Page 1 of Hometown Heart

Chapter one

Silas

Iwatched through Tidal Grounds' plate glass windows as Whistleport stirred to life on a Saturday morning in late January. A lobsterman in a faded knit cap trudged toward the docks, his breath a visible cloud in the chill morning air. I read the daily special chalkboard outside Miller's Bakery across the street:Maple Pecan Scones – Get 'Em While They Last!A couple of early risers sat on benches near the water, huddled over steaming cups, their conversation drowned out by the occasional squawk of gulls.

Ruthie Langford caught Vi Callahan's eye across their usual table, the one with the best view of both the door and the harbor. They had the uncanny Maine-centric ability to have entire conversations without saying a word—a skill honed over decades of shared morning coffees and town gossip. I'd learned to read their signals through the years: raised eyebrows meant intrigue, pursed lips spelled concern, and the slight tilt of Ruthie's head meant she was already composing tomorrow's conversation for Dottie's Book Group.

The bell over the door jingled, and the air in my coffee shop shifted.

I looked up mid-motion while changing a coffee filter. A man stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared against the winter wind.

Jack St. Pierre.

He was tall and lean, his charcoal peacoat crisp despite the weather. The silver at his temples caught the light, adding a streak of distinction to his dark hair. His eyes scanned the café like a pilot, looking for the safest place to land.

Beside him, a boy—maybe nine or ten—practically vibrated with excitement. His oversized Montreal Canadiens jersey hung loosely on his small frame, and he clutched a brand-new hockey stick like a lifeline.

"Papa, ça sent bon ici," he stage-whispered, inhaling deeply as he tugged at his father's sleeve. His accent was soft, unmistakably French Canadian.

Jack's expression eased for a heartbeat, something unspoken flickering across his face. Then it was gone.

Something about the way Jack moved intrigued me. Maybe it was the careful grace of someone used to navigating spaces with a child in tow. It was different from the lobstermen's weather-worn stride or the summer tourists' uncertain meandering. He had a steady presence that made the room feel safer.

I got the introductions out of the way. "I'm Silas Brewster, owner of Tidal Grounds." I reached out to shake hands.

"Jack St. Pierre, and this is my son, Cody." As I expected, his grip was firm and warm.

Men like Jack didn't walk into Tidal Grounds every day. Not looking like that or with that kind of presence. Not with a son at his side.

Ruthie and Vi fell silent, exchanging looks over their half-finished coffees. They didn't speak, but I knew that look—Whistleport's finest brand of observational curiosity. No doubt, by lunchtime, speculation about Jack St. Pierre and his son would be in full swing.

Cody moved toward the counter, his hockey stick narrowly missing a table leg. Jack's hand shot out, steadying a wobbly mug before it could fall. The movement was instinctive, practiced—parental reflex.

"Sorry about that," he murmured, his voice lower than I expected, carrying that familiar Quebecois cadence. His eyes met mine, then flicked away just as fast.

"Cody, does the stick need to wait in the car?"

"Dad, practice is—"

"Soon, yes," Jack interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "But we might not make it there if your stick causes a catastrophe here."

Cody sighed in a theatrical display of suffering but propped the stick safely against the wall before focusing on the pastry case. His breath fogged the glass. "Dad, look! The marshmallows are shaped like little seashells!"

Jack exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching, just shy of a smile.

"Perfect for Tidal Grounds coastal hot chocolate," I said, already reaching for a cup.

"One hot chocolate. Small," Jack said.

"Medium," Cody countered, turning his most hopeful gaze on me. "With extra whipped cream? Please?"

I glanced at Jack, who hesitated before giving a small nod, his fingers tapping on the counter.

"One medium hot chocolate, moderate whipped cream. And you?" I asked.

"Black coffee, no sugar. Splash of cream."

Cody remained entranced by the marshmallows as I spooned a few into his drink. "You make these yourself?"

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