When she died, I hadn’t cried. I’d told myself I couldn’t—not with Lily watching, not with work deadlines stacking up and the funeral to plan and the guilt pressing down on my chest like wet wool. But now, standing in her old house with the ocean wind threading through the window, I felt the grief I’d buried too neatly.
I closed my eyes and let it sting.
Downstairs, I heard the back door creak open, followed by Willa’s unmistakable voice: “Ohhh my God, hello again, handsome stranger!”
I blinked.
Handsome stranger?
I stepped to the window and peeked out through the curtain.
A man stood at the edge of the yard, holding a toolbox and wearing a faded baseball cap. He looked up at Willa, who was leaning against the porch railing like a pinup from the 1940s. I couldn’t hear what she was saying now, but I could tell she was enjoying herself.
The man didn’t retreat, which surprised me.
He was tall. Broad shoulders, worn jeans, and that relaxed posture men have when they’re comfortable with silence. Something about him was familiar, though I couldn’t place it yet. Not from this far away.
Harper stepped out a second later and said something to him that made him nod. Then she gestured toward the broken porch swing. He moved toward it, set his toolbox down, and knelt to inspect the chains.
Ah. So this was the fixer.
I turned away from the window. My heart was still beating a little faster than it should’ve been.
Maybe it was just the quiet.
I foundthem on the porch. The two of them, standing shoulder to shoulder and staring at the half-collapsed swing like it had personally offended them.
Harper was holding a notepad. Willa had a glass of lemonade and was offering unsolicited opinions.
“I’m telling you, just take the whole thing down and hang a hammock,” Willa said, sipping like she lived here full time. “Swings are moody. Hammocks are confident.”
“The wish isn’tinstall a hammock,” Harper said. “It’sfix the swing.”
The man didn’t say anything. He crouched beside the swing, gently jiggling the chains, like he was listening for something unspoken. There was a calmness to him that made the whole porch feel steadier.
He glanced up just as I stepped outside.
His eyes landed on me, and for a second, the rest of the conversation fell away.
Then he smiled. It wasn’t big or practiced, just quiet and real. Like he was glad to see me, even if he wasn’t sure why.
“You must be June,” he said.
I hesitated. “Have we met?”
“A long time ago,” he said. “But I wouldn’t expect you to remember. You were probably twelve. I was fifteen and awkward.”
Willa snorted. “You? Awkward? That I wouldpayto see.”
He grinned. “It was a phase. I outgrew it. Mostly.”
“Grant,” Harper added, gesturing between us, “owns the workshop across the marina. He fixes things.”
Grant shrugged. “Sometimes I break them first. Part of the process.”
His voice had that easy Maine cadence—slower than city speech, but deliberate. Warm. It fit him. And it did something strange to my chest.
“You’re here about the porch swing?” I asked.
