"Not you." Jack's voice softened. "Not for a long time. That's what they're celebrating."
Clara paused, one foot in the boat, one on the dock. The irritation in her chest loosened into something more complicated.
Because he was right. The town wasn't being nosy—well, they were, but that wasn't the whole story. They were relieved. For three years, they'd watched Clara retreat. Watched her close herself off, refuse invitations, dodge connections, withdrawing into a tight ball behind the lighthouse walls. They'd brought food and checked on her and given her space and waited.
And now here she was. Holding someone's hand in broad daylight. Looking like she might actually be happy.
Of course they were losing their minds.
"Fine," she conceded. "It's sweet. In an invasive, boundary-violating, small-town-surveillance kind of way."
"That's the Clara Hawkins seal of approval rightthere."
They made one last stop at Maeve's for lunch.
The pub was moderately busy—the post-festival crowd still lingering, nursing beers and swapping stories from the bonfire. Clara braced herself as they walked through the door, but Maeve wasn't behind the bar. Evan was.
Small mercies.
They ordered food and settled into their usual booth—and when had they gotten a "usual" booth?—when the kitchen door swung open and Maeve appeared, dish towel over her shoulder, eyes finding Clara and Jack like a guided system.
She didn't say a word. Just walked to their table, stood there for a moment, and looked at them.
At their shoulders touching. At the ease between them. At Clara, who was smiling about something Jack had said without the usual self-conscious editing.
"Well," Maeve said.
One word. Loaded.
"Don't," Clara warned.
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Your face is saying everything."
Maeve's mouth twitched. She pulled out a chair, sat down uninvited—classic Maeve—and folded her hands on the table.
"Mrs. Conley called me. Twice. The group chat has forty-seven new messages. Dale walked into the pub, said 'about time,' and left. That's more words than Dale has volunteered in a calendar year." Maeve paused. "Sarah sent a photo."
"I knew she took a photo!"
"It's a very nice photo. You're both squinting."
Jack laughed. Clara dropped her face into her hands.
"Mrs. Conley tells me there's a betting pool," Clara said through her fingers.
"There is. I manage the spreadsheet." Maeve said this without a shred of shame. "For the record, I had the festival. So I won."
"You bet on us."
"I invested in a likely outcome. There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
Maeve waved this away. Then her expression shifted—the performance falling away, something real and quiet surfacing underneath. She reached across the table and placed her hand overClara's.
"Clara." Her voice was different now. No performance. No wit. Just Maeve. "I've watched you for three years. Watched you hide in that lighthouse and pretend you were fine when I knew—when we all knew—you weren't. And I kept my mouth shut, mostly, because you needed time and I respect that."
