Pete from the hardware store delivered extra screws Jack hadn't ordered. "Just in case. No charge."
And throughout it all, people asked questions. Where was he from? How long was he staying? What did he think of Beacon's End? Had he tried Maeve's clam chowder yet?
Each question felt like a test he hadn't studied for.
They were checking on Clara.
Not directly—that would be too obvious. But every conversation somehow circled back to her. Had shebeen eating properly? Was she getting enough sleep? Had her parents called from Florida? How was her deadline going?
They were worried about her. All of them. This whole town had apparently appointed itself Clara's unofficial family, and Jack—temporary carpenter, recent shipwreck survivor, man who definitely should not be developing feelings—was being vetted as a potential threat or ally to their lighthouse keeper.
The realization made him smile but a forlorn sadness burned somewhere hidden.
This was Lockport with an east coast accent.
This was his sister Josie showing up at his apartment with groceries when he forgot to eat. His dad's crew bringing casseroles after the funeral. The way his whole neighborhood had turned out for Joel's memorial service, standing in the rain because the church couldn't hold everyone.
This was the kind of love that showed up uninvited and stuck around even when you tried to push it away.
The kind Jack had been running from for seven years because it hurt toomuch to stay.
Around two o'clock, Clara returned from her third supply run. Jack was on the frame, securing joists, when he spotted her talking to Maeve by the gazebo.
He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Clara's body language—arms crossed, shoulders tense, that defensive posture she adopted whenever someone got too close to the truth.
Maeve said something, touched Clara's arm gently, and walked away.
Clara stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and Jack felt the urge to climb down and ask if she was okay.
He didn't.
Because that would be overstepping. Would be caring in a way that implied he planned to stick around. Would be crossing lines he'd promised himself he wouldn't cross.
Instead, he drove another screw home and pretended he hadn't noticed.
"Hand me that drill?"
Clara climbed the temporary ladder without a word, tool in hand. She looked tired. Annoyed. Beautiful in that wind-whipped, sun-kissed way that wreaked havoc with his mantra of keeping a safe distance from anything that threatened his wanderlust.
He took the drill, their fingers brushing briefly. "Thanks. You didn't have to climb up."
"Seemed faster than throwing it."
“I appreciate not having to duck.” He lined up a screw, drove it home. The brilliant blue skies and the warmth of the sun made a liar out the weather’s recent bipolar weather pattern. “This is a good town.”
“They're nosy as all get out.”
"They care about each other. That's not nosiness—that's community." Jack moved to the next joint. “It’s a good thing. Trust me, when it’s gone, you realize you should’ve appreciated it.”
Clara shifted her weight, glancing his way with those gorgeous, mossy green eyes that somehow seemed to see right through him. “In all this time, you’ve never been back home?”
The question hit hard.
“Um, no,” he admitted. “I mean, it wasn’t planned that way, it just…something always seemed to come up and the opportunity never presented itself. But it’s not like I don’t keep in touch. My sister requires regular check-ins and then she lets my mom know what I’m up to. And I try to send a postcard from the places that I think they’d enjoy seeing.”
“Have you called your sister since nearly drowning?”
“No, not yet.”
