Chapter 29
[Neve]
“Let me take you somewhere today?” he asks in the morning as we linger in my bed.
“Don’t you need to work?” He’s been working from home most days, which was another reason I didn’t feel too bad about him not helping clean out Rusty’s Wrecks. He has other things to do, like buy more real estate from people.
I swallow the bitterness of the thought.
“I make my own hours.” He watches his hand as it pushes back my hair.
“So, another surprise?” I ask, noticing a pattern in how he asks.
“I’ll even get you a coffee this time,” he teases, after the other morning when he rushed off. “I didn’t like how we left things the other day,” he admits, meeting my eyes.
“I didn’t either,” I offer, dropping my gaze, but he tips up my chin with the edge of his hand.
“I mean it, Neve. I don’t want you to push me away. I want to be here for you and the baby. I will be here for you. Both of you.”
I could scoff, but I want to believe him. Deep down inside, I don’t want to do this alone. I want Tate by my side, even if I can’t see how that will work.
I chew on my lip. “Just don’t hurt me, Tate.” It might be the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever asked.
His eyes soften. Emotion lands in them then quickly passes before he says, “I’m going to try my best to never do that.”
I nod, offering him a soft smile. “So, Fresh Swill, and then a surprise?”
He taps my nose. “Sounds like a date.”
Is that what we’re doing? Are we dating now?
After a quick shower for each of us, separately, as my shower would never be able to hold the two of us with my current size, we head into town for a black coffee for him and a decaffeinated pumpkin spice tea for me.
I inhale the aroma, and Tate chuckles. “You really love pumpkin spice.”
“Queen of the club,” I state before taking a sip of my tea. “Give me pumpkin spice anything and I’ll devour it.”
But he already knows this about me because he brought me pumpkin-flavored donuts and pumpkin spice muffins. And without me even asking, he orders me another muffin smothered in cream cheese frosting.
We don’t go very far from the coffee shop. Just a quick walk along three blocks and down one until we’re standing in front of the old firehouse. The two-story, two-garage-bay building was officially closed when a larger firehouse was built outside of town to accommodate one more truck.
“Do you remember me asking if you had ever considered opening your own shop?” Tate stares up at the brick building, something rare around here, as cedar shingles and clapboard are more common.
I smile, uncertain where he’s going with his question.
“What do you think?” he waves toward the building.
“Nice building?” I hesitate, taking a sip of my pumpkin spice tea.
“It’s a great location. Easy distance from the house. And—”
“Whoa.” I stop him, holding up a hand. “Just what are you suggesting here?”
“The fire station as a new autobody shop. For you.”
“You can’t be serious,” I snort, getting an extra whiff of pumpkin spice up my nose.
“I’m completely serious. There won’t be an auto repair shop within miles.”
“What about Bucky’s?” I mock.
Tate grows silent, squinting at the brick building. “You could be a specialty shop. Deal with classic cars, if you wanted.”
“I don’t—” But I cut off my own thought. Because I do want. I want to return to the work that I love. I don’t see myself staying home. I can’t. Like I told him, I’m not an heiress.
I also don’t have childcare lined up because I don’t even have a job.
However, I stare at the building, indulging in a little dangerous imagination. Classic cars in a funky, modernized garage. The upstairs could be an office, even a staff room, maybe a playroom.
“Do you really think something like that would be lucrative here?” I ask, my voice as foggy as my thoughts.
“Yes.” His tone is confident, bolstering my imagination.
What if . . . “And you’re not just saying that because you’re thinking like a real estate agent?” I nod toward the giant FOR SALE sign with a number to contact Roz, the local agent.
“I’m not thinking like a real estate broker.” He chuckles, then softens his voice. “But I could help you with the transaction.”
How much would a place like this even cost? I don’t dare to ask. Instead, I flip the script.
“You’re only offering your services because you like my services,” I tease, thinking of last night and two nights ago.
“I love your kind of service, Rosie,” he jokes, reminding us of my New Year’s Eve costume. “But I also believe you can do this.”
I stare at the building. The vision grows more distinct. The two-bay garage with auto equipment. The office upstairs with a fresh desk. A play space for Little Wrench.
I could set my own hours. I could be my own boss.
But a new business would be a lot to tackle when I have other things pressing on me, like a baby due in a matter of days.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Tate looks at me skeptically. “Will you? Will you really consider it?”
“I will.” Because I think I just might.
Because Tate was always doing nice things for me, I wanted to do something for him. Something that said, I appreciate you. I care about you. I’m falling for you.
But what?
Admittedly, romantic gestures were not my forte, and I wracked my brain for ideas.
I wanted something special that reminded him of his summers in Lovewell Landing, but being fall, hiking, biking, and fishing were out, especially that biking part.
At least, on my end. He also mentioned boating, but most boats were pulled from the marina, and as competent as Tate is, I didn’t want him to deliver our child, if I suddenly went into labor while we were out to sea.
In the end, I decided recreating something special from his childhood wasn’t going to happen.
My cooking skills were lacking, so I didn’t dare attempt another pie.
Eventually, I had to ask Lumi for advice.
“Simple is always best,” says the woman who hand knitted Saint a pair of socks, and he reacted like she invented the footwear. Saint also believed the gift was extremely thoughtful.
Finally, I had an idea and acted fast to implement it.
“Let me take you somewhere?” I ask him the following morning, flipping the script on his typical question to me.
Tate arches an eyebrow, skeptical, but he can’t hide the slight gleam in his eye. “Where?”
“Let me surprise you,” I say, leaning over him as he sits in the rattan chair in my living room. His laptop already open on his lap. “Unless you have to work.”
He hits one button on the keyboard and slams the lid down with a soft tink, causing me to laugh.
“Eager?”
He reaches for my hips and lifts his face for a kiss. “Always, for you.”
I give him that kiss, but before we get sidetracked, I pull back, asking him to give me ten minutes. We need to make one stop before we get to our destination.
I’m big as a barn, but I can still drive, which takes some cajoling because Tate really does not want me to chauffeur him.
“At least drive the SUV,” he eventually says, holding out the keys for his fancy vehicle.
“Fine,” I grumble like it would be a hardship to sit on heated leather seats and drive in comfort.
When we make the first stop, I ask Tate to just sit tight while I run into a local bar. With a name like Barnacles, you’d think their food wasn’t appetizing, but they have some of the best clam chowder in the area, and my order is ready for pick up.
Back in the driver’s seat, our destination is only a short distance and rather obvious as I pull into the parking lot of the Lovewell Landing lighthouse.
Tate squints out the windshield. “The lighthouse?” He turns toward me with a hesitant smile. “Looking for a redo of our meet-cute here.”
“Meet-cute?” I giggle. “What the hell is that?” Although something in the back of my head says I might know what that means.
“You know, that romantic moment when a couple meets. All the best romcoms have them, as do romance novels.”
I arch a brow. “And now I’m extra curious what exactly you read,” I tease him. I’m not much of a reader, but I’ve watched endless movies, so I know exactly what he’s talking about, only . . .
“Our meet-cute wasn’t here.” It was at Fisk’s party. Or was it our reunion at Rusty’s Wrecks?
Tate chuckles. “Well, I did run into you here. Seems serendipitous.”
What a word, and yet it does feel like serendipity has played a role in our relationship.
“And I promise not to let go of your hand this time,” I say, keeping my gaze on him, reminding us both of our misunderstanding back then.
He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips, lingering against my knuckles. “Thank you, baby. I love it here.”
I chuckle. “This isn’t exactly the surprise.” I press open my door and Tate does the same, only with my size and struggles, he’s around to my side of the SUV before I can exit on my own, helping me out of the high vehicle.
He holds my hand while I reach for the bag containing our lunch, but I also need the plaid blanket I tossed in his trunk.
Tate tosses the blanket over his shoulder and takes the bag from me, then lets me lead him toward the lighthouse. Into the lighthouse.
While the Cape Cod-like home houses the historical society, the lighthouse is open on the main floor with additional Lovewell Landing lore. Climbing the tower isn’t allowed anymore, nor is the light steadily functioning, which means you need special permission to climb to the landing.
Thankfully, I know a gal.
Miss Charma smiles as we enter the main floor of the lighthouse, her breath hitching like it seems to do every time she sees Tate and me together.
The circular base of the structure has a slightly damp smell to it, despite years of regular cleanups.
The space almost whispers with stories of fog and shipwrecks and lonely hearts.
With a simple nod, Miss Charma leads us over to the tower staircase, roped off with a simple chain and metal sign that reads: No Entry.
She unclicks the chain with a pinch of her fingers. “Have fun. Be careful,” she warns, pointedly looking at me.
“We’re going up?” Tate glances from his aunt to me.
“We’re going up,” I say, enthusiastically.
“You shouldn’t be climbing this winding old staircase,” Tate warns.
“But I know you’ll keep me safe when I do,” I tease, causing his expression to soften. “Please.”
Please, let me do this for you.
Tate lets me lead, keeping one hand on my lower back while the other holds the paper sack.
“I promise to go slow,” I say, holding the railing and sticking to my word. I don’t need vertigo to hit me as I spiral around and around the inner space of this lighthouse. And despite a small wave of dizziness as we near the top, the climb was worth it.
The view is breathtaking.
In this last week of September, the trees blossomed into new colors. Vibrant golds and bright orange. Distinct red and beautiful brown. It’s a rainbow of a different sort, and it’s so alive, even though the colors represent the end of the foliage’s life cycle.
“Wow,” Tate breathes out, staring through the windows before slowly turning three hundred and sixty degrees. He inhales like he’s breathing in the sight.
“It’s so beautiful,” he says almost reverently.
“I was hoping you’d like it,” I admit. “And I was hoping it would remind you of how much you love Lovewell Landing.”
Tate glances at me.
“You talk so fondly about your summers here. I don’t know how much time you spent here in the fall, if ever, so I thought I’d share a taste with you.”
He glances back at the spectacular firework-like display of autumn leaves. The sun peeks out behind the occasional cloud, brightening the effect. Causing the colors to almost glisten like gold, bronze, and copper.
“Sometimes we’d come here for Thanksgiving, but by then, the leaves were gone.” He looks back at me. “I haven’t been up here since I was a kid. When I wasn’t supposed to be.”
He wiggles his brows, hinting at the mischief he and his cousins got up to as teenagers.
“Did you bring a girl up here?” I tease.
“Never.” He steps closer to me, wrapping his arm around me, and spinning me as my back fits more easily against his chest than my front. “This is truly . . . magical, Neve.”
I smile to myself, hearing the smile in his voice.
“And to further the experience, I brought us lunch. Maine favorites. I need to school you, flatlander.”
Tate chuckles at the term for people not born or raised in Maine, although Tate is well-versed in Maine traditions.
Still, he flings out the blanket and helps me lower to it.
The coolness of the cement still seeps through the plaid covering, but it’s bearable to sit on.
In our lower position, we don’t see the trees as well, but Tate doesn’t seem to mind.
He begins taking things out of the bag, setting them between us on the blanket.
The scent of clam chowder wafts from the containers. Classic potato chips from a local company and fresh sourdough bread accompany our lunch.
“And what’s this?” Tate teases, although he can see through the cellophane wrapping.
“No Maine experience is complete without whoopie pies.”
Tate laughs again. “I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was a kid.”
I smile again, relieved I found something that could remind him of his childhood. Who knew it would be two chocolate cookie-cakes with a creamy filling between them.
“And this?” Tate smiles, eyeing me as a second whoopie pie has orange-tinted cookies.
“A pumpkin spice one, of course.”
“Of course.” He sets it down and leans toward me. I meet him in the middle, taking the kiss he offers, letting it deepen, distracting us both from our lunch for a minute.
“Thank you, Neve,” Tate finally says, pulling back. “This is really special.”
“Special good?” I ask, hesitantly, suddenly a little self-conscious about the romantic nature of this moment and the intention behind it. I just want to make him fall in love with Lovewell Landing again, maybe tempt him to stay beyond our baby’s birth.
And maybe, fall in love with me.
“It’s very good, baby,” he says, keeping his eyes on me. “Most thoughtful date ever.”
He might just be saying that, but I take it, kissing him again, hoping he feels how much I think of him. How much I want things to be good for him. For us.
Slowly, pulling away, I stare at him when I say, “Should we eat?”
“So much innuendo in there, Rosie,” he teases. “But let’s start with the clam chowder.”
I love his dirty mind.
And I agree, we should start with the chowder.
I’ll save him for dessert, after the pumpkin whoopie pie.