Chapter 2 #2
"As okay as he can be," Jake said. "Their niece is handling the paperwork now.
" He flipped to a page in his stack. "You paid for ninety days, Ms. Callahan.
Because of the craft fair, there's nothing available until at least Monday.
After that, we could move you to a studio above the gallery. It's small. No view. But it's clean."
She nodded, her expression carefully neutral. "I can make small work."
Jake looked to Brian. "What I propose is this.
We refund Ms. Callahan everything today.
Full amount. Then we pay you for the nights she stays through Sunday, at your standard nightly rate plus a headache fee.
" His smile creased. "I know you said you don't rent to people.
For this, we'll make it worth your trouble. "
Brian's jaw flexed. He didn't like being bought. But he also didn't like the idea of this woman sleeping in her car because some wires got crossed.
"How many nights?" he asked.
"Three. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. If the studio doesn't open Monday morning, I'll put her in my mother's guest room myself." Jake looked at Tessa. "You won't be sleeping in your car."
Relief washed over her face, and Brian felt something tug in his chest. She'd been bracing for the worst. Expecting it, even. Like disappointment was just the baseline of her life.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Jake wrote a number on a sticky note and slid it toward Brian. "Would that cover the intrusion?"
Brian glanced at it once, then set it back. The number was more than fair. More than he would have asked for. "Fine. But I'm not doing turn-down service."
Jake laughed, the tension in the room easing. "Understood."
They signed papers. Tessa's refund would hit her card in two to three business days, but Jake handed her a temporary check for a portion to hold her over the weekend.
He also slid a map across the table with little circles and handwritten notes.
Coffee. Bakery. Best fish tacos. Brian watched her tuck it into her bag as if it were something precious.
Back on the sidewalk, the day had warmed. The street was busier now, families moving between booths, kids with snow cones, the hum of a community doing what it did best.
Tessa shaded her eyes and turned in a slow circle, taking it in. The wonder on her face was unguarded in a way that made her look younger. Less burdened.
"It's not like Chicago," she said.
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
"People look at each other here. They actually make eye contact."
"Small town. Hard to avoid it."
She turned to face him, and the sunlight caught the gold in her hair. "Thank you. For agreeing to let me stay. I know it's not what you wanted."
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "It's three days. I'll survive."
"Still. You didn't have to."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Instead, he nodded toward the street. "You need anything else in town?"
"Maybe tea." She smiled at herself, like she knew how small that sounded. "And laundry detergent. I can pick both up later."
"Tea's at Harbor Bean." He pointed down the block. "Detergent at the market. We'd need to walk; parking's impossible right now."
They walked. The crowd parted around them, and Brian found himself matching his pace to hers, slowing down in a way he didn't usually do.
She stopped at a jewelry booth, running her finger along a row of silver pendants with pressed flowers inside.
She didn't buy anything, but she looked at them like they meant something.
At the bulletin board outside the bookstore, she paused to read a flyer. Turquoise paper, bold black letters. A charity concert on the green next Saturday. Come sit with us by the water.
She touched the corner of the paper with one finger, the way you might touch something fragile.
"Thinking about going?" he asked.
"I might." She let her hand drop. "If I'm still here."
"You could be." The words came out before he could stop them. He wasn't sure what he meant by them, and from the look on her face, neither was she.
An older couple waved from across the street. The woman's hair was snowy white and pulled back in a tidy bun. The man wore suspenders and carried two paper bags like they weighed nothing.
"Brian!" the man called. "You still coming Saturday to look at that railing?"
"Yeah, Bill. After noon."
"Bring your drill," the woman added. "He swears he doesn't need help, but I don't want him on a ladder."
Brian's mouth tipped up before he could stop it. "I'll bring the drill."
The woman's gaze cut to Tessa, curious and warm at once. "Who's this?"
"A friend," he said, surprising himself with the word. "Tessa. She's staying a few days."
"Welcome to Copper Moon." The woman smiled like she meant it. "I'm Ruth. Don't let him forget to eat lunch. He gets mean."
Bill snorted. "I do not."
"I didn't mean you, Bill. I meant Brian." Ruth's hand slipped into her husband's elbow. "The man needs to eat."
They moved on, their voices fading into the crowd. Brian watched them go, watched the way Bill's hand covered Ruth's where it rested on his arm. Fifty years of marriage, probably. Maybe more. The kind of partnership that looked effortless because they'd put in the work to make it that way.
"You help them a lot," Tessa said. It wasn't a question.
"Sometimes." He started walking again. "Bill built half these porches forty years ago. Knees don't like ladders anymore. So I help when I can."
"That's kind of you."
He shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment. "It's what you do in a small town. People look out for each other."
They stopped at the market for tea and detergent, then made their way back to the truck. The drive home was quieter than the drive in, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less awkward. More like two people who'd reached some kind of understanding without having to spell it out.
At the cottage, she went to her room to put away her things, and he found himself standing in the kitchen with nothing to do. He could work on the addition. Should work on the addition.
He'd told Tessa last night, when they were sitting by the fire, about the vintage motorcycle restoration shop. Their dream, all three of them. The thing that had kept them in Copper Moon when they could have gone anywhere.
Had watched her face in the firelight as he explained how they'd come here for the Copper Moon Cup and never left. How they'd pooled their money and found a building on Bay Street and spent the past year turning it into something real.
She'd listened like it mattered. Asked questions that showed she was actually paying attention. And when he'd said sometimes the big changes are the right ones, she'd looked at him like he'd handed her something she needed to hear.
He shook his head and grabbed his work gloves from the hook by the back door. Three days. She'd be gone in three days, and his life would go back to normal.
He wasn't sure why that thought didn't feel as good as it should.
By late afternoon, he'd made progress on the framing for the addition and worked out some of the frustration that had been building since yesterday. Physical labor had always been his reset button. When his head got too loud, his hands knew what to do.
He came inside to find Tessa at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible.
"I thought we agreed you were the guest," he said, leaning against the doorframe.
She glanced over her shoulder. "I changed my mind. You fed me breakfast. It's only fair." She gestured to the pan with her wooden spoon. "Chicken, garlic, pasta. I found everything in your pantry. Hope that's okay."
"It's fine." More than fine. He couldn't remember the last time someone had cooked for him. "Anything you won't eat?"
"No mushrooms, since you're asking."
He almost smiled. "Good. We agree on something."
He washed up at the sink while she plated the food.
They sat at the small table, the window open to the evening air, the sound of the water mixing with the clinking of forks on plates.
She'd made a salad, too, the cucumber slices arranged in a neat fan, which made him think she was someone who liked order. Control. Things in their proper place.
He understood that. He'd built his whole life around it.
"This is good," he said, and meant it.
"Thank you." She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "I like cooking. Don't get to do it much. My hours are..." She trailed off, then started again. "Were. My hours were unpredictable."
He heard the correction. The shift from present to past tense. "What do you do?"
She set her fork down, and something in her face went still. "I'm a trauma surgeon. ER. Chicago. I took a leave of absence."
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples out in every direction. Trauma surgeon. Which meant she'd seen things. Done things. Held lives in her hands and sometimes watched them slip through.
"That's a hard job," he said.
"It is." She picked up her fork again and pushed a piece of chicken across her plate. "I'm here because I couldn't do it anymore. Not right now. Maybe not ever again."
He nodded slowly. "I was an EMT. Back in Missouri. Before I came here."
Her eyes lifted to his, sharp with recognition. "Was?"
"Left it behind. Same reasons, probably." He took a drink of water to buy himself a moment. "I've thought about volunteering with the fire department here. They need people. But I haven't been able to make myself do it yet."
She studied him for a long moment. He waited for the questions, the prodding, the well-meaning advice. Instead, she just nodded.
"I understand that," she said. "Sometimes you need distance before you can go back."
"And sometimes you realize you don't want to go back at all."
"That too."
They finished dinner in a different kind of silence. Not the awkward kind from this morning, and not the careful kind from the truck. This was the silence of two people who'd glimpsed something real in each other and decided not to push.
After, they did the dishes together. She washed; he dried. Their elbows bumped in the narrow space, and he didn't step away as quickly as he should have.
When the last plate was put away, she dried her hands on a towel and looked at him. "Thank you, Brian. Not just for dinner. For all of it."
"You made dinner," he pointed out.
"You know what I mean."
He did. That was the problem.
"Get some sleep," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Tomorrow we can figure out the rest."
She nodded and headed down the hall. At her door, she paused and looked back. "Goodnight, Brian."
"Goodnight, Tessa."
The door closed softly behind her.
He stood in the kitchen for a long time, listening to the cottage settle around him.
The creak of floorboards, the tick of the clock, the soft rhythm of waves against the shore.
And beneath it all, the knowledge that there was someone on the other side of the wall who understood what it meant to carry weight you couldn't put down.
Three days, he reminded himself.
But even as he thought it, he knew three days was going to feel very different from what he'd expected.