Page 27 of Hometown Heart

"Morning." Jack's voice, low and steady, cut through the general hubbub of opening hours at Tidal Grounds.

I looked up to find him at the counter, but something was off. Cody hung back by the pastry case instead of bouncing up with his usual encyclopedia of hockey statistics. He traced abstract patterns on the glass with one finger, deliberately not watching us.

"Hey." I managed to keep my voice even and professional. Like I hadn't been up half the night wishing I'd responded differently at the pickup hockey game.

Jack leaned forward slightly, both hands flat on the counter. "I need to say something."

The espresso machine chose that moment to sputter, and I fiddled with the steam wand, grateful for the distraction. "Okay."

"I won't push you." His voice dropped lower, meant only for me and not anyone else in the morning crowd. "But I'm not interested in chasing something that isn't real."

The words landed like stones in still water, causing ripples that spread quickly to the shore. I gripped the portafilter tighter, and the warm metal suddenly became the only solid thing in my world. "I know," I managed. "I'm sorry for the mixed signals."

The inadequacy of those words hung between us. Jack nodded once, no anger in his expression, just a quiet acknowledgment that he heard me.

"Silas!" Cody's voice pierced the moment. "Did you make any more of those hockey stick marshmallows?"

I reached for the jar behind the counter, grateful for his impeccable timing. "Just for you, bud."

When I handed over their drinks, my fingers brushed Jack's. The brief contact sent an electrical jolt through me.

Then, they were gone, Cody chattered about practice as they headed toward the door. I watched through the window as they made their way down Main Street, Jack's shoulders straight and sure, Cody practically dancing beside him.

Sarah appeared at my elbow with a fresh rack of cups. "You okay there, boss?"

I turned back to the espresso machine. "Fine. Just fine."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, worse than any burnt coffee I'd ever served.

Half an hour later, I told Sarah that I was heading out. I shared my confidence that she could handle anything that would come her way. She raised an eyebrow, but she didn't question me. Since she began working for me, she hadn't known me to take time off that I didn't schedule months in advance.

Ten minutes later, I was driving up Route 1 in my pickup. The late winter coast unfurled beside me like a postcard—waves caught the sunlight, and seagulls wheeled overhead.

I hadn't planned to stop in Camden. Didn't have any particular destination in mind, but a little antique shop caught my eye—Seaside Treasures. Its weathered sign promised MaritimeArtifacts & Coastal Curiosities. I'd driven past it dozens of times, always meaning to check it out.

The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside. The shop smelled like furniture polish and old books, with hints of sea salt drifting through an open window. A tabby cat watched lazily from its perch on a roll-top desk as I wandered the crowded aisles.

I found myself pausing at a restored drafting table, its oak surface gleaming after decades of use. Jack had mentioned wanting a proper workspace for his architectural drawings. I suspected he'd love the brass hardware and how the top adjusted to any angle.

I moved on quickly, only to stop at a vintage NHL pennant—Original Six era. It would be the kind of thing Cody would shout about and eagerly share with his friends. Three aisles later, a leather armchair caught my attention, its rich brown surface worn to butter-softness. A vision appeared in my head: Jack sinking into it after a long day with Cody sprawled nearby doing homework, maybe looking up to share some random hockey stat...

"Beautiful piece, isn't it?" The shop owner's voice startled me. "Just got it in last week."

"It's nice," I managed.

I retreated to the back of the store, where larger pieces crowded together like mismatched puzzle pieces. There I found it—what I'd been looking for even though I didn't know until I saw it. It was an old oak display case that had the original glass panels and brass fittings.

I traced the edges with my fingertips, finding spots worn smooth by years of similar touching. The case needed work—the glass might need replacing, and the hinges wanted oil, but the basic structure was solid. It would fit perfectly next to the window at Tidal Grounds, showcasing our morning pastries.

Another vision popped into my brain: Jack stopping by and leaning against the case while we talked. Cody would press his nose to the glass, debating which treat to choose.

"How much?" I asked the owner before I could think better of it.

It was a deal, and the owner helped me secure the case in the truck bed. An aimless morning drive had led me to a small step forward. It was an auspicious start to the time off.

I took one last look at the leather armchair through the shop window before pulling away. Maybe some other time. I could come back when I was ready for that particular vision to become real.

Late in the afternoon, I'd returned to Whistleport, and I sat in my truck outside the arena, fingers drumming against the steering wheel while the display case waited behind me. I hadn't planned to visit the arena on my way home, but somehow the truck had found its way to a parking spot with a clear view of the entrance.

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