Page 87 of Hometown Heart

Not just his home or my apartment above Tidal Grounds but something new we were creating together—a shared life built on coffee beans and hockey games, quiet morning conversations, and harbor-edge revelations. On promises made not with grand gestures but with steady presence and deliberate choice.

The snow fell heavier, transforming Whistleport into something magical—familiar yet new, just like the path we'd chosen to walk together.

Chapter twenty-two

Epilogue - Jack

The Whistleport Summer Festival sprawled across the harbor front, transforming our quiet lobstering town into a vibrant celebration of coastal life. Paper lanterns strung between weathered dock posts swayed in the evening breeze, their glow intensifying as daylight surrendered to dusk. The festival had been a town tradition for decades before we arrived, but this year, it was ours, too.

"Jack! Silas!" June Miller waved from her bakery's booth, flour still dusting her forearms despite her festive attire. "I've saved you boys some of those blueberry hand pies. Can't have you filling up on Eugenie's fried clams before dessert."

Silas's fingers remained intertwined with mine as we navigated through clusters of our neighbors. "You realize she's been holding those pies hostage since noon," he murmured, his beard brushing my ear as he leaned in. "I watched her turn away three summer tourists who tried to buy them."

"The privileges of becoming a year-round resident," I replied, raising my free hand to greet Mr. Peterson, who sat in his designated judging chair for the upcoming chowdercompetition. "Though I think it has more to do with you finally sharing your cinnamon roll recipe with her."

"A calculated business decision," Silas protested, though the warmth in his voice betrayed him. "Her sourdough technique was worth the trade."

We paused at the edge of the harbor walkway, taking in the tableau before us. Children darted between booths selling saltwater taffy and handcrafted trinkets. The scent of fried seafood and caramel corn mingled with the omnipresent salt air. From somewhere near the bandstand, fiddle music competed with laughter and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the docks.

I spotted Cody across the crowd, huddled with Tyler and three other teammates near the makeshift stage. His hands moved as he spoke, pulling a folded paper from his pocket and then tucking it away again. My son—nearly eleven now and growing too fast for his hockey jerseys to keep pace—had insisted on participating in the poetry reading portion of the festival despite his initial nerves.

"He's been practicing that poem for two weeks," I said to Silas. "Even made me leave the room yesterday during his final rehearsal."

"Secret artistic process," Silas nodded solemnly. "Very important."

"You've corrupted him with your poetic sensibilities."

I watched Cody from a distance, noticing how he straightened his shoulders when speaking to his friends and how his gestures had become more assured in recent months. He'd grown into himself since our arrival in Whistleport—not only physically, though the summer growth spurt had ambushed us both—but in the quiet confidence that now anchored his movements.

"He's going to be brilliant," Silas said, following my gaze. His voice had the same pride that swelled within me—a sharedemotion that needed no explanation between us. "Poetry and hockey. Rory's influence is showing."

"And yours," I replied, nudging his shoulder with mine. "Don't think I haven't noticed him practicing latte art when he thinks I'm not looking."

Silas laughed the sound blending with the carnival atmosphere around us. "Future barista champion of New England. I've been teaching him the rosetta pattern."

I took a deep breath, savoring the moment—this perfect slice of life we'd carved out in a town that had welcomed us with open arms and minimal judgment. Well, minimal by small-town standards, which still involved considerable scrutiny and unfiltered commentary, particularly from Dottie Perkins.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Brooks appeared with Rory at his side. "You two are late," Brooks announced, clapping me on the shoulder. "We saved you seats near the stage for the reading. Prime viewing area for Cody's debut."

"We got caught up at home," Silas explained, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.

Rory smirked. "I bet you did."

"The display case repairs ran long," I clarified, though no one appeared convinced. "That antique wood requires careful attention."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Brooks waggled his eyebrows. "Careful attention?"

"Will you hold our spots?" Silas asked. I've got something to show Jack.

"Back in ten," insisted Brooks.

"Easy."

I spotted it before Silas did. "Look at that," I nodded toward a new booth near the harbormaster's office. A hand-painted sign proclaimedTidal Grounds: Camden, with an artistic rendering of a lighthouse perched atop a coffee cup. Sarah operated thestation, deftly pulling shots of espresso for a line of summer tourists.

"Second location up and running." I squeezed Silas's hand. "You finally did it."

"She's handling it better than I expected. The Camden shop already has regulars."

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