Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

10. Jack

Chapter ten

Jack

T he house creaked and settled around me as I stirred ground beef in the skillet. Without Cody's running commentary about hockey stats or school drama, I noticed the small sounds I usually missed—the sizzle of cooking meat, the hum of the refrigerator, and the scrape of my wooden spoon against cast iron.

I'd gotten used to cooking while fielding questions about teammate lineups or the relative distance from Earth to Jupiter. Now, the kitchen felt amazingly large and empty. I caught myself turning to answer questions that hadn't been asked.

The beef started to brown, and I realized I was making enough for two. Force of habit. I reached for the taco seasoning—Cody's favorite—then stopped myself. I could make anything I wanted—something spicy, complex, and adult.

I opened the cabinet, and it paralyzed me because there were too many options.

My phone buzzed against the counter. It was a text message:

Silas: Got the first layer of varnish stripped. This old oak has stories to tell

Attached was a photo of the display case, its surface partially revealed beneath decades of dark stain. Silas had captured the way the grain swooped and curled like waves frozen in wood.

I touched the screen and zoomed in on a detail in the background—Silas's grandfather's tools laid out with careful precision. It hinted at a systematic approach that would be like what I'd do with a restoration project.

I thought about one of the stacks of moving boxes I still hadn't unpacked. I'd labeled them TOOLS. They contained a variety of implements needed for detail work—chisels, planes, fine-grit sandpaper.

The beef in the pan was done, threatening to burn. I quickly turned down the heat, but instead of reaching for seasoning, I answered the message.

Jack: Sounds like you could use an extra set of hands. And I haven't eaten yet.

Three dots started flashing immediately. Butterflies fluttered in my gut as I waited for the response.

Silas: Neither have I. Fair warning. Only coffee and day-old scones here.

I glanced at the cooked meat and the empty chairs around my kitchen table. It was surprisingly easy to make a decision.

Jack: Give me twenty minutes to wrap this up. Then lobster rolls at Eugenie's?

Silas: You are turning into a real Mainer.

I smiled, already reaching to turn off the stove. The beef could go in the fridge. I didn't have to settle for a solo meal in an empty house. I could do something else entirely.

Eugenie's sat next to the old hardware store near the docks. Its windows glowed amber against the deepening dusk, and the smell of lobster mingled with sea air on the boardwalk.

Silas waited by the entrance, hands in his pockets. He spoke as I approached. "I should probably let you know. Friday nights here can get interesting. The cod boat crews usually dock around now."

The interior was warm and already a bit noisy. Dark wainscoting climbed halfway up walls covered in maritime memorabilia—brass navigational instruments, worn life rings, and black and white photos of stern-faced lobstermen from another era.

Silas nodded to the bartender and led me to a booth in the corner. The vinyl seats, patched with duct tape, squeaked as we sat. A tiny candle flickered in a jar painted to look like a lighthouse.

"So, this is where all my coffee regulars hang out after hours." Silas shrugged off his coat.

Do you know everyone's usual order here, too?

"Maybe." He smiled, picking up a laminated menu. "Though Pete behind the bar still won't tell me the secret sauce seasoning used in the lobster rolls."

A server appeared—Katie, according to her name tag. She moved efficiently among the tables. "Evening, Silas. This must be Jack—Cody's dad?"

When I raised an eyebrow, she laughed. "Small town. Plus, my nephew, Tyler, won't stop talking about his new teammate."

After she took our orders—classic rolls for each of us—we stared silently at each other. A charge bounced between us. Without Cody as a buffer, we found ourselves in uncharted territory.

"The photos and messages show that the display case is coming along well."

Silas ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a sprinkle of sawdust. "It's going slower than I expected. That varnish is stubborn, but it's worth it. Underneath…" He pulled out his phone, showing me more detailed photos of the grain patterns. "See how the woodworker matched the pieces here? So intricate and such a perfect fit."

I leaned closer, drawn in by his enthusiasm. Our shoulders brushed.

The door opened, bringing a gust of cold air and a group of fishermen still in their rubber boots. Their booming voices filled the space as they claimed spots at the bar. Pete started pulling drafts before they could order.

I smiled at the easy camaraderie. "Sometimes I forget what it's like to be part of something this solid. In New York, everything was always changing. Here, it's like everyone's anchored to each other, and the changes are slow and incremental."

Silas studied me over the rim of his water glass. "Is that what you want? To be anchored?"

The question was a deceptively heavy one. Before I could answer, Katie arrived with our lobster rolls on plates piled high with hand-cut fries."

"Have you had one of these yet?" Silas watched as carefully lifted the roll.

"No, I heard Eugenie's is a local institution, and I've been meaning to get here. Is there something I should know?"

"Nothing other than these lobster rolls have convinced more than one summer tourist to extend their stay."

I took a bite. The seasoning was complex—something peppery and warm that I couldn't quite identify. "Okay, you win. This beats cooking for one."

"Speaking of which..." Silas popped a fry in his mouth. "Is this your first night without Cody? How's that working for you?"

The concern in his voice was genuine. I found myself telling him about the too-quiet house and not quite knowing what to do with it.

"That goes away. Or it doesn't go away so much as it changes. Evolves into something else."

I watched him rub his thumb on his glass. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"When I was growing up, after my dad left, the house felt massive. It was Mom and me rattling around all of that empty space. I started getting up early and found work with Knick Knickerbocker. I learned some important life lessons there."

A burst of laughter from the bar punctuated his words. One of the fishermen gestured wildly, describing what must have been an impressive catch.

I thought about my own fresh start—building something new away from New York, set free by the absence of Edward.

"You know what's weird?" I pushed my plate partway to the side. "Today at drop-off, Tyler's mom invited Cody for movie night next weekend. It was a casual question like it was no big deal. In the city, playdates required these complex diplomatic negotiations. Here, everyone lets kids be kids."

Silas smiled. "Let me guess—Tyler's mom is Shannon MacPherson? She'll send Cody home with enough leftovers to feed him for a week."

"She already gave us two containers of shepherd's pie at hockey practice."

"Classic Shannon. She stress-bakes when the boats are out. Her husband Mike captains one of the bigger rigs—they're gone sometimes ten days at a stretch."

We settled into a comfortable rhythm, exchanging stories. Silas explained the intricate social dynamics of Whistleport's lobstering families while I shared tales from my architecture projects in New York. The candle in the center of our table burned lower while we ordered beers from the bar.

I studied Silas as he drank his beer. His beard didn't quite hide his full lips, and his Adam's apple was prominent when he swallowed.

"What?" he asked, catching my gaze.

"Nothing. I'm enjoying how comfortable and different this is."

"Different from what?"

"From spending Friday night organizing Cody's hockey gear, doing laundry, or unpacking boxes. Whatever I thought I'd be doing instead."

The bell above the door chimed, and Dottie Perkins bustled in, her bright scarf a splash of color in the dim room. Her eyes lit up when she spotted us, and I watched Silas tense, prepared for the wave of questions surely headed his way.

I leaned across the table and spoke softly. "Should we head out?"

He nodded, relief evident in the quick exhale that followed. We gathered our coats, and I insisted on paying despite his request to split.

The night air hit us with a cold shock after the restaurant's warmth. Stars had emerged, scattered across the sky.

We walked slowly toward my car, neither of us rushing to end the evening. At the driver's door, I turned to face Silas and found him closer than I expected.

"Jack—" he started, then stopped, like the words had caught somewhere between thought and voice.

I waited, heart hammering against my ribs. It was a delicate moment.

A truck rumbled past, its headlights sweeping across us. Silas took a small step back, but something in his expression remained open and unguarded.

"I should get the shop ready for tomorrow's opening," he said but made no move to leave. "Sarah gets grumpy if the beans aren't pre-measured."

"Right." I fiddled with my keys. "And I should probably rescue those leftovers from my fridge before they go bad."

"The beef you were cooking?"

"Yeah. However, I wonder if I should bring it by Tidal Grounds. You mentioned something about only having day-old scones."

His laugh was soft, barely more than a breath. "Trying to improve my eating habits?"

"Someone should. Coffee isn't actually a food group."

"Tell that to half my customers." He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. "Though I wouldn't say no to some actual protein now and then. Especially if it comes with company."

There it was, the invitation for a repeat engagement. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. I glanced at it and smiled. "Speaking of company, it looks like Cody's teaching Tyler how to make proper hot chocolate. Shannon sent a photo."

I held out my phone. The picture showed both boys in the MacPhersons' kitchen, faces screwed up in concentration as they measured cocoa powder. Whipped cream had somehow ended up on Tyler's nose.

Silas smiled. "Good to see him settling in and finding his place."

"Yeah." I studied the joy in my son's face and then looked back at Silas. "Seems to be something going around."

Our eyes met again.

Silas took a step back. "I should go. Early morning."

"Right. Yeah. Thanks for..." I gestured vaguely at the restaurant. "This was good."

"It was." He paused. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, let me show you my grandmother's marinara recipe. I might be biased, but I think it's even more of a Maine treasure than the lobster rolls."

My pulse raced at the phrase next time. "Looking forward to it."

I watched Silas walk away, his figure gradually blending into the shadows between streetlights. Only after he turned the corner did I unlock my car, the keys steady in my hand despite the flutter in my stomach.

The drive home took less than ten minutes, but something had changed when I pulled into my driveway. The house didn't loom quite so empty. Instead, it appeared to be waiting—not just for Cody's return but for other possibilities. New stories. Fresh starts.

I smiled, remembering Silas's words about the display case. Some things needed time to reveal their true nature. To show what was waiting beneath the surface, ready to shine once you stripped away the old layers.

***

The next morning the MacPhersons' front door opened before I could knock, releasing a wave of warmth and the scent of chocolate. Cody bounded out, his overnight bag barely zipped, hockey stick poking out at an awkward angle.

"Dad! We made hot chocolate like Silas showed me! Well, almost like Silas—we didn't have any vanilla beans, but Mrs. MacPherson found some extract."

"You did a great job, bud." I caught his bag before it could slip off his shoulder. "Did you remember to thank Shannon?"

"Of course!" He turned to wave at Tyler's mom, who stood in the doorway smiling. "Thanks, Mrs. M! The shepherd's pie was awesome!"

"Anytime, sweetie. Jack, he was an absolute pleasure."

The morning air was unusually warm for February in Maine. Cody chattered the whole way to the car. It was a steady stream of movie commentary, hockey plays, and something about Tyler's cat lapping up whipped cream.

"—and then we tried to teach Max how to fetch a puck, but he sat there looking at us like we were crazy. Oh! Did you know Tyler's dad helps drive the Zamboni sometimes? How cool is that?"

I navigated Whistleport's quiet streets, letting Cody's enthusiasm wash over me.

"Dad? Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

He fiddled with the strap of his seatbelt. "How come you never have friends over? Like, at our house?"

The question caught me off guard. I checked the rearview mirror, finding his expression serious. "What makes you ask that?"

"Well... Tyler's house always has people coming over. His uncle stopped by to fix their sink and then stayed for dinner. And his mom's friend brought cookies just because." He paused. "Our house is nice, too. But it's always just us."

I turned onto our street, buying time to form an answer. "Moving to a new place takes time, bud. Making friends and getting comfortable doesn't happen overnight."

"But you have friends here now, right? Like Silas?"

Something in his tone made me glance back again. His face was carefully neutral—too solemn for a ten-year-old discussing his favorite barista.

I pulled into our driveway and killed the engine. "Yeah, Silas is a friend."

"Then how come he never comes over? He helped us pick out my new stick, and he knows all about hockey, and he makes the best hot chocolate, and—"

"Cody." I turned in my seat to face him properly. "What's really on your mind?"

He chewed his lip, a habit he'd picked up recently when thinking hard about something. "It's just... in New York, after you and Papa split up, you never wanted to do anything except stuff with me. That was cool, but sometimes you looked sad when you thought I wasn't looking."

My throat tightened. I hadn't realized he'd noticed that.

"And now we're here, and you smile more. Especially at Tidal Grounds." Our eyes met. "I just think... maybe Silas should come over sometime. If you want."

For a moment, I sat there, studying my son's face. When had he gotten so perceptive? So grown up? It seemed like yesterday he was learning to skate, his small hands gripping mine for balance. Now here he was, reading situations I thought I'd kept carefully hidden.

"You're right," I said finally. "I did focus mostly on you after the split. It felt safer that way."

"Safer than what?"

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, searching for the right words. "Safer than trying to figure out who I was besides being your dad. Does that make sense?"

Cody unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward between the seats. "Kind of. Like how I was scared to try out for the team here because I didn't know anybody? But then I did it anyway, and now Tyler's my best friend."

A surprised laugh escaped me. "Yeah, that's pretty close. Something like that."

"So..." He drew out the word, reminding me suddenly of how he negotiated for extra ice cream. "Maybe you should try, too? I mean, Silas already likes us. He makes my hot chocolate exactly right, and he always asks about my games and other stuff."

"Oh, tell me what he thinks about stuff?"

"Dad." He fixed me with a look that was pure Edward—the one that said he wasn't falling for any deflection. "I'm just saying. Our house is nice. And we have that big kitchen. And Silas probably gets tired of only eating scones."

I reached back and ruffled his hair, earning an indignant squawk. "When did you get so smart about this?"

"I watch a lot of movies." He grabbed his bag and pushed the car door open. He shouldered his hockey stick. "Can we have pancakes? I'm starving."

It only took a rumbling stomach for Cody to switch gears, bounding toward the house while detailing exactly how many chocolate chips belonged in proper chocolate chip pancakes.

I watched him dump his bag in the hallway, already pulling out ingredients for pancakes with the confidence only a ten-year-old could manage.

The house was suddenly full of potential—not only as a home for us but also as a space where new stories could unfold.

Maybe it was time to write one of those stories myself.

After I dropped Cody off for hockey practice, I headed to Tidal Grounds. The morning rush was starting to dissipate when I pushed through the door. Sarah operated the register while Silas worked the espresso machine with practiced efficiency, his movements quick but never hurried. Steam hissed, and milk frothed as he crafted each drink.

I claimed a spot at the end of the counter, content to wait out the crowd. Silas caught my eye between drinks, offering a quick nod. Something warm unfurled in my gut at the simple acknowledgment.

"The usual?" Sarah asked, already reaching for a cup.

"Yes, and thank you, but no rush."

She grinned. "Good, because Mr. Perfect over there gets grumpy if anyone rushes his pour-overs."

Silas called over his shoulder. "I heard that, and it's not rushing, it's called ignoring the proper extraction time."

"Sure, boss. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

The familiar banter settled around me like a comfortable sweater. I watched Silas work, noting how his hands never faltered despite Sarah's teasing. There was something mesmerizing about his focus—how he treated each drink as if it were the most important task of his day.

With the crowd thinning, Sarah disappeared into the back with a stack of empty plates, leaving Silas and me alone at the counter. He slid my coffee across the smooth surface.

"Cody, get home okay?" he asked, wiping down the steam wand.

"Yeah. Full of stories about teaching Tyler's cat hockey moves."

"That would be Max. He's mostly interested in sleeping on my delivery invoices." Silas paused, studying me. "You look like you're thinking hard about something."

I wrapped my hands around my warm mug. "I wanted to ask you something."

Silas paused "Oh?"

"Dinner at my place. Would you like to come over for dinner? Tonight, maybe? I know you talked about your family's marinara, and we can keep that on the schedule, too."

Silas set down his cleaning cloth. "Tonight?"

"Unless you're busy. I know it's short notice."

"No, I—" He glanced toward the back room where Sarah had disappeared. "I'd like that. What time?"

"Seven? Cody will be with us. I hope that's..." I took a breath. "He actually suggested it. Having you over."

"Did he?"

"Said our kitchen was too nice to waste. Also mentioned something about you probably being tired of scones."

"Smart kid." Silas flashed a broad smile. "Should I bring anything?"

"Yourself." I stood, gathering my courage along with my coffee.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, Tidal Grounds faded away. Then the door chimed, admitting a group of high school students, and reality reared its head.

"Seven o'clock," Silas confirmed, already reaching for clean cups.

"Seven o'clock," I echoed, backing toward the door.