Chapter 15 #2
“There are twelve crabs and they have numbers painted on their shells and I bet on number seven because seven is the most powerful number and number seven won and I got a ribbon.” He holds up a ribbon. It says PARTICIPANT. “It’s not a winning ribbon but I’m still proud.”
“I’m proud of you too.”
“Also, Mr. Paul is at the marina booth on the boardwalk. He’s teaching kids how to tie knots.
He taught a girl how to do a bowline and she couldn’t do it and he was really patient and he showed her like six times and she finally got it and he said ‘good job’ and I think that’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to a stranger. ”
My heart does something it has no business doing at a Fourth of July festival in front of my eight-year-old.
“That’s nice,” I say, aiming for casual.
“Are you going to go see him?”
“I’m taking pictures, Aidan.”
“You could take pictures near him. The knot thing is very photogenic. I learned that word from you.”
He runs off before I can respond, ribbon fluttering behind him, heading back toward the crab races with the focus of someone who has found his calling.
The book club ladies have claimed their spot.
It’s a stretch of beach near the lifeguard station—the same spot every year, according to Michelle, who explained the territorial system to me when I arrived.
Book club gets the prime blanket real estate because Grandma Hensley staked it out in 1987 and nobody has challenged her since.
Not because they’re afraid of Grandma Hensley.
Because they’re absolutely afraid of Grandma Hensley.
By the time I make my way down from the boardwalk, the spot is fully operational.
Michelle has a cooler of drinks. Amber has brought platters from The Salty Pearl because the woman cannot show up anywhere without feeding people—pimento cheese bites, fruit cups, and something wrapped in bacon that smells incredible.
Hazel is passing out hot dogs to her kids from a foil-wrapped pile she brought from Bubba’s truck.
Jo is arranging a blanket with decorative precision.
Jessica is reading a romance novel in a beach chair with her legs crossed, ignoring the chaos around her with practiced ease.
Mads is there too, enormously pregnant, sitting in what appears to be a beach chair specifically designed for someone in her condition—wider, lower, with extra support. Asher is hovering beside her with water and sunscreen, like he would fight the sun itself if it threatened his wife.
“She’s here!” Amber calls out. “The lighthouse kisser has arrived!”
“I regret coming.”
“Too late. Sit down. We have questions.”
I sit. I have no choice. The book club ladies have summoned me and resistance is not an option.
“So,” Jo says, tucking her legs underneath her on the blanket. “Paul Spencer.”
“What about him?”
“What about him?” Amber repeats. “Emma. You kissed a man in an abandoned lighthouse during a thunderstorm. That’s not a Tuesday. That’s a chapter title.”
“It was actually a Wednesday.”
“It was a romance novel. Mads, tell her.”
Mads shifts in her pregnancy chair, one hand on her belly. “I’ve read that exact plot point in at least four books. Trapped in a storm, forced proximity, confession of feelings followed by an impulsive kiss.” She counts on her fingers. “You’re textbook. You’re living in a trope.”
“I’m not living in a trope.”
“You’re living in a trope and the trope is "enemies to lovers with forced proximity and a grumpy-sunshine dynamic,” Jessica says without looking up from her book. “I sell this story twice a week.”
“We weren’t enemies.”
“He tried to evict you,” Hazel points out.
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“He cited electrical violations as a reason to terminate your lease,” Michelle adds.
“He was concerned about safety.”
“He was concerned about you,” Grandma Hensley says from her chair.
She hasn’t spoken until now, sitting there in her sun hat and her floral blouse like a woman who has been watching this story unfold since page one and already knows how it ends.
“That boy has been concerned about you since the day you backed your houseboat into his dock and knocked over his toolbox.”
“I didn’t knock over his—okay, I did knock over his toolbox.”
“He picked up every tool,” Grandma Hensley says. “Reorganized the whole box. Then he walked down to check your mooring lines without being asked. Harold saw the whole thing.”
“Harold sees everything,” I mutter.
“Harold sees what needs seeing.” Grandma Hensley adjusts her hat. “And what I see is a man who hasn’t let anyone new into his life since Holly died, and a woman who’s been carrying everything alone since her marriage fell apart. You found each other at the right time. Don’t overthink it.”
The circle goes quiet for a second. Grandma Hensley has that power—the ability to say the true thing in the middle of the funny things and make everyone stop.
Then Amber breaks the silence. “So was it a good kiss?”
“Amber.”
“What? We need details. This is book club. We analyze romantic developments. It’s literally in the bylaws.”
“There are no bylaws.”
“There are unwritten bylaws and the first one is ‘tell us about the kiss.’”
I take a sip of my drink. Look out at the water. Think about Paul in the lighthouse, the rain on the glass, the way he said because I can’t sleep when your light is out and I stopped his sentence with my hands on his face.
“It was a good kiss,” I say.
The book club erupts. Amber claps. Jo does a little seated dance.
Michelle raises her drink. Mads says “I knew it” with satisfaction like she’s been tracking this romance since the first chapter.
Hazel nods approvingly. Jessica dog-ears her page, which means this has officially become more interesting than her book, and Jessica doesn’t dog-ear pages for anything less than a major development.
Grandma Hensley just smiles.
“And then what?” Amber asks. “After the kiss. What happened?”
“He brought pickled okra to my houseboat and we had dinner.”
“Pickled okra,” Hazel repeats. “The man brought pickled okra.”
“From his boat. It wasn’t even his—it was a jar someone gave Harold.”
“That’s the most Paul Spencer thing I’ve ever heard,” Michelle says. “The man wanted to bring something and he raided his father’s pantry. That’s romance at its most basic and I’m honestly moved.”
“And then the next morning he made pancakes for your kids,” Mads says, because apparently every detail of my life has been broadcast across the island. “Harold told Asher who told me.”
“Harold needs a hobby.”
“Harold’s hobby is your love life. Accept it.”
“Speaking of Harold,” Amber says, turning to Grandma Hensley with a smile like she’s been waiting for this opening. “You want to tell us why he’s been driving his golf cart past your house three times a day?”
Grandma Hensley adjusts her sun hat. “Harold Spencer drives that golf cart all over the island. It’s how he checks on things.”
“He checks on your front porch,” Michelle says. “Every time. Hazel timed it.”
“I did time it,” Hazel confirms. “Seven-fifteen, eleven-thirty, and four o’clock. The man is on a schedule.”
“He’s a creature of habit.”
“He’s courting you,” Jo says. “He brought you tomatoes from his garden last week. Hand-delivered. In a basket.”
“It was a generous harvest. He was being neighborly.”
“He tied a ribbon on the basket,” Jessica says, without looking up from her book. “Neighborly doesn’t come with ribbon.”
Grandma Hensley looks out at the ocean with serene composure like she knows exactly what Harold Spencer is doing and has no intention of making it easy for him. “When Harold has something to say to me, he’ll say it. Until then, I’m enjoying the tomatoes.”
“She’s enjoying the tomatoes,” Amber repeats to the group. “The woman is being romanced by a man with a golf cart and a vegetable garden and she’s enjoying the tomatoes.”
“At least my romance doesn’t involve pickled okra,” Grandma Hensley says, and the whole circle loses it.
The fireworks start at nine.
The book club spot is full now—husbands and kids and boyfriends and dogs.
Grayson has brought a cooler. Brett is grilling something on a portable setup that Amber is supervising with the intensity of a professional chef who doesn’t trust anyone else with meat.
Scott has abandoned the ring toss and is sitting next to Jessica, their shoulders touching.
Hazel’s kids are running through the surf.
Mads is leaning against Asher, his hand on her belly. Jo and Dean are sharing a blanket.
My kids are here. Jenna is with the teen crew—Dawson, Piper, and Finch—the four of them sharing a blanket and looking like an Outer Banks casting call.
Jenna is sitting next to Finch with the studied casualness of a girl who chose that spot very deliberately.
Millie is reading by flashlight. Aidan is explaining crab racing strategy to anyone who will listen, which currently includes Harold, who is listening with genuine interest and asking follow-up questions.
And Paul is here.
He arrived ten minutes ago. Walked down the beach with his hands in his pockets, nodded at Harold, accepted a drink from Grayson, and sat down on the edge of the blanket nearest me without saying anything. Not next to me. Near me. A foot of blanket between us.
He’s watching the water. I’m pretending to adjust my camera settings. Neither of us has said a word, and the book club ladies are watching us with the intensity of women reading a scene they’ve been waiting for.
“You two are killing me,” Amber whispers from behind her drink.
“Shh,” Michelle says. “Let it happen.”
The first firework goes up. A burst of red and gold. Everyone looks up. The kids scream. The colors cascade across the dark sky and paint the water below.
Aidan appears from nowhere and wedges himself between me and Paul. “Mr. Paul! Did you see that one? It was red! Red is the best color. After blue. And green. Okay, red is the third best color.”
“Red is a solid choice,” Paul says.
“Are you going to watch the whole show?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. Because last year I fell asleep and missed the finale and Mom had to carry me to the car and she said I was heavy, which is rude.”
“You were heavy,” I say.
“I was growing.”
More fireworks. Blues and whites and purples. Aidan provides running commentary on each one, and Paul listens. At some point, Aidan leans against Paul’s arm the way kids do when they’ve decided someone is safe—boneless and trusting and complete.
Paul doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just sits there with my son leaning on him and fireworks going off overhead and an expression I can’t fully read in the dark but that looks a lot like a man realizing his world just got bigger.
Millie has put down her book. She’s watching the sky with her chin on her knees. Jenna is laughing at something Finch said, her shoulder bumping his, and Dawson is catching Piper’s hand in the dark when he thinks nobody’s looking.
The finale starts—rapid bursts of gold and silver and red, the sky going bright as daylight for seconds at a time—and Aidan falls asleep.
Just like that. Mid-firework. One second he’s narrating, the next he’s out cold against Paul’s arm, mouth open, ribbon from the crab races still clutched in his fist.
Paul looks down at him. Looks at me.
“He’s asleep,” he says.
“He does this.”
“During the loudest part?”
“Especially during the loudest part. It’s a skill.”
Paul glances between Aiden and the fireworks, then back at me. “I can carry him,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
“He’s asleep on my arm. I’m already involved.” He pauses. “Unless you’d rather—”
“No.” I say it too fast. “No, that’s—thank you.”
The fireworks end. The crowd applauds. The beach starts the slow shuffle of families gathering blankets and coolers and sleeping children. Harold pats Paul on the shoulder as he walks past, says nothing, keeps walking. The loudest silence of the evening.
Paul stands up and shifts Aidan onto his shoulder with careful steadiness. Aidan doesn’t wake up. His head lolls against Paul’s neck, and the crab racing ribbon dangles from his limp hand.
We walk back to the marina. Jenna and Millie ahead of us, the teens having split off—Dawson walking Piper home, Finch heading to his house with a wave that made Jenna go quiet. The dock is quiet. The festival noise fades behind us.
Paul carries my son down the dock. Past the office. Past his boat. All the way to my houseboat, where he ducks through the door and carries Aidan down the hall to his room and sets him on his bed with the care of someone handling something fragile.
He pulls off Aidan’s shoes, puts the crab ribbon on the nightstand, and pulls the blanket up.
I’m standing in the doorway watching this, and I can’t breathe.
Paul straightens up and turns around. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You look like you’re about to say something and then decide not to.”
When did he learn to read me like that?
“Thank you,” I say. “For carrying him.”
“He fell asleep on my arm.”
We’re standing in Aidan’s doorway. The houseboat is dark except for the hall light. Paul is close enough that I could reach out and touch him, and I want to, and I don’t, because we’re in the hallway outside my kid’s room and this isn’t the lighthouse and I don’t know what we are.
“Good night, Emma,” he says.
“Good night, Paul.”
He walks down the hall, out the door, and across the dock to his boat ten feet away. The same distance as always.
His door clicks shut.
I stand in the hallway for a long time, looking at my sleeping son with his crab racing ribbon and his sticky festival fingers and the indent on the pillow where Paul set him down.
Then I go to bed, and I don’t overthink it.
Much.