"Thought I saw a ghost," the man said, though his tone was friendly enough. He had the leathery appearance of someone who spent his days outdoors, with lines around his eyes that spoke of squinting into wind and sun.
I stepped slightly forward, offering what I hoped was a disarming smile. "It's Mr. Bennett and Mrs. Blake, right? I'm Eric Callahan. I'm doing research on Ironhook."
The man nodded and extended his hand. He was the father of Brooks Bennett, Whistleport's homegrown NHL star. His grip was firm, calloused.
He turned toward his companion. "And this force of nature is Margot Blake. Her son, Rory, teaches high school English, coaches hockey, and terrorizes teenagers into appreciating poetry."
Margot laughed. "Don't listen to him." She turned to me with genuine interest. "Research, you said? It's brave of you to spend time on Ironhook. Most people find it a bit too... remote."
"It's been educational," I glanced at Wes, who remained frozen beside me like a deer caught in headlights.
Reid rubbed his chin. "You know, I remembered your face as soon as I saw you. A few years older than Brooks. You were a hell of a winger. Could read the ice like—" He glanced at Wes and course-corrected. "Well. That was a long time ago."
Wes's voice was soft and raspy when he replied. "It was."
Margot sensed the tension and shifted her grocery bag. "Well, it's good to see you."
"I should—we should get going," The words escaped Wes in a rush. "Need to pick up supplies."
"Of course." Reid stepped aside, making room for us to pass. "Good seeing you both."
We walked away from the dock in silence. I glanced over at Wes and saw that his face had gone pale beneath his tan, and his breathing had turned shallow. The brief exchange had cost him more than I'd expected, leaving him visibly shaken.
The kindness in Reid and Margot's voices was genuine, but I was beginning to understand that for someone who'd spent so many years believing himself unwelcome, even kindness could feel like an assault.
Main Street stretched ahead of us. The familiar storefronts looked smaller than I remembered—Eugenie's Lobster Rolls with its hand-painted sign advertising fresh seafood, the bookstore with towers of used paperbacks visible through salt-stained windows, Miller's Bakery with its crooked wooden shutter that had needed fixing for as long as I could remember, and the old town hall where my father had attended more municipal meetings than any sane person should endure.
I nodded toward a storefront that used to house a dress shop. "They added a new gallery, mostly local artists. Seascapes and lobster boat paintings that tourists buy to remember their Maine vacation."
Wes grunted slightly.
"And the old pharmacy became a wine shop. Fancy stuff from California and France. Seems like an odd fit for Whistleport, but apparently, the summer people love it."
Another grunt, this one barely audible.
I kept up the gentle commentary as we approached Tidal Grounds, where the scents of coffee and fresh pastries drifted out onto the street. Through the windows, I spotted Silas behind the counter. A few customers occupied the mismatched tables.
"Want to grab coffee?" I asked. "Silas makes a decent cup."
"I'm fine."
"Come on. My treat. Besides, I could use the caffeine."
When I turned toward the coffee shop's entrance, Wes followed. The interior of Tidal Grounds enveloped us in warmth and the rich aroma of roasted beans. Silas looked up from the register, his engaging face breaking into a broad grin when he spotted me.
"Eric Callahan! How's island life treating you?"
"Can't complain." I approached the counter. "Two coffees, please. Medium roast, if you've got it."
"Coming right up." Silas's gaze shifted to my companion. "Wes Hunter, right? I've heard good things about your work on Ironhook."
Wes's shoulders tensed. "Thanks."
Silas poured coffee from a thermal carafe, his movements steady and practiced. "Cream and sugar are over there if you need them." He gestured toward a small station near the window. "Take your time."
We waited in comfortable silence while I doctored my coffee, and Wes left his black. The familiar sounds of the coffee shop—steam hissing, ceramic clinking, and the low murmur of conversation—cocooned us.
After a few moments among the gathered customers, Wes's shoulders tightened. His eyes tracked every customer who entered and every conversation that might include his name.
