“Not at all, in my most humble opinion,” Timothy said, “but that won’t stop James from leaping in like a bloody dolphin.”
She chuckled, but a familiar ache settled below her sternum at the reminder of Callum. Had he taught James to swim? Had James heard from Callum—
No. That train of thought would lead her to madness. She’d spent the past three months severing Callum from her heart, slashing violently until the organ was a bloody pulp, functional but healing, if slowly.
“Where are we going?” Violet asked as they turned down a narrow street running parallel to the beach. The buildings were less aesthetically pleasing here, a few modest homes interspersed with a printer, butcher shop, a farrier.
“I wanted to show you something on the way,” he said, but the levity was gone from his voice, his jaw set.
The hair on her neck stood up. “Does James know where to find us?”
Timothy nodded, and the act of giving up the opportunity to have the last word unnerved her far more than the unsavory surroundings.
The road curved down again, and the sea was visible once more, although several boats blocked the beach from view. Several were lifted onto pontoons, allowing them to hover above the water, andthe prow of another vessel protruded from an open bay in the last building on the street.
Timothy stopped just before the abutting boat and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest.
Violet’s brows furrowed. “Why did we stop?”
“I wanted you to see this.”
“A boat?”
He frowned. “No, the building.”
She had to squint as the sun reflected off the stark, whitewashed wall of the low-slung building. Its waterfront facade was punctuated with wide doorways, presumably to allow smaller boats to enter for repairs. The humble structure had fresh paint, and the surrounding lawn was free of weeds and debris. Pots overflowing with wildflowers stood sentry between each doorway, and sun-drenched trellises strained under the weight of a bounty of tomatoes and summer squash. Her heart rate accelerated. “Timothy…” She pushed his name through a burning throat. “What is this?”
He said nothing, waited while she blinked the encroaching tears away and read the neat black lettering above the bays.
Hawthorne Maritime, Est. 1902
The ache in her chest twisted, flung out its fingertips and pressed at the inside of her rib cage. She rocked on her feet, unsure if she wanted to search every nook and cranny for Callum or run to the train, return to Hampshire—
“He’s back from Panama?” she wheezed.
Timothy took her trembling hand away from her mouth, squeezed it. “He never left. After he and James sold the company—”
She whirled on him. “Hesoldit?”
“Would you let me finish?” His lips pulled into a wry smile. “James didn’t want any part of Taggart Maritime, so he offered to sell it to Callum for pennies, but Callum refused. They sold the entire thing to a friend of mine who is looking to stake a claim in shipping.”
That company was Callum’s life, everything that mattered to him. It had mattered more than Violet, after all.
“Come along.” Timothy tugged her hand. “James is meeting us at the overlook.”
She wanted to dig in her heels, ask a thousand more of the questions swirling in her head, but she followed, too dumbstruck to resist.
The makeshift harbor gave way to a stretch of white beach that thrust out into the water, creating a natural inlet. Sea birds soared overhead, their cries competing with the chatter of women walking along the sand, the cries of fishermen pulling in their nets farther out in the firth. A wooden-planked overlook marked the divide between the inlet and the stony beach on its other side, and Timothy led her over to stand on the boards, motioning with his chin towards the water.
The children she’d seen frolicking earlier stood in a line, the water up to their waists or above. Half a dozen boys and girls ranging from teens to a girl with ruddy pigtails who couldn’t bemuch older than six watched a man face-down in the water, his arms windmilling. He raised his head and spoke, demonstrating the motion above his head as water pulled over his features in gleaming rivulets.
Her entire body prickled with awareness, like it had been deprived of blood flow for an eternity and was coming back to life. Her fingers trembled as she watched him grin while the children mimicked his action, their gawky limbs straining above their heads while he wound through their line, correcting and praising. One at a time, the boys and girls dropped their faces into the water, most emerging sputtering but each earning a wide smile from their instructor.
She hadn’t heard James’s approach, but he was beside her, his dark hair whipped into his face by the wind off the water. “He’s been doing this since the weather turned warm.” Pride swelled in James’s voice. “It took some time to convince the villagers to learn to swim, but Callum was persistent. Now he’s out here every afternoon when the sun is at its warmest, then goes back to work until long after the sun goes down.”
She’d asked him, on that night months ago when she’d shown him the stars, when he thought his debt to James would be repaid. She worried he’d never be able to set aside the tragedy that scarred him, the fear that paralyzed him. Perhaps he’d never forgive himself, but at least he could help others in the wake of his pain.
She cleared her throat, looked away from the man whom she’d never expected to see again, and began the climb up to the main street. “He never told me. Why didn’t he want me to know?”
