Chapter 20
REID
Noah came into the kitchen wearing one of my flannel shirts, one sock, and the expression of a man who had been personally betrayed by morning.
His hair had flattened on the left and risen on the right. The healing line near his temple showed through the uneven growth. He walked without the chair now inside the apartment, though he kept one hand close to the counter until the stiffness left his hip.
I set a mug beside his place at the table.
He sat, wrapped both hands around the coffee, and closed his eye.
“Should I come back later?” I asked.
“You’re too loud.”
“I haven’t spoken until now.”
“Exactly.”
I turned away before he saw me smile.
He had told me he loved me in his sleep.
Not Noah as he was now, fully awake and measuring each unfamiliar feeling. Some deeper part of him had answered an old good-night in the language we once used without thinking.
Love you, Cal.
I had spent half the night awake afterward, holding him and pretending the words did not change everything.
They changed nothing.
They changed the entire world.
I did not tell him.
He deserved to say it consciously before I treated it as a promise.
Still, happiness glowed quietly beneath my ribs.
Noah drank half the coffee before opening his eye fully.
“What are you doing today?”
“A few hours downstairs.”
“Saturday.”
“The ferries remain inconsiderate of weekends.”
“You finished the first two.”
“The next pair arrive Monday. I need to organize the loft and answer messages.”
He reached for toast.
His movements had become quicker over the last week. Not fast. Not as they had been before. But the pauses between intention and action were shortening.
“I thought we could go somewhere after lunch,” I said.
His gaze lifted.
“Where?”
“There’s a sheltered overlook above Bellweather Point. Flat paths. Benches. Usually quiet this time of year.”
“What’s there?”
“An old signal station, gulls, and a view of the entire bay.”
“That sounds like something retired people do.”
“I packed a thermos.”
“Definitely retired.”
“You may stay here.”
His mouth twitched.
“What’s in the thermos?”
“Corn chowder.”
“With bacon?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tolerate the elderly outing.”
I sat opposite him.
“You slept well.”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“No nightmares?”
“Not that I noticed.”
He frowned slightly, searching the blank place where sleep should have been.
“I dreamed something.”
“What?”
“Gone now.”
He ate a corner of toast.
“Did I talk?”
My hand tightened around my mug.
“Once.”
“What did I say?”
The question came casually.
I could have lied by omission. He would never know.
I had promised him truth.
“You answered me.”
He waited.
“I told you I loved you.”
His face became still.
“And?”
“You said it back.”
Color rose slowly up his throat.
“I was asleep.”
“Yes.”
“Did it sound like me?”
The question surprised me.
“It sounded like you.”
“Now or before?”
“Both.”
He looked down at the toast.
I resisted the urge to cross the table and touch him.
“Do you want me to forget it?” I asked.
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Then he rubbed his thumb along the mug handle.
“I don’t know what it means.”
“It does not have to mean anything you are not ready for.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
There was embarrassment in his face, but no panic.
“I think I’m getting there.”
My heart struck hard.
“To what?”
“You know.”
“I would rather hear you say it when you know.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Difficult man.”
“You liked that about me.”
“I’m beginning to understand why.”
He finished the coffee.
The subject remained between us—unresolved, but not withdrawn.
Alive.
We showered and dressed. Noah insisted on carrying his empty plate to the sink. He stretched his left shoulder while the water ran, working through the exercises Joel had given him.
By eight thirty, we were downstairs.
The yard was officially closed, though the north bay stood open to the harbor air. The storm had passed during the night. Sunlight turned the wet concrete silver.
Noah used the powered chair on the workshop floor. He complained that the motor whined like an anxious insect, then drove it faster than Maeve would have approved.
I unlocked the office.
He rolled toward the sail loft.
“Your panel is covered,” I called.
“I finished the panel.”
“You found two untested gauges yesterday.”
“I delegated them to Owen.”
“Owen delegated them back.”
Noah stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder.
“Coward.”
“Employee.”
He went into the loft.
I sat at my desk and opened the insurance portal.
No update.
The temporary wage reimbursement had steadied us, and the Harbor Transit deposit would arrive once the next inspection reports were accepted. We were no longer a missed payment away from disaster.
That did not mean the losses had disappeared.
The van remained a twisted shell in an evidence lot.
Thousands of dollars of test equipment had vanished into rain, mud, and wreckage.
The trucking company’s insurer had acknowledged liability without approving the final valuation.
The workers’ compensation insurer wanted another physician’s statement confirming that Noah’s injuries resulted from an accident no one disputed had occurred while he was driving a company vehicle to a scheduled job.
I sent a message asking for a timeline.
Then another.
I checked the junk folder, though I knew no decision had arrived.
A shadow crossed the office door.
“Noah?”
A stranger stood beyond the glass.
Not entirely a stranger.
Trevor Hale had covered the coastal sales route for one of our largest marine-electronics suppliers before accepting a management job in Portland.
He used to stop at the yard twice a month, drink terrible coffee, and spend an hour arguing with Noah about whether old analog gauges had more character than modern displays.
He wore a rain shell and carried two paper cups.
I rose.
“Trevor.”
“Thought I’d see whether you still drink fuel disguised as coffee.”
He passed one through the open doorway.
“What are you doing in Greyhaven?”
“Meeting in Newport Monday. Took the long way.”
His gaze moved toward the loft.
“How is he?”
“Improving.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Does he remember me?”
“Probably not.”
Trevor absorbed that without looking away.
“I’ve read about amnesia. Doesn’t make the idea less strange.”
“It is stranger from inside it.”
“I won’t make a production.”
“Good.”
We found Noah at the worktable with one gauge dismantled into precise rows of screws, springs, and brass contacts.
He looked up.
His attention moved from Trevor to me.
I gave him the choice.
“Noah, this is Trevor Hale. He used to manage our supplier account.”
Trevor lifted one hand.
“Now I manage people who manage supplier accounts. A terrible promotion.”
Noah looked at him carefully.
“Sorry. I don’t recognize you.”
“You never liked me much before.”
I turned to Trevor.
Noah’s eyebrows rose.
Trevor smiled.
“I sold him digital systems. He accused me of participating in the death of craftsmanship.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Noah said.
“I see the personality survived.”
Noah offered his right hand.
Trevor shook it gently.
They spoke about the gauge.
Within minutes, the conversation had become technical enough that I stopped following every detail. Trevor did not ask whether Noah remembered a trade show, a dinner, or some old joke. He met the man in front of him.
I watched Noah relax.
He explained the corroded contact arm as if Trevor had never seen one. Trevor listened as if he had not spent ten years hearing Noah give the same lecture.
When Noah realized this, he stopped.
“You know all of this.”
“I know your opinion.”
“Probably in excessive detail.”
“Very excessive.”
Noah’s mouth tightened.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t.”
Trevor’s tone lost its humor.
“You don’t owe anyone a performance of remembering them.”
The words struck me.
Noah looked at him.
Then nodded.
“Thank you.”
Trevor glanced toward the open bay.
“I heard about the service van. Did the carrier settle?”
My chest tightened.
Noah’s gaze moved to me.
“Not yet,” I said.
Trevor grimaced.
“They still dragging it out?”
“Documentation.”
“That van was equipped like a mobile lab.”
“I know.”
“Half the equipment was less than a year old.”
“I know.”
Trevor finally noticed the silence beside us.
“Sorry.”
Noah turned the small brass contact between his fingers.
“What equipment?”
I answered before Trevor could.
“Portable analyzers, thermal camera, test leads, crimping systems, spare converters. Things we used on service calls.”
“All lost?”
“Most.”
“And the van.”
“Yes.”
Trevor looked between us.
“I should go.”
“You just arrived,” Noah said.
“I interrupted a Saturday.”
“You brought coffee.”
“Bribery only buys so much.”
He gave Noah his card.
“My number hasn’t changed. You used to call when Reid ordered the wrong connectors.”
“I never order the wrong connectors.”
Both of them ignored me.
Trevor left after promising to return when he could stay longer.
At the gate, he apologized again for mentioning the claim.
“It was going to come up,” I said.
“He looks better than I expected.”
“He is.”
“He also watches you before he answers difficult questions.”
I glanced back toward the workshop.
Noah sat beneath the loft light, looking down at the gauge.
“He trusts me.”
“More than that.”
Trevor put on his sunglasses.
“Whatever he forgot, he still orbits you.”
I did not know what to say.
Trevor clapped my shoulder and left.
Noah was no longer in the loft when I returned.
I found the powered chair near the south bay and heard movement aboard Mercy.
The twenty-foot cedar runabout rested on blocks near the open doors. Noah and I had rebuilt her over two winters from a rotting hull we bought for almost nothing. She was our personal boat, though work and weather had kept her on land for most of the last year.
Noah sat at the helm.
I stopped beneath the gunwale.
“How did you get up there?”
“Ladder.”
“Alone?”
He touched the wheel.
“I used both rails.”
“That was not my question.”
“I wanted to see.”
I looked at the ladder, then at the height of the deck.
Fear rose quickly enough to become anger.
I swallowed it.
“Do you need help coming down?”
“Not yet.”