Sweet Cherry Cove: The Complete Series

Cocoa

The next morning, Mac says nothing when he sees my packed bags. Just stares, empty coffee mug in hand. I don’t have a suitcase, obviously, so I’ve made do with stuffing all the clothes he bought me over the last few weeks into his canvas grocery bags. They’re waiting by the door in a huddle.

“When we get there, I’ll pay you for the bags.” My throat aches already from crying silently into Mac’s pillow all night, but my voice sounds normal. That’s good. “And the clothes.”

The harbor master grunts and puts his mug down on a side table, then snatches everything up in two massive handfuls. He shoulders the front door open, then marches to his storm-gray truck. He doesn’t look back at me once.

Oooh-kay.

So he’s not a morning person. So the intimacy of last night is long gone. No need to break down in sobs.

He’s not going to ask me to stay. Why would he?

“Or we can empty them out when we get there and you can bring the bags back.” My flip flops slap against my heels as I follow, pulling the door shut behind me. “If you’d rather keep the clothes and sell them or whatever—”

“Cocoa.” He’s got his long-suffering voice on. The one he uses after the locals force him to stop for twenty minutes in the town square, chit-chatting about the weather and tide times and road works along the coast. “I don’t care about the damn bags. Or the clothes. Get in the truck.”

Ouch.

Hurt squeezes my throat, but I yank the passenger door open like he says. If Mac wants to be rid of me already, I’ll go.

Never mind that packing those stupid bags was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Never mind that I’ve cried more this morning than I’ve ever done in my life—and I can say that now, because I remember.

Maybe not every single detail and event. But enough. The rest of my memory seeped back into me in the night, like water spreading through soil. I know who I am—or was, anyway.

But things are different now. I met Mac. I became Cocoa.

I don’t want to go back. But I don’t have a choice, do I?

The path along the coast is rocky and winding. We keep the windows rolled down, salt air rushing through, and Mac doesn’t look at me once. He’s gripping the wheel so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break off in his hands. When I told him our destination, he shook his head and didn’t say a word.

The sea’s choppy in the distance, the waves gray and topped with foam. The white flecks of seabirds bob out there, riding the swell. Little thrill-seekers. Right now, I wish I was one of them.

“Thank you so much for everything.” My fingers twist in my lap, and I’m not sure the harbor master can even hear me over the wind and the truck, but I need to say this. “You saved my life.” In more ways than one.

“Don’t.” Mac scowls through the windshield, and he still won’t look at me. “I don’t want to hear it, Cocoa.”

The truck rocks into a dip, throwing me against my seat belt, and that’s what this queasiness is. Probably.

The big top tent is striped blue and purple in the distance, so vivid against the rolling cliffs. Vans, trailers, and an ancient touring coach cluster behind it on the grass. My old home.

“They won’t have come into town. They won’t have seen the posters.”

Mac sucks on his teeth.

“It’s normal for folks to come and go from the circus. People have their own lives, their own business. It’s not that they don’t care about me, they just… they value freedom and privacy. I did too. They’ll have assumed I’m fine. I’m usually fine.”

Mac’s grip flexes on the wheel. I sigh.

How to explain to the world’s most protective man that these people care about me, they just don’t keep tabs? It’s alien to Mac. Ever since he first laid eyes on me, he’s followed me with that steady gaze; he’s always known where I am, and if I’m cold or hungry. Whether I might want a blanket or a hot tea or a hug. He knows.

He sees me.

“You haven’t even asked me about my act.” I try for a smile, but it’s wasted. Mac stares straight ahead. “I’m an acrobat. I could show you some tricks when we get there if you like.”

Mac blows out a long breath. His thumb taps against the wheel. “Need to get back. Got stuff to do in the marina.”

Right.

Shrinking into myself, I pull my legs up and rest my chin on my knees. The left one is stiffer than ever.

If he doesn’t want to talk, I won’t force him. I won’t be one of those people who exhausts him. The harbor master can drop me off like a UPS package if he likes.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

* * *

The truck pulls up beside the big top tent, and Mac kills the engine and shoves his door open in one go. I hop out too, stomach aching, and peer up at the familiar, stripey sight. I’ve seen it so many times over the years—have explored every inch of the canvas and patched its tears—yet now this feels like a strange land.

Maybe because we’d only just arrived in Sweet Cherry Cove when I disappeared? That must be it. I’m not used to this camping spot, with its harsh winds and salty air. The breeze whips the long grass around our ankles.

Mac rounds the truck, gathering my bags into two handfuls again. Wow, he’s seriously keen to be rid of me. He addresses his question to the truck bed. “Where’s your… tent? Trailer?”

“Camper van. It’s round the back.”

Just like that, we’re off.

If I hadn’t spent hours last night with Mac’s dark head buried between my legs, I might think he hates me. As it is, as I hurry after the harbor master, my inner thighs are still chafed pink from his beard.

“I know you care,” I say, and his shoulders hunch even higher around his ears. “Your heartless jerk act doesn’t fool me, Mr McLaggen.”

When Mac wheels around, I nearly slam into his chest. One of the bags slips, and a pair of leggings drops onto the grass.

“What do you want from me, Cocoa?” He looks tortured. Desperate. “I’m trying to do right by you, but you’re not helping. It’s hard enough bringing you here.”

I open my mouth to respond to that, heart lifting, but a whoop carries across the cliffs. “Yelena!”

My name. It takes me a second to recognize it.

I grin and wave as three people barrel around the side of the tent, arms thrashing, bright clothes streaming behind them like capes. Two men and a woman. All around my age, all lithe and wild, all wearing glittery stage make up even though the show won’t start until evening.

They surge over me like the tide.

Mac steps back, away from the chattering and the hugging. When the two men take turns to lift me up, spinning me around, I catch glimpses of his weather-beaten face. He’s solemn. Like his suspicions are proven, but he didn’t want them to be.

“This is Mac McLaggen,” I say as soon as I can get a word in edgewise. Then I back away from the grasping hands, because even though these people are family, even though I love them dearly, right now the only touch I want is Mac’s. “He’s the harbor master down in Sweet Cherry Cove. I’ve been… staying with him.”

Three appreciative glances. Artur makes a throaty purring sound.

Mac’s cheeks flame red above his beard.

“Is he coming to the show tonight?” Artur asks, smiling coyly. If I could spray him with a water pistol right now, I’d do it—even though Artur smiles like that at everyone. His auburn hair is loose around his shoulders, and his eyeliner is smoky green.

“No,” I say, right as Mac cuts in: “Yeah. I’ll come.” A quick glance at me, then away. “I’d like to see Co—Yelena’s act one time.”

One time.

It’s always goodbye with this man. I could chase him down the aisle, and he’d still wave so-long after the ceremony—but maybe that’s a fear thing. Maybe Mac has never been missed before. He doesn’t know what he’s doing to me each time he pulls away.

So I lift one shoulder, and I aim for casual. “Sure. We’ll put on a good one, right guys?”

But deep down, I’m not casual. I’m hatching plans.

Tonight, I’m going to make the harbor master love me.