Chapter 8
eight
The truck was older than Jack by at least a decade.
But watching Clara bob her head to the tunes was the most charming thing he'd seen in a long time.
"How do you even know this music?" he asked, but before she could answer, he guessed, "let me guess…your Gran?"
"And my granddad. They loved music. Always had something playing in the background." She shot him a quick glance, suddenly wary. "Are you laughing at me?"
"Not at all. I love to see you relax. It's a good look on you, Hawkins."
Clara bit back a sudden shy smile that did weird things to his chest and he had to look away.
Everything between them had been like this lately — a hand brushing while passing tools, a look held half a second too long, the careful distance they kept on the couch that only proved they were both thinking about closing it.
Neither of them had said a word about it. As strategies went, ignoring a problem until it went away had never once worked for Jack, but that hadn't stopped him from trying.
"Okay, so tell me about this Founder's Festival?" he said, changing the subject.
Clara read between the lines and was only too happy to follow his lead.
"It's the biggest thing Beacon's End does all year.
Music, vendors, food, entertainment on the main stage—the one you helped rebuild, so congratulations, your craftsmanship will be publicly judged.
And then there's a bonfire on the beach at the end of the night.
" She shrugged. "Probably nothing compared to what you've seen in other places, but for us, it's the event. "
"It sounds like a great time," he said, grinning. "I'm in."
The parking area was already packed when they arrived. Clara maneuvered the truck into a spot, killed the engine, and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel.
"You okay?" Jack asked.
"Yeah. Just... this is the first time I've brought someone. To the festival. Since—" She stopped.
Since Sam. She didn't have to say it.
Jack reached over, squeezed her hand once. "We can leave whenever you want."
"I don't want to leave." She squeezed back. "I want to show you my town."
The beach was transformed.
Strings of lights crisscrossed between posts driven deep into the sand, creating a canopy of gold against the darkening sky.
Food stations lined the dunes—seafood, obviously, but also hot dogs and corn on the cob and what looked like an entire table dedicated to pies.
Music drifted from somewhere, live and slightly off-key in a way that suggested community band rather than professional entertainment.
Kids ran everywhere, shrieking with the particular brand of chaos that came from too much sugar and zero supervision. Adults clustered in groups, red solo cups in hand, laughing at jokes Jack couldn't hear.
It looked like every small-town festival Jack had ever been to. Same setup, same energy, same happy chaos. He'd seen this template in a dozen towns.
It had never made his chest tight before.
"Clara!" A woman with blonde hair and paint-stained overalls waved from near the face-painting station. "Over here!"
Clara's face lit up. "That's Lena. Come on, I'll introduce you."
Jack followed Clara through the sand, watching the way people greeted her. Not with the nosy curiosity of Maeve's crew, but with genuine affection. Hugs and inside jokes and the kind of shorthand that came from years of shared history.
Lena pulled Clara into a hug, then turned to Jack with an assessing look that was curious but not invasive. "So you're the carpenter everyone's talking about. I'm Lena. Clara and I used to get detention together for passing notes in Mr. Henderson's class."
"That's a lie," Clara said. "You got detention. I was an innocent bystander."
"You drew those incredibly unflattering cartoons of Henderson's toupee. You were an accomplice."
Jack laughed, and something in Lena's expression softened. She nodded, like he'd passed some invisible test.
"He did good work on the stage," Lena said to Clara. "Better than the original, honestly. You should've seen Dale trying to inspect it—couldn't find a single thing to criticize, and you know how Dale is."
"He does love finding problems," Clara agreed.
"Speaking of which—" Lena gestured to a group of kids waiting for face paint. "I'm on duty. But you two should grab food before the oysters are gone. Tim's running that station, and you know his portions are insane."
They said goodbye and moved on. Tim spotted them from behind the food station and waved a pair of tongs in greeting. "Callahan! You survived the fish tacos. That means you're ready for the oysters."
"Barely survived," Jack said, grinning. "But I'm willing to risk it."
Sarah appeared next, hair escaping its clip as usual, dragging a guy Jack hadn't met behind her.
"Clara! Jack! This is my boyfriend, Nate—he drove up from Portland, isn't that sweet?
Nate, this is Clara's—this is Jack. He's the carpenter.
" She stage-whispered to Jack, "Mrs. Conley has been telling everyone you two are engaged.
I told her that was ridiculous. You've only known each other two weeks. "
"That's... not more reassuring," Clara said flatly.
Then Ben and his husband Tyler, who owned the bookstore and immediately started recommending carpentry books Jack might like. "We just got in this gorgeous volume on Japanese joinery—no nails, no screws, everything interlocking. You'd love it."
Something had shifted since the stage-building day.
The handshakes were warmer, the inside jokes came with quick explanations so he could follow along, and nobody asked how long he was staying — like they'd collectively decided to stop treating him as temporary.
These were Clara's people. The ones who'd earned their place around her.
And somewhere between Tim's oysters and Ben's book recommendation, they'd started making room for him too.
"You have good friends," Jack said as they loaded paper plates with food.
"I do." Clara bit into a fried clam, closing her eyes in appreciation. "I forget that sometimes. When I'm at the lighthouse, it's easy to think I'm alone. But I'm not. They're just... patient. They let me hide when I need to and show up when I'm ready."
"That's a gift."
"It is." She glanced at him. "What about you? Friends back in Lockport?"
The question required honesty, and honesty took bravery. For a long time, he hadn't been ready to admit how thoroughly he'd run from everyone who'd ever loved him.
It wasn't a good look.
"I had friends," Jack said carefully. "My dad's crew.
Guys I'd known since I was a kid. But after he died, after Joel.
.. I don't know. It was hard to be around them.
They reminded me of everything I'd lost." He picked at his corn on the cob.
"I didn't mean to ghost them. I just... kept meaning to call and never did.
And then enough time passed that it felt too late to start again. "
Clara's hand found his arm, warm and grounding. "If there's one thing I've learned about coming home, it's never too late."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely." She squeezed once, then let go. "Come on. The bonfire's starting."
The bonfire was massive.
Someone—probably Dale, Jack guessed—had built a structure of driftwood and old pallets that reached at least ten feet high. As the sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, Thomas stepped forward with a torch.
The crowd quieted. Kids stopped running. Even the waves seemed to hush.
"Two hundred and twelve years ago," Thomas called out, his voice carrying across the beach, "a group of sailors shipwrecked on these shores. They were cold, exhausted, and convinced they wouldn't survive the night."
Jack felt Clara shift closer to him. Not touching, but close enough that he could feel her warmth.
"But they built a fire," Thomas continued. "And that fire brought them together. Kept them alive. Gave them hope. The next morning, they decided to stay. To build something here. To make this place home."
He touched the torch to the kindling. Flames caught immediately, racing up the structure with a whoosh that made several kids gasp with delight. Within minutes, the bonfire was roaring, heat pushing back the ocean chill, smoke rising into the darkening sky.
"To Beacon's End," Thomas shouted. "And to all the shipwrecked sailors who found their way home!"
"To Beacon's End!" the crowd echoed.
Jack felt the words settle in his chest, heavy and significant.
Shipwrecked sailors finding home.
That felt pointed.
"Every year," Clara mused quietly, just for him. "Same speech. Same bonfire. Same toast. Somehow, it never gets old."
"Do you believe it? The founding story?"
Clara chuckled. "I don't know. I used to when I was a kid. Seemed sacrilegious not to believe. But now that I'm older? I haven't decided."
"Maybe it doesn't matter if it's true or not," he said. "Sometimes a little lore is a great bonding agent."
"Can't disagree about that." She smiled up at him, firelight dancing across her face. "Come on. We need to stake out a good spot before all the marshmallows are gone."
They found a place close enough to the fire for warmth but far enough back to avoid the worst of the smoke. Clara sat in the sand, and Jack settled beside her, shoulders touching in a way that felt both casual and deliberate.
Around them, Beacon's End celebrated. Kids roasted marshmallows with varying degrees of success. Adults told stories that got louder and less accurate with each retelling. Someone started playing guitar, and voices rose in a song Jack didn't know but hummed along to anyway.
Clara leaned against his shoulder, warm and solid and real.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"I didn't have anywhere else to be," he teased. "Besides, I had to see how my craftsmanship held up. My rep was on the line, you know."