Chapter 5
[Tate]
Three days after finishing that oil change and transmission flush, Neve Snowe is still on my mind.
We didn’t talk much after I completed work on Aunt Charma’s SUV.
My aunt made herself at home, cozied up in the waiting room with her mug of pumpkin-scented coffee, chatting away with Neve about something that had Neve occasionally laughing.
I couldn’t hear the sound, but strangely, I felt it. A rumble in my gut that made me smile.
I hadn’t planned to stay in Lovewell Landing for long, but my cousins convinced me to stay through the weekend.
Monday is Labor Day, the official end of summer.
Plus, Lumi Snowe will be returning on Tuesday.
Although I’m here for business, it didn’t take much to twist my arm into adding a few extra days to my visit.
On a run through Lovewell Landing, I’m reminded of how much I loved this place as a kid and how long I’ve been away from it.
Coming back at the end of December last year had been out of necessity.
Mental sanity and a wounded heart. I hadn’t been looking for a rebound.
That wasn’t what Neve had been. I’d simply been trying to prove to myself I was ready to get back out there.
Only after Neve, I hadn’t gotten any farther than I’d already been.
Single. Alone. Waiting.
Whenever I returned to Lovewell Landing, I always felt a sense of urgency. Like something was around a corner, just out of reach, but maybe, just maybe, waiting for me as well.
The sensation was always present when I was a hormonal teen. Now in my forties, perhaps it’s just sentiment that recalls the feeling. Call me idealistic or romantic. The comments have been said before.
But as I race through town, feet hitting the pavement of the narrow sidewalk, every place I pass is full of nostalgia. The ice cream parlor. The coffee shop. The historic docks.
Jogging through the center of town, I veer off toward the lighthouse, a steep climb uphill, but a perfect run along a wooded lane before breaking onto a peninsula of land that juts into the bay.
The wind is stronger here. The smell of salt in the air mingles with a subtle stench of lobster and fish.
I sprint faster, as if attempting to outrun the heavy breeze trying to knock me down.
With over sixty-five lighthouses in Maine, the state is unofficially called The Lighthouse State.
Lovewell Landing does not disappoint lighthouse enthusiasts.
Near the lighthouse is a grassy space where a preserved Cape Cod-style house stands near the tower for nautical light. The space is operated by the Historical Society. A worn path, possibly established by walkers and runners alike, outlines the property.
I run around the historic site, circling back to the main entrance and park area, when I see a woman sitting on a bench.
Several benches are set up near the rocky cliffs facing the water.
Each bench has a narrow bronze plaque commemorating who donated it, along with a statement.
Some are in memory of someone. Some are more sentimental.
I narrow my eyes to read them more clearly and stumble over my feet at the one closest to the lone woman sitting by herself.
Here sat Sarah, waiting on John, who set out to sea, wishing you’d come back to me.
When I stop completely, hands on my waist as I try to catch my breath while my heart still thunders, I glance at the woman, wondering if she is like Sarah, waiting on her John to return.
Then I realize the woman is Neve.
Her short hair might be pinned back, but it blows forward. The curls are riotous, like the soft waves deeper out in the ocean. Against the rocky cliff wall, the crash is harsher, more distinct in sound, almost angry, like the pinched look on Neve’s face.
“Rosie?” I tease, hesitating as I come closer to her.
Her body is slouched, shoulders hunched forward, while her arms rest over her belly. At hearing the nickname, or maybe simply my approach on the pea-gravel path, she slowly turns her head. Then she shifts, sitting up straighter, turning her face back toward the ocean and swiping her cheeks.
“Hey.” I rush to close the distance between us. “Mind if I sit?”
She shifts without hesitation, sliding to the side to make space, but I realize as I sit down that the bench was never really meant for two people who aren’t already comfortable with each other.
I settle next to her anyway, misjudging the tight space, and my knee brushes hers.
It’s brief, accidental, the kind of contact that shouldn’t register, but it does.
Enough that I don’t move away. She doesn’t either.
Instead, she shifts again. A slight fidget like she’s trying to adjust to the awkwardness between us rather than the space itself. Or get herself into a more comfortable position.
I am aware of her in a way I wasn’t when I walked over.
The warmth of her side against mine. The faint, clean scent of her clothes.
The ripple of her loose black pants in the breeze.
She’s also wearing an oversized T-shirt that softens her shape in a way I shouldn’t be noticing.
Flip-flops on her feet, toes slightly swollen like she’s been on them too long.
Her toenails are painted a bright Halloween orange.
The sight of that color pulls a small, unguarded smile out of me before I can stop it.
“Hey,” she quietly states, recrossing her arms and glaring out at the water. Her eyes narrow in the brilliant sunshine. “You’re still here?”
Her voice remains quiet. Her question low and confused.
With our sides close, my arm brushes against hers when I turn my head to answer her, while she continues to stare at the ocean, hair whipping in the wind.
“Yeah. I haven’t left yet.” I can’t leave until I make this deal happen. “Thought I’d stick around through the holiday.”
Glancing back at her toes, the puff in them causes me to reach for her calves and lift her feet. The motion forces her to twist as I set her feet on my lap.
“What are you doing?” Her voice tightens, reminding me more of the feisty girl in Rusty’s Wrecks a few days ago.
“Trying to take the pressure off your feet.”
She shakes her head and slides her feet off my lap.
They slap the cement base beneath the bench.
“You sound like my doctor.” She sits upright, back removed from the bench.
Her knee presses harder against mine. Her hands rub over her belly.
I’m reminded again of someone waving their hands around a crystal ball, as if magic lives within her.
I chuckle at her snark. “Oh yeah? Is your doctor a good-looking guy in his early forties?” As soon as I ask, my laughter halts. I hope he’s not a handsome guy in his early forties. Even if it is for medical purposes, I don’t want some hot doc checking her out down low.
She scrunches her nose. “Funny.” Her tone is flat.
I bump her arm with mine, hoping she’ll open up to me a little more. “Well, what does your doctor sound like then?”
“An older woman who told me it’s time to stay off my feet.” Neve glances down at her toes, tipping her head to the side in order to see around her waist.
“What does that mean for you?”
“It means it might be time to stop working.” Her eyes narrow to disappointed slits.
My heart hammers for a new reason. Does this mean she’s ready to sell? I hate how that’s my first thought and quickly brush it aside.
“How do you feel about that? Slowing down?”
“It’s more like a quick stop. Slamming on the brakes.” Her right foot moves like she’s actually stomping down on a brake pedal. She finally glances at me, and I’m struck by how her eyes match the exact color of the sky. Bright and blue and miles wide.
“I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”
She sounds slightly panicked. Like, without work at Rusty’s Wrecks, she has nothing else. Yet, she’s about to be a mother. Did she intend to return to work? Does she have a plan when the repair shop sells?
“Sounds like, for now, you need to take care of you . . . and Little Wrench.”
She turns her attention back to the ocean. The slightest tick of her mouth twitches upward. She has a dimple on this side of her mouth as well, but it’s much smaller than the other one. A secret dimple. One only those close enough to her might notice.
Her head suddenly whips in my direction. “See, the name is growing on you, isn’t it?”
“Maybe.” I tease. “I’m still partial to Rosie.” I lean forward and knock into her shoulder.
“Oh!” Her breath hitches, and she glances down at her belly before slouching back against the bench. The heel of her hand rubs in circles at one particular spot.
“What happened?” I ask, certain I didn’t hurt her, but still curious about the sudden pinch between her brows.
“The baby. She’s acting like it’s a soccer field in there.”
I stretch out my hand, eager to feel it, but pause, hovering my palm inches away from her. “May I?”
I don’t know what compels me to ask or why I’m so invested. Still, I’m grateful, almost high, when she nods.
Her stomach is hard, skin pulled tight, and my palm doesn’t even cover the expansiveness of it. But I feel the tiny poke of something pressing from inside her belly, like it wants to break out. The jut moves, and then . . . wham!
“Holy shit.” I pull my hand away and meet her eyes. “Did you feel that?” I ask like an idiot.
Of course she felt it. The kick is happening within her body.
“Can I . . .?” As much as I pulled away, I want to reach forward again. Feel that strange movement one more time.
With her permission, I lay my hand on her stomach again. The next kick isn’t quite as jarring as the first one. More like a gentle roll of her foot. Or an elbow.
“Does that hurt?”
Neve smiles, smoothing a hand right down the middle of her abdomen. “Not really. It’s so strange, though. I didn’t really want to be a mother. Never thought I’d have a baby.” Her brows lift in surprise. “It’s all a little . . . unsettling.”
She glances at me but quickly looks away.