Wes had been closely monitoring my face throughout the call. When I set the phone down, he leaned forward slightly.
"Good news?"
"I think so. Maybe. I don't know." I laughed nervously. "They want to offer me a job. A real job, documenting coastal communities across Maine. For two years, maybe longer."
"That's incredible."
"The thing is..." I stared at my hands wrapped around the coffee mug. "They said I could live anywhere. Base the research wherever I wanted."
"Anywhere?"
"I want to live on Ironhook." The words tumbled out before I could second-guess them. "Not only for you—though God knows I want that, too. But for the work and the stories that deserve to be told."
Wes's voice was measured in tone. "You're sure? It's a big decision. Career-defining, maybe."
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I headed to Ironhook thinking I was studying resilience. Turns out I was learning how to live it."
He spoke quietly. "Good, because I'm not great at long-distance brooding."
"What's this about brooding?" Mrs. Knickerbocker appeared beside us, dish towel in hand. She'd been listening from the sink, probably catching enough of my phone conversation to piece together the essentials.
"Eric just got offered his dream job."
Mrs. Knickerbocker beamed. "Oh, how wonderful. And where will it take you?"
"Ironhook," I said, and Wes's smile deepened.
She beamed at us both, then called toward the back porch. "Knick! Come hear this good news!"
Mr. Knickerbocker appeared in the doorway, pipe in hand and newspaper tucked under his arm. "What's all the commotion?"
"Eric's got himself a real job doing exactly what he loves, and he's staying right here where he belongs."
Mr. Knickerbocker's weathered face creased into a smile. "That calls for a proper celebration. Though I suppose it's too early for champagne."
"Never too early for good news," his wife declared, then turned to study Wes with a penetrating gaze that had probably seen through decades of teenage subterfuge. "And what about you? Any plans to make yourself useful while Eric's out documenting the world?"
Wes shifted uncomfortably on his stool. "Actually, Brooks Bennett and Rory Blake asked me to help with the youth hockey program. I'm thinking about it."
"Thinking about it?" Mr. Knickerbocker's bushy eyebrows rose.
"Trying to decide whether I remember enough to be useful."
Mr. Knickerbocker snorted. "Son, you don't forget how to ride a bicycle, and you sure as hell don't forget how to teach kids to love hockey. The question is whether you're brave enough to handle that kind of energy."
Wes looked down at his coffee, then up at me. "Want to take a walk? Maybe swing by the arena?"
I squeezed his hand. "Lead the way."
We gathered our jackets from the Knickerbockers' coat closet, accepting Mrs. Knickerbocker's insistence we take travel mugs of coffee and her stern warning to "dress warmly—October's got teeth."
The walk to the arena took us through downtown Whistleport. Wes tensed as we approached. By the time we reached the entrance, his jaw clenched.
"You sure about this?" I asked as he paused at the glass doors.
"No," he said, then pulled the door open anyway. "But I'm doing it."
The surface of the rink in the Whistleport Ice Arena gleamed under the overhead lights, fresh from the Zamboni's morning ritual. A handful of kids practiced near the far boards, their voices echoing off the high ceiling.
