Chapter 3
three
The storm had scrubbed the world clean, which was great for the earth's complexion but terrible for Clara's carefully maintained emotional distance.
Because Jack Callahan, damn him, was turning out to be annoyingly competent.
Clara stood on the rocks outside the lighthouse, breathing in salt air, and tried not to admit that Jack had made himself useful over the past two days. The wobbly table—fixed. The sticky window—planed smooth. The loose handrail—tightened and secure.
She prided herself on being handy, but there was a limit to her skillset. Jack? No limits. Just quiet competence and an irritating tendency to make difficult repairs look easy.
And all it took was feeding the man some basic grub to get the jobs done.
Which felt suspiciously like some kind of domestic arrangement she definitely wasn't ready for—and to hammer that point home, she'd reclaimed her bed and gave him the couch. There was a limit to her generosity and it tapped out on Day Two of giving up her bed.
"How was the couch last night?"
Jack stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of stomach. Clara's gaze snagged on it before she could stop herself.
Stop that.
"I've slept in worse places," he said. "Never expected you to give up your bed that first night anyway."
"After getting bashed against rocks, I thought you might need it. But you seemed pretty hardy, and I wanted my bed back."
"Fair." He drew a deep breath of sea air. "God, I love how the earth smells after a good rain. Fresh. Clean."
She agreed, though she wasn't about to get poetic about it. "So. You're in luck. Blue skies, no rain clouds. Ready to play tourist?"
"My favorite game."
An hour later, Clara led him down to her private dock where her little boat bobbed in the water. After she settled in and turned the key, the engine sputtered, backfired twice—come on, you temperamental bitch—then chortled to life.
They headed toward Beacon's End, skirting the coastline. Wind in their faces, sun on their cheeks. The kind of perfect morning that made Clara suspicious because perfect mornings usually preceded terrible afternoons.
"I know you're not big on sharing but I gotta ask, how long have you lived at the lighthouse?" Jack called over the engine's putter.
"Technically, three years full-time but I grew up in Beacon's End. My grandparents lived in the lighthouse before that. As a kid I spent summers with them at the lighthouse. Some of my best memories were made there."
"So, you've never left your hometown?"
"I didn't say that," she corrected. "I left home for a job in Portland. An ad agency." Clara adjusted their heading. "Hated every second and when I realized I'd had enough, I left."
"So you came home and moved into the family lighthouse?"
"Pretty much. Previous caretaker retired, my parents needed someone short-term, I was available and unemployed. Wasn't supposed to be permanent, but..." She shrugged. "Turned out I liked the solitude. Took it on full-time."
And by 'liked the solitude,' she meant 'desperately needed the solitude after Sam imploded her life and shook her very foundation of self,' but Jack didn't need that information.
"What about you?" she asked. "Where's home?"
"Wherever I'm working. Last month, Massachusetts. Two months before that, Colorado."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Naww, that's called freedom."
"Okay, Free Bird, where's home originally?"
"You mean, like where I was hatched?" he teased.
"Yes," she laughed.
"Small town in Pennsylvania. River town called Lockport."
"Lockport…" she tasted the name on her tongue. Somehow it seemed to fit Jack but there must be a reason why he hadn't wanted to stick around so she left it at that.
She returned her attention back to the water, watching Beacon's End grow larger. The town clung to the coastline like a barnacle—colorful buildings stacked against the hillside, boats crowding the harbor.
Her stomach tightened.
She had a love/hate relationship with Beacon's End.
Growing up here had been... fine. The people were good people.
But small towns had memories like elephants and no one liked to forget a single detail.
Sometimes it was hard to grow beyond who you once were when everyone kept reminding you of your past.
Another reason she preferred the lighthouse. The quiet. The predictable routine. The lack of questions about why she wasn't dating anyone or when she'd give her parents grandchildren or whether she'd finally gotten over Sam.
Like there was a time limit on emotional damage.
They tied up at the public dock. Clara led Jack up the weathered planks toward Main Street, steeling herself.
The smell of frying bacon drifted from Maeve's place, mixing with diesel fuel and fish. A bell clanged. Seagulls screamed their eternal complaints.
"Very quaint," Jack said, his gaze lighting with a typical tourist's delight.
To be fair, Beacon's End looked set-dressed for a seaside romcom but it was like any small town—beneath the cute-factor lived the human element and that was the part that wasn't always so cute.
She'd barely made it three steps before Mrs. Conley materialized from the general store like a gossip-seeking missile. Hair shellacked into its usual immovable helmet. Earrings that probably had their own insurance policy.
"Clara! How WONDERFUL to see you in town!" Mrs. Conley's gaze locked onto Jack with the laser precision of a woman who'd spent five decades inserting herself into other people's business. "And you've brought a friend! How absolutely WONDERFUL!"
Two wonderfuls in under ten seconds. A new personal best.
"Jack Callahan," Clara said flatly. "His boat capsized. He needs a room at the inn."
"Oh, you poor thing!" Mrs. Conley clutched her chest, already composing the version of this story she'd be telling everyone within the hour. "Capsized? How terrifying. And Clara rescued you? Isn't that just—"
"Wonderful?" Clara supplied.
"I was going to say providential." Mrs. Conley beamed at Jack, then leaned toward Clara with the subtlety of a foghorn. "Your mother is going to be so pleased you're socializing."
"We're not socializing. I pulled him out of the ocean. There's a difference."
"Of course, dear." Mrs. Conley patted her arm in a way that said she'd already mentally composed the text to Ida. "You know, Jack, Clara doesn't come to town very often. This is quite the occasion. You must be very special."
"He's not special. He's waterlogged. There's a difference."
"I'm standing right here," Jack said mildly.
"Don't take it personally." Clara grabbed his sleeve. "We have to go. Nice seeing you, Mrs. Conley."
"You too, dear! Tell your mother I said hello! Actually, I’ll call her tonight myself but it's nice to have something NEW to discuss!"
Clara could practically hear the phone tree activating behind them. She gave it twenty minutes before her mother knew Jack's name, approximate height, and marital status. Fifteen if Mrs. Conley had good cell reception.
They made it another block before Don Patterson emerged from the hardware store, reading glasses perched on his head like they'd been born there, shirt tucked into his jeans with military precision.
"Miss Hawkins! Twice in one week! What's the occasion?"
"Unscheduled stop," Clara said. She'd been here three days ago for supplies. Everyone knew that Clara didn't leave the lighthouse unless absolutely necessary.
"And you've brought a guest." Don extended his hand to Jack with the enthusiasm of a man who'd been waiting for someone new to talk at. "Don Patterson. Welcome to Beacon's End."
"Jack Callahan."
"Callahan. Irish?"
"On my mother's side."
"Wonderful people, the Irish. My wife Joan's cousin married an Irishman.
Lovely fellow. Moved him over from County Cork, if you can believe it.
Four kids now. Well, three and a half—Joan's cousin is due in October.
" Don barely paused for breath. "The youngest, Declan—now there's a character—he reminds me of my nephew Gary, who actually works in construction up in Bangor.
You know, he once told me about a job he did on a Victorian in—"
"Don," Clara interrupted gently. "We're just here to get Jack a room at the inn."
"Right, right, of course." Don looked not even slightly derailed. He turned back to Jack with a hopeful expression. "So, Jack. Married? Kids?"
Clara's face burned. "He just got here, Don. Maybe let the man dry off before you plan his family."
"Just making conversation!" Don said, bewildered that anyone could find this line of questioning unusual. "Joan always says I talk too much, but I say, how else do you learn about people?"
"No kids," Jack said with an easy grin. "Maybe someday."
"That's the spirit! No rush, no rush. Though I will say, Beacon's End is a wonderful place to raise a family. Schools are solid, cost of living is—"
Clara tugged Jack's sleeve—keep moving—and called back over her shoulder, "Thanks, Don!"
"Come back anytime! And if you need hardware, I've got the best selection north of Portland!"
"He seems great," Jack said once they were clear.
"He is great. He's also the reason a quick trip to the hardware store takes forty-five minutes. Don doesn't have conversations, he has monologues with witnesses."
They passed the marina next, where Dale Morrow stood on the dock examining a cleat with the narrowed gaze of a surgeon.
He was weathered in the way coastal men get after decades of salt and wind—deep tan lines, calloused hands, wearing what Clara was fairly certain was the same flannel he'd been wearing since 2019.
Dale looked up. His gaze moved from Clara to Jack, then back to Clara. One eyebrow twitched—which, for Dale, was basically a standing ovation of curiosity.
"Hawkins."
"Dale."
His eyes returned to Jack. Held there. Assessing. "Who's this?"
"Jack Callahan. Boat capsized in the storm."