Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Mel
The oven has been on since seven, and the kitchen holds heat the way Northeast Maine clings to winter.
The heat settles against my skin, clings to my collarbone, seeps into the cotton of my tank top.
Brown sugar caramelizes in the air, smoked paprika warming into something deeper, the sharp bite of mustard rising when I lift the spoon from the bowl.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel that has seen too many holidays and reach for the next task.
Potato salad. Then corn. Then give the baked beans another stir before they scorch on the bottom because I forgot them while answering someone’s question about sunscreen or folding chairs or whether we still have the old horseshoe set.
Fourth of July in Northwick Cove is not a casual affair.
By noon, coolers will line up at the side of the house like a barricade. Lawn chairs will sprout across the yard. Children will be sticky and barefoot and feral with sugar before the first firework even leaves its tube.
People drift in from every direction—Harbor Road, Pine Hollow, Willow Lane—coolers tucked under arms, red-white-and-blue t-shirts pulled over swimsuits, dogs weaving between legs.
The tourists clog Route 17 thinking they’re headed for a quaint lighthouse and a peaceful seaside celebration.
They don’t realize they’ve stumbled into a town that treats holidays like a competitive sport.
We don’t celebrate.
We conquer.
I line up platters along the counter and glance out the window.
Birch Grove Road is already stirring. Mrs. Langley from Elm Court walks her terrier like she does every morning, but today she’s wearing a glittery flag dress. She waves at the house, as if she can see me through the glare.
Our house sits on the harbor side of Main Street.
The main road in Northwick Cove forms a close-to-straight line from Route 17 to the coast and if you stand at the end of the driveway the B&B near the highway is visible.
Diana, the owner, will have made blueberry scones this morning.
She always does on holidays. We all have our specialties.
The twins used to sprint the stretch between here and the B&B when they were little. Racing with each other. Now they send photos from Florida beaches instead. Sun-bleached hair and shoulders too wide for boys who used to need help tying their shoes.
I check the clock.
Dan should already be outside.
As if summoned, the back door opens. Boots scrape across tile. A toolbox bumps the frame. “You seen the extra extension cord?” His voice carries the gravel of morning and something softer underneath.
I don’t turn around immediately. I know what I’ll see.
Six feet and still broad through the shoulders.
Hair gone silver in the last decade, cropped close to his scalp like he refuses to negotiate with age.
The t-shirt stretched across his chest is faded from a hundred washes, but it still molds to him the way it used to.
His forearms are dusted with gray now, veins pronounced, skin weathered.
His hands have built fences, fixed engines, held newborn boys like they were glass, and now carry age spots.
“It’s in the hall closet,” I say. “Top shelf.”
He nods and moves past me.
I watch him in the microwave reflection instead of directly. He reaches up, and his shoulder catches for half a second. A micro-wince he thinks no one sees. He still moves like he’s thirty most days, but sometimes the body reminds him.
I always notice.
He grabs the cord and turns, and this time our eyes meet without the barrier of glass.
“Smells good,” he says.
“It’ll be better in an hour.”
He steps closer.
For a moment I think he’s going to say something else. Something unscripted.
Instead, he presses a quick kiss on my cheek. His mouth is warm, and the contact is light and efficient, like he’s checking something off a list. Affection between tasks.
Then he’s gone again.
The back door swings shut, and the kitchen feels larger without him in it. I rest my hands on the counter longer than necessary.
We haven’t fought in years.
People in town call us solid. Dependable. The Carters host the Fourth. The Carters show up when someone needs a ride to the clinic. The Carters raised good boys.
Solid.
The word sits heavy.
The house is too quiet without the twins.
I rinse cilantro under cold water and chop it fine. The knife hits the board in a steady rhythm.
By noon the yard will be crowded. At dusk the fireworks will launch near Harbor Road, and half the town will gather on our grass before walking down together in a wave of laughter and beer bottles and sparklers.
Men will bring their woman. Because here in Northwick Cove, ménage is the norm and we’re the exception. The Turner brothers have Savannah, the Grayson brothers share Sheila, Diana is with three men, and Sam and Henry—who I thought were a gay couple—have added Judith to their relationship.
The three of them move through space like gravity bends around them.
I noticed it at Thanksgiving. The way Sam’s hand settles at the small of Henry’s back without looking, like he knows exactly where he belongs.
The way Henry’s gaze follows Judith when she moves, steady and focused, like he’s tracking something he doesn’t intend to lose.
Heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it.
I shift my weight, wiping my hands on the towel, but the feeling lingers. The memory sharpens instead of fading. Sam’s fingers spreading against Henry’s back. Henry leaning in just enough that Judith fits between them without breaking the line. The quiet certainty of it.
My thighs press together.
I draw in a slow breath, but it doesn’t settle anything. My skin feels too tight, too aware. I imagine Dan stepping into that space, another man’s hand on him the way Sam touches Henry—confident, claiming—and something deep inside me clenches, not in protest but in need.
I grip the edge of the counter, grounding myself against the sudden rush of it.
I tell myself I admire them. That’s all it is.
But the thought doesn’t hold.
The screen door bangs and Sam’s voice carries inside. “Mel! You have ice?”
I clear my throat and push away from the counter, forcing my hands to steady. “Look in the freezer in the shed!”
Boots on gravel. Laughter. The scrape of something heavy dragged into place. Dan’s lower voice responds, steady and calm.
I wipe my hands and step onto the back porch. The yard is already transforming.
Folding tables line the fence. The grill waits in its usual place.
Red and blue bunting flutters from the porch rail, snapping in the light breeze.
Pine Hollow’s tree line rises dark and protective to the north.
To the east, if I angle my head just right, I can see the shimmer of the harbor past the houses on Harbor Road.
Northwick Cove is small enough you can walk from the Grayson farm to the docks and pass every layer of someone’s life along the way. The B&B. The shops on Main Street. MacAllister’s garage with its bay doors open. The clinic near Stoneridge.
Dan stands with Sam and Henry near the far table, string lights coiled in his hand. Sam’s salt and pepper hair is already wind-tossed. Henry’s sleeves are rolled up, muscles flexing as he tightens something with focused care.
They look good together.
Dan laughs at something Sam says, and the sound hits me low and unexpected. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that looseness in him. He glances toward the house and finds me watching.
For a split second, the noise around us dulls.
Then Mrs. Langley calls my name from the driveway, and the moment snaps like a pulled thread.