The thingabout Twin Waves is that nobody waits to be asked. You mention you’re doing something—moving, painting, fixing a roof, having a crisis—and the town just shows up. Not with aplan. Not with an invitation. Just with trucks and casseroles and the unshakeable belief that whatever you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it alone.
Hazel arrives first with Jack, who is already carrying a toolbox because Jack carries a toolbox the way other men carry wallets—everywhere, always, just in case. He’s through the front door and checking the hinges before anyone says hello.
“The back door sticks,” he announces. “I’ll plane it.”
“Jack, you don’t have to —”
“Already doing it.” He disappears down the hallway. Hazel watches him go with fond exasperation.
“I brought muffins,” Hazel says, setting a basket on the counter. “Blueberry. And before you say you didn’t need help, I’ve already texted everyone. Amber’s bringing lunch. Michelle is closing the shop early. Jo said Dean has the truck.”
“Lottie didn’t ask for —”
“Honey.” Hazel puts her hand on my arm. “Nobody asked. That’s the point.”
Mads walks in behind her mother, enormous and radiant and holding a gift bag.
“Housewarming present,” she says, setting it on the counter. “Don’t open it until everyone’s gone. It’s from the book club.”
“Should I be worried?”
“You should be thrilled. Also —” She lowers her voice. “Grandma wanted to come but she’s got a thing at the retirement community. She said to tell Lottie that she expects a full report at book club and that the studio better have good lighting for when she sends over clients.”
“Grandma Hensley is sending me clients?”
“Grandma Hensley knows every pregnant woman and new mother in a thirty-mile radius. She’s basically a one-woman referral network.” Mads eases herself into a kitchen chair with the careful precision of a very pregnant woman navigating furniture. “Also, I’m not allowed to lift anything, carry anything, or stand for more than ten minutes. Asher’s orders. He texted Mom, Jo, Michelle—the man has a group chat dedicated to making sure his pregnant wife doesn’t exert herself.”
“He’s being sweet,” Hazel says.
“He’s being a helicopter husband with a group text. It’s called ‘Operation Mads Sits Down.’ I wish I were kidding.”
The front door opens again and the volume doubles. Dawson and Finch come through carrying a mattress between them—Lottie’s, from the houseboat, the one that’s been living in the storagelocker since she arrived. They navigate the hallway with the easy coordination of two sixteen-year-olds who’ve spent their whole lives hauling things on and off boats.
“Where does this go?” Dawson asks.
“Main bedroom, end of the hall,” Lottie says.
“Got it.” They disappear. Finch’s bicep flexes under the weight of the mattress, and through the kitchen window I can see Jenna on the front porch, suddenly very interested in her phone and very not-interested in looking at anyone carrying furniture. She’s been braiding her hair again.
Then a truck pulls into the driveway. Justin’s truck. Big, practical, the bed loaded with boxes and a bookshelf and what looks like the disassembled parts of the boys’ bunk beds.
Justin gets out. Lottie freezes with a muffin halfway to her mouth.
“I didn’t invite him,” she says.
“Harold probably did,” I say.
“Why would Harold —”
“Harold invites everyone to everything. It’s his hobby.”
Justin walks through the front door carrying one end of the bunk bed frame. Paul has the other end.
Paul.
Paul is in Lottie’s new house. Paul is carrying furniture. Paul, who I almost kissed on the beach, who saidit wasn’t just a safety issueand walked away and then came back, whose hand was on my neck with my pulse hammering against his palm before a jellyfish ruined everything.
Paul is here. With his sleeves rolled up. Carrying a bunk bed. Looking at me.
