Clara's throat tightened.
"But seeing you today? Walking down Main Street with this man's hand in yours, looking like you actually want to be here?" Maeve squeezed her hand. "That's the best thing I've seen in a long time. And I don't care if it embarrasses you, and I don't care if you roll your eyes, because someone needs to say it: it is so good to see you happy again."
Clara's eyes stung. She blinked hard, refusing to cry in the middle of a pub on a Tuesday.
"Thank you, Maeve," she managed.
"Don't thank me. Thank him." Maeve jerked her chin at Jack, who had the good sense to look quietly moved rather than smug. "Or thank yourself. You're the one who let him in."
Maeve stood, slung the dish towel over her shoulder, and was Maeve again. "Now. Lunch is on the house. Don't argue."
"We're not going to argue," Jack said.
"Smart man." Maeve headed back toward the kitchen, then stopped. Turned. "One more thing. If you hurt her, I'll make sure they never find the body. And I mean that with love."
"Understood, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am."
She disappeared into the kitchen. Clara exhaled a shaky laugh.
"She likes you," Clara said.
"She just threatened to murder me."
"That's how you know."
They were on the boat heading home—home, she was calling it home now and so was Jack and that meant something—when Clara's phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, expecting another message from the group chat. Or Mrs. Conley. Or her mother, who had undoubtedly received a full intelligence briefing by now and was probably composing a text that would somehow be both supportive and guilt-inducing about grandchildren.
It wasn't any of those.
The email was from an address she didn't recognize, sent to the C.H. Winters contact address she kept on her Tidal Lock page. The subject line read:Representation Inquiry — Tidal Lock
Clara's thumb hovered over the notification.
Dear C.H. Winters — I'm a literary agent at Achebe & Partners specializing in graphic novels and illustrated fiction. I've been following Tidal Lock for several months, and I believe there's a significant opportunity to bring this work to a wider audience through a print graphic novel series. I'd love to schedule a call to discuss representation. No obligations, just a conversation...
The boat rocked gently. Spray kissed her face. Jack was saying something about the sealant and whether cedar was better than treated pine for the gallery post, his voice easy and warm in the salt air.
Clara read the email twice. Then a third time, because the words didn't seem real.
A literary agent. Following her work. For months. A print graphic novel series.
Something in her chest swelled and then immediately constricted, like a balloon inflating inside a too-small space. Pride and panic, pressed together so tightly she couldn't tell which was which.
"Clare-bear, webcomics aren't real art."
Clara closed the email. Locked her phone. Slid it back into her pocket.
"Everything okay?" Jack asked, glancing over.
"Yeah." She smiled. It was almost convincing. "Just the group chat. Mrs. Conley abusing more exclamation points."
Jack laughed and went back to his cedar-versus-pine debate, and Clara watched Beacon's End shrink behind them and the lighthouse grow larger ahead, and she didn't think about the email.
Not right now.
