. "Something funny about getting doused by the ocean?"
"Just thinking the ocean's trying to baptize you before you return to civilization."
He rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure I'm beyond salvation at this point."
"I don't know. The sea's in an optimistic mood."
The harbor mouth opened before us, revealing the familiar cluster of aging buildings that made up downtown. Lobster boats bobbed at their moorings, and tourists wandered the boardwalk, ducking into the few boutique shops still open. It was the picturesque Maine scene that appeared on postcards and tourism brochures.
I suspected it represented something far more complicated than scenic beauty for Wes. It was the place that had shaped him, celebrated him, and ultimately turned its back when he needed support most. His return was a considerable act of courage.
The ferry's horn sounded once, deep and resonant, announcing our approach. Wes's grip on the rail tightened again, but he didn't look away.
He hung back as most of the crowd hurried to go ashore. The easy confidence he displayed on Ironhook evaporated somewhere between the ferry's rail and the gangway.
"Ready?" I asked, shouldering my supply bag.
He nodded once. His eyes warily swept the dock.
We descended the gangway together, our boots hollow against the metal grating. The dock stretched ahead of us, wood planks darkened by decades of salt spray and boat traffic.
"Well, if it isn't Wes Hunter, risen from the sea like a myth."
The voice came from our left. An older woman approached with a canvas grocery bag slung over her shoulder, her silver hair caught back in a loose bun that suggested she'd given up fighting with it years ago. Beside her walked a man roughly the same age, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
Wes froze, but he remembered her name. "Margot."
