"That's worse."
She escaped to her bedroom, and Jack made coffee while trying not to laugh.
This town. These people. The way they'd shown up at dawn with a transparent excuse to vet him and recruit him and make sure he was treating Clara right—it reminded him of home in a way that made him oddly homesick.
Lockport had been like this. Everyone knowing everyone's business, showing up uninvited with casseroles and unsolicited advice and the kind of care that felt suffocating until you left and realized it was actually love wearing an annoying mask.
He hadn't thought about Lockport in too long. Hadn't let himself. Because remembering meant feeling, and feeling meant grief, and grief meant?—
The bedroom door opened. Clara emerged in work clothes, her hair braided, looking resignedto her fate.
Jack handed her a travel mug of fresh coffee. "Figured you'd need it to deal with Maeve's enthusiasm."
She took it with a muttered., "Thanks,” and trudged out the front door like she was going to battle.
"You're welcome."
The town square was already buzzing when they arrived. The collapsed stage sat in pieces near the gazebo like the world's saddest jigsaw puzzle, and a small crowd had gathered to assess the damage.
Maeve waved them over with general-marshaling-troops enthusiasm.
"Jack, this is Thomas—he'll be your assistant. And Clara, you're on supply runs?—"
"I know where everything is," Clara interrupted. "I've lived here my whole life."
"Of course you have, dear. Excellent!"
Jack circled the wreckage, examining joints and support beams. The original builder had known what they were doing—the foundation was solid, just needed new joists and decking. Nothing he couldn't handle.
He was aware of people watching him. Not obvious about it, but present. Evaluating. The same way hisdad's crew used to size up new hires on job sites back home.
Show them you know what you're doing, and they'll respect you. Show them you care, and they'll trust you.
His dad's voice, clear as day. Jack hadn't heard it in years.
“The good news is, we can salvage a lot,” he announced. "Whoever built the original knew what they were doing. But we'll need new joists, decking, hardware. Plus paint."
"Make a list," Maeve commanded.
Jack pulled the pencil from behind his ear—a habit from job sites, always having one ready—and sketched on scrap paper. Neat handwriting, quantities, specifications. The kind of list that showed competence.
He handed it to Clara. "Think you can find all this?"
“I think I can handle a list.”
She stalked off toward the lumber yard, and Jack felt that now-familiar warmth in his chest. The one that showed up when Clara was being prickly and defensive and completely herself.
Dangerous.
By noon, Jack had fallen into the rhythm of building—measuring, cutting, fitting pieces together like a puzzle only he could see the solution to. Thomas held boards steady and handed him tools, but mostly Jack worked alone, lost in the familiar meditation of construction.
This was what he was good at. What he understood. Wood didn't lie. Joints either fit or they didn't. Everything made sense in a way that people never quite did.
Except the people of Beacon's End kept interrupting.
Mrs. Patterson brought sandwiches around eleven. "You must be starving, working so hard."
Dale from the marina stopped by with advice about how the old stage had been built back in the day. "They don't make things like they used to."
