Crawford turned from the window, his expression caught between surprise and resignation. “Just thinking.”
“About Chris and Becca? The house?”
“About a lot of things.” He picked up the bourbon, swirled it, set it down again without drinking. “Memories. Old stories.”
Ciara set her knitting aside and moved to the chair across from him. She had learned not to push, not to pry. Crawfordwould talk when he was ready, and if he wasn't ready, no amount of questioning would change that.
But tonight, something shifted in his face. A decision made.
“The Westbrook property,” he said slowly. “You know it sold for well under market value.”
“I assumed Harold's children wanted a quick sale. They live far away, don't they? It makes sense they wouldn't want to deal with a lengthy negotiation.”
“That's part of it. But not all of it.” Crawford finally took a sip of his bourbon. “They gave us that price because I asked them to. Because of something that happened a long time ago, before you and I ever met. Before Julia got sick. Before the kids were even born.”
Ciara waited, patient and still.
“Harold Westbrook and I were friends,” Crawford continued. “Good friends, back in the early seventies when Julia and I first moved to the island. He and Eleanor had just bought that property, same year we bought ours. We were young couples starting out, building lives, raising families in the same waters.”
“You never mentioned him.”
“I haven't spoken to Harold in almost fifteen years. After Eleanor died, he pulled away from everyone. Stopped coming to the marina, stopped returning calls. Grief does that to some people. It did it to me too, after Julia.” Crawford's voice roughened. “But before all that, before the distance and the silence, I did something for Harold that he never forgot.”
He paused, staring into his glass as if the amber liquid held the past.
“It was 1974. Harold and Eleanor had only been on the island a couple of years. He was trying to get his charter fishing business off the ground, and things weren't going well. A hurricane came through, not a direct hit but close enough. Damaged his boat, tore up his dock, set him back months. He didn't have insurance, didn't have savings. He was about to lose everything.”
“What did you do?”
“I gave him a loan. Ten thousand dollars, which was real money back then. No interest, no timeline, no paperwork. Just a handshake and a promise that he would pay me back when he could.” Crawford shook his head. “I told him that's what neighbors do. That's what the island does. We take care of our own.”
“Did he pay you back?”
“Every penny, over the next five years. Built that charter business into something solid. He and Eleanor lived in that house for almost fifty years, raised their kids there, grew old together there.” Crawford smiled slightly. “He never forgot what I did. Mentioned it every time I saw him, even decades later. Said I saved his life.”
“And now his family has done the same for yours.”
“I called his son, David, when I heard the property was for sale. Told him who I was, reminded him of the connection. Asked if there was any way to make the price work for my daughter and her husband.” Crawford's smile widened. “David remembered the story. Said his father had told it a hundred times over the years. He said Harold would have wanted the house to go to someone who would love it, who would bring it back to life. Someone connected to the man who had helped him when he needed it most.”
“So the price...”
“The price reflects that. A favor repaid, fifty years later. The Westbrook children could have gotten twice as much on the open market, but they chose to honor their father's memory by honoring his friendship with me.”
Ciara was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. Then she asked the question that had been forming in her mind.
“Will you tell Becca? Why you were able to get that property for her?”
Crawford shook his head slowly, his expression certain. “No.”
“No?”
“I'm already helping with the down payment. That's enough.” He turned back to the window, to the water that had been his constant companion for fifty years. “Christopher is a proud man. He's worked hard to build his life, to take care of his family, to stand on his own two feet despite everything he's been through. That leg he lost didn't slow him down one bit. He just found a new way forward.”
“You admire him.”
“I do. More than he knows.” Crawford took another sip of bourbon. “And because I admire him, I'm not going to pile on more. He's already accepting help with the down payment, which wasn't easy for him. If I tell him the house price was a favor to me, that it was my connections that made it possible...” He shook his head again. “It takes something away from him. Makes it feel like charity instead of opportunity.”
“But it's a beautiful story. A kindness repaid across generations.”
