Chapter 6
six
The knock came at seven in the morning, and Jack's first thought was that someone had died.
Nobody knocked like that—rapid-fire pounding that suggested urgency or emergency—unless something was seriously wrong. He was pulling on jeans before his brain fully caught up to his body, grabbing a shirt from the chair as he headed for the door.
Clara beat him there, looking annoyed in a way that suggested she knew exactly who was on the other side and wasn't happy about it.
She yanked open the door to reveal Maeve O'Connell flanked by three other people Jack vaguely recognized from town. The pub owner beamed with the kind of enthusiasm that immediately made Jack suspicious.
"Morning, Clara! Hope we didn't wake you."
"You did."
"Wonderful! We need to borrow Jack." Maeve peered past Clara like she was a minor obstacle. "Jack! Perfect. You're already up."
Jack finished pulling his shirt on—too late to hide the strip of stomach he'd just flashed everyone—and joined Clara at the door. "Borrow me for what?"
"Festival stage collapsed last night. The old thing went down like a house of cards. The only saving grace is that no one was hurt.” Maeve's expression turned pleading in a way that would've won her an Oscar.
"We need it rebuilt by Saturday, and you're the only carpenter for thirty miles. Please? The whole summer festival depends on it. The theater kids have been rehearsing for weeks and it’s too late to find a new venue.”
There it was. The children card. Ruthless. How did she know that was his weak spot?
Jack bit back a smile. This was a setup.
An obvious, transparent, small-town setup that he'd seen variations of in a dozen different places.
They didn't need him specifically—any competent carpenter could rebuild a stage. But they wanted an excuse to check him out, see what he was made of, make sure he was good enough for their Clara even though Clara had been clear they weren’t dating.
But he appreciated how protective they were of their girl and for that, he’d happily pitch in.
“This couldn't have been achieved with a phone call?" Clara said, raising an eyebrow.
"My dear, some things need to be done face-to-face," Maeve insisted. "Much harder to say no when you're staring into someone's eyeballs."
At least she was honest about it.
Clara turned to Jack, apologizing, “You don’t have to—”
"We'll pay you," one of the men interjected—Thomas, Jack remembered. Owned the lumber yard. "Union rates. Cash."
"And Clara can show you where everything is," Maeve added, turning that smile on Clara. "Since you're new to town."
“Hold on, now, I have work," Clara protested. “A deadline!”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out.” Maeve's smile didn't waver. "Consider it community service. You know how important the Founder’s Festival is. I have pictures of you up on that old stage when you were young. Time to pay it forward for the next generation.”
Jack watched Clara's expression cycle through irritation, resignation, and finally defeat. Six pairs of eyes stared at her with varying degrees of hope and expectation—the kind of small-town pressure that weighed about a thousand pounds.
Clara looked to Jack in question, leaving it up to him.
How could he refuse? “I’d be happy to help out,” he said.
"Perfect!" Maeve clapped like Jack had just volunteered a kidney. "Meet at the town square in thirty minutes?"
They left before Clara could change her mind, climbing into Maeve's rusted Tahoe like they'd just won a battle.
Which they had.
Clara closed the door and leaned against it, a chagrined expression on her face. “I don’t even have words. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to go. I’ll make some kind of excuse and get you out of your offer.”
“Are you kidding? My carpentry skills are on the line. I can’t allow my reputation to be tarnished by flaking on an offer to help. But if you don’t want to go, I get it. I could borrow your boat—”
“Oh hell no, you're not touching my boat." She crossed her arms. "Need I remind you what happened the last time you captained a vessel?"
"That's not fair. There was a freak storm.”
"I'll take you. But we're leaving in fifteen minutes. They can wait."
Jack grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am. I'm not ninety."
"Yes, Captain."
"That's worse."
She escaped to her bedroom, and Jack made coffee while trying not to laugh.
This town. These people. The way they'd shown up at dawn with a transparent excuse to vet him and recruit him and make sure he was treating Clara right—it reminded him of home in a way that made him oddly homesick.
Lockport had been like this. Everyone knowing everyone's business, showing up uninvited with casseroles and unsolicited advice and the kind of care that felt suffocating until you left and realized it was actually love wearing an annoying mask.
He hadn't thought about Lockport in too long. Hadn't let himself. Because remembering meant feeling, and feeling meant grief, and grief meant—
The bedroom door opened. Clara emerged in work clothes, her hair braided, looking resigned to her fate.
Jack handed her a travel mug of fresh coffee. "Figured you'd need it to deal with Maeve's enthusiasm."
She took it with a muttered., "Thanks,” and trudged out the front door like she was going to battle.
"You're welcome."
The town square was already buzzing when they arrived. The collapsed stage sat in pieces near the gazebo like the world's saddest jigsaw puzzle, and a small crowd had gathered to assess the damage.
Maeve waved them over with general-marshaling-troops enthusiasm.
"Jack, this is Thomas—he'll be your assistant. And Clara, you're on supply runs—"
"I know where everything is," Clara interrupted. "I've lived here my whole life."
"Of course you have, dear. Excellent!"
Jack circled the wreckage, examining joints and support beams. The original builder had known what they were doing—the foundation was solid, just needed new joists and decking. Nothing he couldn't handle.
He was aware of people watching him. Not obvious about it, but present. Evaluating. The same way his dad's crew used to size up new hires on job sites back home.
Show them you know what you're doing, and they'll respect you. Show them you care, and they'll trust you.
His dad's voice, clear as day. Jack hadn't heard it in years.
“The good news is, we can salvage a lot,” he announced. "Whoever built the original knew what they were doing. But we'll need new joists, decking, hardware. Plus paint."
"Make a list," Maeve commanded.
Jack pulled the pencil from behind his ear—a habit from job sites, always having one ready—and sketched on scrap paper. Neat handwriting, quantities, specifications. The kind of list that showed competence.
He handed it to Clara. "Think you can find all this?"
“I think I can handle a list.”
She stalked off toward the lumber yard, and Jack felt that now-familiar warmth in his chest. The one that showed up when Clara was being prickly and defensive and completely herself.
Dangerous.
By noon, Jack had fallen into the rhythm of building—measuring, cutting, fitting pieces together like a puzzle only he could see the solution to. Thomas held boards steady and handed him tools, but mostly Jack worked alone, lost in the familiar meditation of construction.
This was what he was good at. What he understood. Wood didn't lie. Joints either fit or they didn't. Everything made sense in a way that people never quite did.
Except the people of Beacon's End kept interrupting.
Mrs. Patterson brought sandwiches around eleven. "You must be starving, working so hard."
Dale from the marina stopped by with advice about how the old stage had been built back in the day. "They don't make things like they used to."
Pete from the hardware store delivered extra screws Jack hadn't ordered. "Just in case. No charge."
And throughout it all, people asked questions. Where was he from? How long was he staying? What did he think of Beacon's End? Had he tried Maeve's clam chowder yet?
Each question felt like a test he hadn't studied for.
They were checking on Clara.
Not directly—that would be too obvious. But every conversation somehow circled back to her. Had she been eating properly? Was she getting enough sleep? Had her parents called from Florida? How was her deadline going?
They were worried about her. All of them.
This whole town had apparently appointed itself Clara's unofficial family, and Jack—temporary carpenter, recent shipwreck survivor, man who definitely should not be developing feelings—was being vetted as a potential threat or ally to their lighthouse keeper.
The realization made him smile but a forlorn sadness burned somewhere hidden.
This was Lockport with an east coast accent.
This was his sister Josie showing up at his apartment with groceries when he forgot to eat. His dad's crew bringing casseroles after the funeral. The way his whole neighborhood had turned out for Joel's memorial service, standing in the rain because the church couldn't hold everyone.
This was the kind of love that showed up uninvited and stuck around even when you tried to push it away.
The kind Jack had been running from for seven years because it hurt too much to stay.
Around two o'clock, Clara returned from her third supply run. Jack was on the frame, securing joists, when he spotted her talking to Maeve by the gazebo.
He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he could see Clara's body language—arms crossed, shoulders tense, that defensive posture she adopted whenever someone got too close to the truth.
Maeve said something, touched Clara's arm gently, and walked away.
Clara stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and Jack felt the urge to climb down and ask if she was okay.
He didn't.
Because that would be overstepping. Would be caring in a way that implied he planned to stick around. Would be crossing lines he'd promised himself he wouldn't cross.
Instead, he drove another screw home and pretended he hadn't noticed.