Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
T he bell above the door chimed softly as Leah entered The Lost Anchor, Elena's files weighing down her tote bag. The morning light filtered through dusty windows, catching on book spines and creating warm patterns across worn wooden floors. A few early customers browsed the shelves, coffee cups in hand.
Jack looked up from behind the counter where he was sorting through a stack of new arrivals. His face brightened with recognition. "The nonprofit management expert returns."
"Hardly," Leah said, approaching the counter. "Though I do come bearing evidence of how much help we need." She lifted her bag. "Elena gave me Paradise Harbor House’s financial records."
"And you thought reading depressing numbers would be more enjoyable with coffee?" His eyes crinkled with amusement, but she caught genuine interest beneath the teasing.
"Actually, I thought they'd be more manageable with expert guidance." She met his gaze directly. "Elena seems to think you know something about grant writing."
"Elena seems to think a lot of things lately." Jack's tone was dry, but warmth colored his expression. He gestured toward a quiet corner where two comfortable chairs faced each other across a small table. "Let's see what we're dealing with."
As Leah spread out the files, Jack disappeared behind the counter, returning moments later with two steaming mugs. "Cuban roast," he said, setting one beside her. "Brain fuel."
"You don't have to?—"
"Rule of the house," he interrupted, settling into the chair opposite her. "Serious conversations require serious coffee." He leaned forward, studying the papers she'd arranged. "Now, show me what's keeping Elena up at night."
For the next hour, they pored over the documents together. Jack asked precise, thoughtful questions, his journalist's instincts zeroing in on key details. His hand brushed hers occasionally as they exchanged papers, each contact sending small sparks through her fingers.
"The story's in the numbers," he said finally, tapping a particularly revealing spreadsheet. "But it's not the whole story. What we need is…”
"The human element," Leah finished. When he looked up in surprise, she added, "That's what Elena said. We're not just selling a service, we're asking people to believe in possibility."
"Elena's smart." Jack leaned back, studying her. "And apparently a bit of a matchmaker these days."
Leah felt heat rise in her cheeks. "She means well."
"She usually does." His smile softened any sting from the words. "Though in this case, her interference might be…fortuitous. For Paradise Harbor House, of course."
"Of course," Leah agreed, trying to ignore how his gaze made her pulse quicken. "So, about these grants…"
"Right." Jack pulled a legal pad toward him, uncapping a pen. "First rule of grant writing—know your audience. Different foundations have different hot buttons. Some want innovation, others want proven track records. The trick is matching your story to their interests without compromising your truth."
As he talked, Leah found herself drawn in, not just by the information, but by his passion for the subject. His hands moved expressively as he explained concepts, his voice warm with enthusiasm. This was clearly more than just a favor for Elena.
"Why do you care so much about this?" she asked during a natural pause. "About Paradise Harbor House, about helping us?"
Jack was quiet for a moment, absently turning his coffee mug between his hands. His expression shifted, becoming more serious. "You know why I left journalism?"
The sudden change in direction caught her off guard. "Elena mentioned there was a story, but said it wasn't hers to tell."
"I was working on an exposé about corporate corruption. Big story, career-making stuff." He set his mug down carefully. "But I got so focused on chasing the story, I missed the human cost. A source I'd promised to protect…well, let's just say I learned the hard way that some truths come at too high a price."
Leah watched his hands, noting how they tensed around the mug. "What happened?"
"She lost everything. Her job, her home, her kids' college funds. All because I was too caught up in being right to remember I was dealing with real lives, not just headlines." He met her eyes. "Elena was running a smaller shelter then. She helped that woman rebuild her life while I was busy winning journalism awards."
"That's why you opened the bookstore?"
"Partly. I needed to do something that helped people find their own stories instead of just exposing others'. And when Elena mentioned what you're trying to do at Paradise Harbor House…" He smiled slightly. "Let's just say I understand what it means to need a fresh start. To have people believe in you when you're rebuilding."
Something in his honesty made Leah want to offer truth in return. "I know something about fresh starts. My sister and I came here with big dreams and no real plan. We failed at everything we tried."
"And yet here you are, trying again." His voice was soft with understanding. "That takes courage."
"Or desperation." She tried to make it sound like a joke, but Jack wasn't smiling.
"You know what I've learned from running this place?" He gestured at the shelves around them. "Every good story has moments of desperation. It's what characters do next that matters."
Their eyes met, and Leah felt something shift between them—a recognition of shared understanding, of walls carefully lowered.
"Besides," he added, his smile returning, "I'm a sucker for a good story. And Paradise Harbor House? That's a story worth telling."
Will stood on the yellow bungalow's porch, second-guessing his decision to come. He'd left his camera at home deliberately—a peace offering of sorts after yesterday's tension at Paradise Harbor House. The morning sun was already fierce, and Ernest the rooster eyed him suspiciously from the withered herb garden.
When Tess answered the door, her expression was curious but not unwelcoming. "Morning."
"Hey, we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Will Moreno. I’m working on a…”
Tess interrupted him. “I know who you are. Elena mentioned you, I’m Tess, Kaitlyn’s aunt…well, her other aunt. I think you met Leah already.”
Will nodded. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. I stopped by Paradise Harbor House," he said, feeling oddly nervous. “Elena said Kaitlyn hasn’t been in. I wanted to apologize if I pushed too hard with the documentary stuff yesterday.”
Something flickered across Tess’s face—concern, maybe understanding. “She’s taking a mental health day. Said something about needing to clear her head.”
“Oh.” He shifted his weight, debating whether to press further. Kaitlyn’s reaction yesterday had suggested something deeper than just discomfort with cameras. “Is she okay? She seemed…off.”
“That’s not really my story to tell.” Tess paused, then added with careful consideration, “But if someone wanted to find her, she mentioned going to Smathers Beach. The quiet end, away from the tourists.”
His heart lifted slightly. “Thanks. I, uh, I actually recommended that beach to her.”
“Did you now?” The knowing look in Tess’s eyes made him want to explain, though he wasn’t sure what he’d say.
“It’s not…I mean, I just thought…”
“Will?” Tess interrupted his fumbling. “The quiet end of Smathers. That’s all I’m saying.”
He nodded, already turning toward the steps. “Right. Thanks.”
The quiet end of Smathers Beach was exactly as Will remembered it—a stretch of sand far enough from the tourist spots to feel almost private.
He spotted Kaitlyn immediately, sitting near the water's edge, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her blonde hair danced in the breeze, and something about her stillness made him catch his breath.
He approached slowly, making sure his footsteps were audible in the sand. "This spot taken?"
Kaitlyn looked up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something more guarded. "How did you find me?"
"Your aunt Tess said you might be here." He gestured to the sand beside her. "Mind if I sit?"
She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Tess, of course.” She patted the sand which he took as permission.
“I’m glad to see you followed my recommendation. It’s a great place to chill.”
Kaitlyn nodded but said nothing.
For a while, they just watched the waves, the rhythm of water meeting shore filling the silence between them.
He had a million questions, but he’d wait for Kaitlyn to lead the conversation. For now, he was content just to sit beside her and enjoy the moment.
Kaitlyn had chosen the spot carefully, far enough from the tourist chaos to hear herself think. The waves provided a steady backdrop to her churning thoughts, memories of her father mixing with images from Joanna Miller's Instagram feed— birthday parties, graduations, family vacations she'd never been part of. And now, the family drama was about to blow up into something more than she could handle.
Will's arrival should have annoyed her, but something about his quiet presence felt steadying. He hadn't brought his camera, she noticed. Hadn't tried to turn this into content.
She found herself acutely aware of him sitting beside her—the subtle scent of his soap mixing with the salt air, the way his blue linen shirt pulled across his shoulders as he leaned back on his hands, how his hair caught the morning light. Even with her world in chaos, she couldn't help but notice how attractive he was, especially now, with his usual swagger replaced by genuine concern.
"No camera today?" she asked, more to distract herself from these thoughts than anything else.
"Figured we could both use a break from documenting things." His voice was gentle, free of its usual teasing edge, and something about its warmth made her pulse quicken. "Sometimes it's okay to just…be."
The simple permission in those words—to exist without performing, to hurt without having to explain why—made her fight back tears. She looked out at the horizon, where the ocean met the sky in an endless blue line, very aware of how close he was sitting, how easy it would be to lean into him.
"I used to think everything important needed to be captured," she said finally, sneaking glances at his profile. She'd never noticed before how blue his eyes were or how expressive his hands were when he talked. "Every moment had to be filtered and shared and made perfect. But some things…" She swallowed hard. "Some things shouldn't be pretty. Some truths are messy."
Will was quiet for a moment, letting her words settle between them. His shoulder brushed hers, sending little sparks of awareness through her body.
"You know what I've learned doing documentaries? The real story isn't in the perfect moments. It's in the spaces between them. The quiet truths people carry."
She turned to look at him then, really look at him. His usual confident demeanor had softened into something more authentic, and the combination of strength and vulnerability in his expression made her heart twist. For the first time, she wondered what quiet truths he might be carrying. For the first time, she wanted to know his story as much as she wanted to hide her own.
"Does it get easier?" she asked. "Telling the hard stories?"
"No," he admitted. "But maybe it's not supposed to. Maybe the hard part is what makes them worth telling."
Another wave rolled in, erasing other footprints from the sand. Kaitlyn felt something shift inside her—not healing exactly, but perhaps the beginning of understanding how healing might be possible. And underneath that, a growing awareness of Will as more than just the annoying documentarian who'd challenged her defenses.
"I'm not ready to tell my story yet," she said softly, fighting the urge to reach for his hand.
Will nodded, his shoulder brushing hers again as he leaned back. This time, neither of them moved away from the contact.
"That's okay. Sometimes the best stories need time to find their way into words."
They sat there as the morning grew warmer, two people learning to be comfortable with silence, with the space between what could be documented and what needed to simply be felt.
For the first time in days, Kaitlyn felt like she could breathe—even if her heart was beating a little faster every time Will smiled at her.
After several quiet moments, Will spoke again. "You know, when I first started doing documentaries, I thought it was about capturing perfect moments. Getting the right shot, the perfect lighting, the most emotional soundbite."
He drew patterns in the sand beside him. "Took me a while to learn that real connection happens when the camera's off."
Something in his voice made Kaitlyn turn to him. "What changed?"
"I was filming this story about a fishing community in the Keys. Had all my shots lined up—the weathered boats, the sunrise over the water, all the typical stuff." He smiled, but it held a touch of self-deprecation. "Then one day, my camera broke. Couldn't film anything. I thought the day was wasted, but…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "That was the day they actually started talking to me. Real talking, not just giving me what they thought I wanted to hear."
Kaitlyn hugged her knees closer, understanding exactly what he meant. How many times had she crafted the perfect Instagram post, trying to tell a story that looked better than it felt? "It's easier to hide behind a lens sometimes."
"Yeah," Will agreed softly. "But harder to really see people that way."
“And harder for people to see you.”
Their eyes met, and Kaitlyn felt seen—not as a story to document or an image to capture, but as someone trying to make sense of her own messy truth. She could tell that her words hit him hard. His usual confidence had given way to something more genuine, more vulnerable, and she found herself trusting it in a way she hadn't expected.
"Sometimes I wonder," she said, surprising herself with her honesty, "if I spent so much time documenting the perfect life that I missed the real one happening around me. All those carefully filtered photos, trying to prove something…"
"To yourself or to others?"
The question hit home. "Both maybe." She watched a seabird dive into the waves. "It's funny, I came to Key West thinking I'd document every moment, turn it into content. Instead…"
"Instead, you found something that matters more than likes and followers?"
She thought about Paradise Harbor House, about the women and children finding their way forward, about how none of their healing moments would make for good social media content.
"Yeah. But it's scary too, you know? Being part of something real instead of just observing it."
Will's hand shifted in the sand, his pinky finger barely touching hers—a gesture so subtle it might have been accidental, except for how deliberately still he held himself afterward.
"Scary can be good though. Means you're growing."
The simple touch, combined with his words, made her heart race. Because he understood—really understood—what it meant to step away from the safety of observation and risk being part of the story.
"Will?" She waited until he looked at her. "Thank you. For coming to find me.” She smiled. “And for not bringing your camera."
Nodding, he laughed and then looked at her. "Thank you for letting me stay."
They sat in silence, watching the waves reshape the shoreline, each lost in thought but somehow less alone with their reflections. And if their hands stayed touching in the sand between them, neither felt the need to document or explain it.