"So you came home and moved into the familylighthouse?"
"Pretty much. Previous caretaker retired, my parents needed someone short-term, I was available and unemployed. Wasn't supposed to be permanent, but..." She shrugged. "Turned out I liked the solitude. Took it on full-time."
And by 'liked the solitude,' she meant 'desperately needed the solitude after Sam imploded her life and shook her very foundation of self,' but Jack didn't need that information.
"What about you?" she asked. "Where's home?"
"Wherever I'm working. Last month, Massachusetts. Two months before that, Colorado."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Naww, that's called freedom."
"Okay, Free Bird, where's home originally?"
"You mean, like where I was hatched?" he teased.
"Yes," she laughed.
"Small town in Pennsylvania. River town called Lockport."
"Lockport…" she tasted the name on her tongue. Somehow it seemed to fit Jack but there must be a reason why he hadn't wanted to stick around so she left it at that.
She returned her attention back to the water, watching Beacon's End grow larger. The town clung to the coastline like a barnacle—colorful buildings stacked against the hillside, boats crowding the harbor.
Her stomach tightened.
She had a love/hate relationship with Beacon's End. Growing up here had been... fine. The people were good people. But small towns had memories like elephants and no one liked to forget a single detail. Sometimes it was hard to grow beyond who you once were when everyone kept reminding you of your past.
Another reason she preferred the lighthouse. The quiet. The predictable routine. The lack of questions about why she wasn't dating anyone or when she'd give her parents grandchildren or whether she'dfinallygotten over Sam.
Like there was a time limit on emotional damage.
They tied up at the public dock. Clara led Jack up the weathered planks toward Main Street, steeling herself.
The smell of frying bacon drifted from Maeve's place, mixing with diesel fuel and fish. A bell clanged. Seagulls screamed their eternal complaints.
"Very quaint," Jack said, his gaze lighting with a typical tourist's delight.
To be fair, Beacon's End looked set-dressed for a seaside romcom but it was like any small town—beneath the cute-factor lived the human element and that was the part that wasn't always so cute.
She'd barely made it three steps before Mrs. Conley materialized from the general store like a gossip-seeking missile. Hair shellacked into its usual immovable helmet. Earrings that probably had their own insurance policy.
"Clara! How WONDERFUL to see you in town!" Mrs. Conley's gaze locked onto Jack with the laser precision of a woman who'd spent five decades inserting herself into other people's business. "And you've brought a friend! How absolutely WONDERFUL!"
Two wonderfuls in under ten seconds. A new personal best.
"Jack Callahan," Clara said flatly. "His boat capsized. He needs a room at the inn."
"Oh, you poor thing!" Mrs. Conley clutched her chest, already composing the version of this story she'd be telling everyone within the hour. "Capsized? How terrifying. And Clara rescued you? Isn't that just?—"
"Wonderful?" Clara supplied.
"I was going to say providential." Mrs. Conley beamed at Jack, then leaned toward Clara with the subtlety of a foghorn. "Your mother is going to be so pleased you're socializing."
"We're not socializing. I pulled him out of the ocean. There's a difference."
"Of course, dear." Mrs. Conley patted her arm in a way that said she'd already mentally composed the text to Ida. "You know, Jack, Clara doesn't come to town very often. This is quite the occasion. You must be very special."
