"He's not special. He's waterlogged. There's a difference."
"I'm standing right here," Jack said mildly.
"Don't take it personally." Clara grabbed his sleeve. "We have to go. Nice seeing you, Mrs. Conley."
"You too, dear! Tell your mother I said hello! Actually, I’ll call her tonight myself but it's nice to have something NEW to discuss!"
Clara could practically hear the phone tree activating behind them. She gave it twenty minutes before her mother knew Jack's name, approximate height, and marital status. Fifteen if Mrs. Conley had goodcell reception.
They made it another block before Don Patterson emerged from the hardware store, reading glasses perched on his head like they'd been born there, shirt tucked into his jeans with military precision.
"Miss Hawkins! Twice in one week! What's the occasion?"
"Unscheduled stop," Clara said. She'd been here three days ago for supplies. Everyone knew that Clara didn't leave the lighthouse unless absolutely necessary.
"And you've brought a guest." Don extended his hand to Jack with the enthusiasm of a man who'd been waiting for someone new to talk at. "Don Patterson. Welcome to Beacon's End."
"Jack Callahan."
"Callahan. Irish?"
"On my mother's side."
"Wonderful people, the Irish. My wife Joan's cousin married an Irishman. Lovely fellow. Moved him over from County Cork, if you can believe it. Four kids now. Well, three and a half—Joan's cousin is due in October." Don barely paused for breath. "The youngest, Declan—now there's a character—he reminds me of my nephew Gary, who actually works in construction up in Bangor. You know, he once told me about a job he did on a Victorian in?—"
"Don," Clara interrupted gently. "We're just here to get Jack a room at the inn."
"Right, right, of course." Don looked not even slightly derailed. He turned back to Jack with a hopeful expression. "So, Jack. Married? Kids?"
Clara's face burned. "He just got here, Don. Maybe let the man dry off before you plan his family."
"Just making conversation!" Don said, bewildered that anyone could find this line of questioning unusual. "Joan always says I talk too much, but I say, how else do you learn about people?"
"No kids," Jack said with an easy grin. "Maybe someday."
"That's the spirit! No rush, no rush. Though I will say, Beacon's End is a wonderful place to raise a family. Schools are solid, cost of living is?—"
Clara tugged Jack's sleeve—keep moving—and called back over her shoulder, "Thanks, Don!"
"Come back anytime! And if you need hardware, I've got the best selection north of Portland!"
"He seems great," Jack said once they were clear.
"He is great. He's also the reason a quick trip to the hardware store takes forty-five minutes. Don doesn't have conversations, he has monologues withwitnesses."
They passed the marina next, where Dale Morrow stood on the dock examining a cleat with the narrowed gaze of a surgeon. He was weathered in the way coastal men get after decades of salt and wind—deep tan lines, calloused hands, wearing what Clara was fairly certain was the same flannel he'd been wearing since 2019.
Dale looked up. His gaze moved from Clara to Jack, then back to Clara. One eyebrow twitched—which, for Dale, was basically a standing ovation of curiosity.
"Hawkins."
"Dale."
His eyes returned to Jack. Held there. Assessing. "Who's this?"
"Jack Callahan. Boat capsized in the storm."
Dale grunted. It was the kind of grunt that contained an entire paragraph—something along the lines of, What kind of idiot takes a boat out in those conditions? But he was too stingy with words to say all that.
