Page 88 of Hometown Heart

"And you've only checked the inventory spreadsheets—three times today?"

"Twice," he corrected, but his sheepish smile betrayed him. "Maybe four if you count the text messages."

"Practically hands-off management." I bumped his shoulder playfully. "Next thing we know, you'll be taking actual vacations."

The concept of Silas relinquishing control would have seemed impossible months ago. The man who once double-checked his door locks three times had gradually eased his grip on the constant need for certainty. Small steps, each one a victory over the fear of what might happen if he wasn't vigilantly standing guard.

We continued past artisan booths selling everything from handcrafted lobster buoys to watercolor paintings of the lighthouse. A group of children raced by, sticky with cotton candy residue, nearly colliding with Knick Knickerbocker, who balanced a tray of steaming cups.

"Careful there, kiddos!" he called after them good-naturedly. He spotted us and grinned. "Just the men I was looking for. Ziggy brought some Colombian beans for Silas to try. Direct from the source."

"Incredible timing," Silas replied. "I'm finalizing next month's special roast menu."

"And Jack," Knick continued, "Brooks mentioned you've taken on assistant coaching for the junior league. Cody must be thrilled."

"Mostly embarrassed," I admitted. "Nothing worse than your dad showing up at practice with a whistle and clipboard."

"He'll appreciate it later," Knick assured me. "It's the same way Ziggy pretends to be mortified when I wear a 'Hockey Dad' jersey at his university games. It's practically a father's obligation."

The casual reference to fatherhood caught me off guard. Not because it was wrong but because it sounded so natural—this easy inclusion in the circle of Whistleport's parents, these conversations about raising children now included me without question or qualification.

"Knick's right," Silas added after Knick continued on his rounds. "Cody practically glows when you're coaching, even when he's rolling his eyes."

"Speaking of coaching," I nodded toward the bandstand, where Rory was assembling tonight's poetry readers. "Looks like they're getting organized. Should we find those seats Brooks mentioned?"

We continued toward the seating area, where folding chairs sat in loose semicircles facing the small stage. The harbor provided a stunning backdrop, boats gently bobbing in the golden light of early evening. Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, not yet illuminated but ready for when darkness fell.

As we claimed our seats near the front, I surveyed the gathering crowd. The faces had grown familiar over the months—not just names attached to coffee orders or hockey parents, but people with stories I knew, connections I understood. Vi and Ruthie bickered amicably about the best vantage point. Mr. Peterson discussed this season's fishing regulations with a group of lobstermen. Even Edward, visiting for the weekend, had found his place, deep in conversation with June Miller about historical building preservation.

"It's different now," I said quietly to Silas. "Being here."

He nodded, understanding without explanation. "You're not watching from the outside anymore."

"Neither are you," I pointed out. "Town barista turned business owner turned community pillar."

Silas's fingers found mine. "I spent so many years thinking I was keeping myself safe by staying apart. Now, I can't imagine why that ever made sense."

"Fear makes sense in the moment," I replied. "Until you find something that makes you want to be brave."

Rory approached the microphone, tapping it twice to check the sound. The crowd began to settle, conversation dimming to murmurs. Cody and his friends took their designated seats at the side of the stage, my son's leg bouncing with nervous energy as he clutched his poem.

"Thank you all for coming to the annual Whistleport Summer Festival poetry reading," Rory announced, his teacher's voice carrying clearly across the harbor front. "We've got a stellar lineup tonight, from seasoned veterans to promising new voices. Please welcome our first reader, Ziggy Knickerbocker, home from university and graciously sharing new work with us tonight."

Applause erupted as Ziggy took the stage, confidence evident in his easy stride. As he began to read—something about ocean currents and homecoming—I found myself fully present in a way I hadn't experienced in years. The festival, the town, the people around us—it wasn't just a place we lived. It was where we belonged.

Silas leaned closer, his shoulder pressed against mine, steady and warm in the cooling evening air. "This is real," he whispered.

As the lineup progressed, I caught snippets of whispered commentary around us.

"Did you hear Ruthie's verse about her late husband? Nearly had me in tears."

"Brooks Bennett should stick to hockey. Poetry's not his strong suit."

"That college girl's environmental piece was powerful. Reminds me of Silas's work from last winter."

Silas's arm rested against mine, our shoulders touching. He'd been unusually quiet throughout the readings, his attention divided between the performers and Cody, who remained perched on the edge of his seat stage-right.

"You okay?" I whispered during a brief transition between readers.

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