Page 6 of The Maine Attraction

“You love me already, don’t you?” I ask, petting her head. She licks my hand in response. “You know what, Beauty? I already love you, too.”

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 isglorious.

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,manlythings. 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.”

“Terribleis 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.

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