5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Luke
“This is the life, isn’t it Beauty?” I reach down to pet my sweet, old girl on the head. “Lindy did us a solid finding this place.”
The old lighthouse and keeper’s house is exactly what I’d asked for: peaceful, quiet, and secluded. The property is on a little peninsula that juts into the sea. On one side, there’s a rocky cliff which leads down to a rocky beach on the Gulf of Maine. At low tide, seals rest on the rocks below. At high tide, the beach disappears entirely.
And on the other side is Fog Harbor, with its calm bay waters, popular fishing pier, and quaint village. From way up here, the boats in the harbor look like toys bobbing in a giant bathtub.
Today, Beauty and I sit on the front porch, staring out at the big, blue sea and listening to the waves crash against the earth. Maine is beautiful, carved by glaciers and sea. And the weather is glorious.
I hadn’t realized how much I missed the cooler Maine temperatures before I moved back to Fog Harbor. It’s late- August, and it’s a perfect sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. In Kentucky, summer is still in full swing in August. It’s hot and humid, and the moment you leave the house, you’re sticky with sweat. Unless you’re inside with the AC blasting, there’s no way you can crochet a sweater for your dog in Kentucky in August.
Yes, I crochet. Warm, manly things. Seriously. No doilies for me, though I do enjoy a nice granny square.
My grandmother taught my sister and me when we were kids. Lindy never had the patience for it, but I enjoyed it, and over the years, I’ve gotten pretty good. It’s not a skill I advertise to people. None of my hockey buddies know about it, even though I’ve given them lots of crocheted gifts over the years, complete with “handmade with care” tags sewn inside. I just tell them I purchased the items from a fiber artist on Etsy.
I hate that about myself. It’s cowardly, I know. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with the biggest, meanest men in professional hockey, and have the busted leg to prove it. I’m fearless on the ice. But when people compliment my work, I’ve never had the guts to say, “Thanks. I made it myself!”
I slip my crochet hook into the yarn to add another chain. “You’re going to love this, Beauty. It’ll keep you warm this winter. Maine gets quite a bit colder than Kentucky, but you’ll get used to it.”
She yawns in response, stretching her paws in front of her so that they hang off the dog bed I made her. A few moments later, she’s snoring loudly.
I chuckle, marveling at how much joy a dog can add to one’s life.
The sound of a car driving toward the house distracts me from my thoughts. A few minutes later, Lindy climbs out of her tiny hatchback.
“I come bearing treats,” she calls, walking to the trunk of the car to remove a large tray of sandwiches. “Come help. I have pickles for you, too.”
“Of course, you do,” I say with a laugh.
Beauty does her best to run over to Lindy on her three old legs. She leans her body against Lindy’s legs, licking her exposed kneecaps beneath the hem of her shorts.
Lindy laughs. “Stop that. I have a treat for you, too, but let’s get in the house first.”
She spots the yarn project that I’ve abandoned on the porch. “What’s that going to be?”
“A sweater for Beauty.”
She shakes her head. “Sometimes, I wish I wish I’d stuck with it. Alas, you got all the talent in the family.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. “You make the best sandwiches in the world, and the best pickles, too.”
She places the tray of sandwiches onto the kitchen table. “That’s not talent. It’s trial and error.”
“That’s what it takes to get good at anything,” I point out. “Remember how much I used to crash and burn on the ice?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says nodding. “You were terrible.”
“ Terrible is a little harsh,” I protest.
She giggles. “Remember the time you bellyflopped onto the ice and flailed around like a maniac because you couldn’t get back up? You accidentally tapped the puck with your outstretched stick, knocking it into the goal. You were maybe eight years old, remember?”
“Yep,” I mutter. “That’s when Charley nicknamed me Luck.”
“Really? I’d forgotten that.” She reaches for a Ziplock baggie in the middle of the tray of sandwiches. “Meat for Beauty,” she explains.
At the sound of her name, Beauty releases a whimper of anticipation and wags her tail so hard that it bangs between mine and Lindy’s legs.
“Here you go,” Lindy says, dropping a piece of turkey on the floor for my dog. She lifts a sandwich and hands it to me. “Smell it before you eat it. Is it the best thing you’ve ever held to your nose or what?”
“You’re so weird,” I complain but do as she instructs. “Smells spicy.”
“It’s the dill-jalapeno pickles chips I was telling you about. They’re perfection. Now taste it.”
Ever the dutiful brother, I take a bit of the sandwich. My eyes flutter closed at the explosion of flavor on my tongue. “Who knew pickles elevate a regular sandwich to something amazing ?”
“Me,” she says brightly. “And my customers at The Laundromat.”
I can’t help but smile. When my sister opened a local laundromat in town, she decided to sell sandwiches and sodas for people to snack on while they waited for their laundry. Now, she runs a gourmet sandwich shop out of the front of the building, and the laundry services are in the back. She still just calls it the laundromat, though, and word-of-mouth is the only way customers find her. It’s the best kept secret in Maine.
She opens a cabinet to grab a glass and shrieks when the door falls off.
“Sorry about that. The cabinets need to be replaced.”
“Along with everything else,” she mutters. “You’ve been here for two weeks, and you still haven’t called a contractor to do renovations? Now’s the time, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” I tease. “I’m your brother. Stuck with you whether I like it or not.”
She pouts. “Don’t even. You’re my twin. My best friend since birth.”
“Riiiight.”
“Hey,” she says, planting her hands on her hips, “Even though we have different friend groups, we’re still best friends. Say it!”
I grimace but recite the vow we made in the third grade when our friend groups started to diverge. “Twins for always. Best friends forever.”
“And?” she prompts.
I sigh. “And ever and ever and ever and ever.”
She beams at me. “Doesn’t that make you feel warm and gooey inside?”
I roll my eyes. “Mm hmm. I feel like a roasted marshmallow.”
She reaches into her bag. “I know what’ll put a smile on your face—”
“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “Pickles?”
She glares at me. “Don’t say ‘pickles’ in that tone ever again.”
I hold my hands up in apology. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to disparage your amazing gourmet pickles. What do you have for me?”
Her face lights up like the Fourth of July, and my face splits into a grin in return. Her passion for pickles is something to behold. “Dill-Habanero Pickle Chips. They’re spicier than the jalapeno chips, but you can handle the heat.” She hands me a jar, and I can see the onions, mustard seeds, peppers, and English cucumber slices in the brine.
“Thanks, sis,” I say, crossing the kitchen to put the jar of pickles and the sandwich tray in the refrigerator. “You’ve brought enough food to feed me for the week.”
“Can’t let you and Beauty starve, now, can I?”
“Actually, I made you a gift.” I cross the living room to reach into my bag of yarn. I pull out a green crocheted pickle with button eyes and a smiley face.”
She claps her hands before reaching out for it and clutching it to her chest. “You made me a pickle?”
“An emotional support pickle,” I tell her. “It’s a thing.”
She nods. “It’s nice to know that others appreciate the perfection of a pickle.”
While she’s dancing with her pickle, another cabinet door falls off the wall. She freezes in place, raising an eyebrow.
“This place should be condemned,” she complains. “Call a contractor.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Fine. Is Corbin and Sons still the go-to spot for contract work?”
“Yes, but…” Her voice trails off.
I look at her quizzically. “Yes, but… what?”
“Well, you and Charley never really got along.”
“So? What’s that got to do with her father’s contracting business? Oh… does she work in the office or something?”
She nods slowly. “She works there.”
I sigh. “Figures. Maybe I’ll just have Fernando set everything up. May as well give him something to do.” Fernando is my part-time personal assistant. He hasn’t had much to do for the past year or so, but I continue to pay him.
She frowns. “Don’t you think it’s time to let Fernado go? He lives more than a thousand miles away. Besides, I talk to Charley almost every day. I can set everything up for you.”
“Really?” I eye her quizzically. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye that I know all too well.
“Really,” she says, a grin stretching across her face. “Just leave it to me.”