The couple behind me falls quiet again. Not my fire to manage.
Mine comes later.
I’ve watched fireworks from rooftops in cities that never quieted down. From motel parking lots off highways where no one knew my name. The sound always felt temporary there. Something to pass through.
This town feels different.
The smoke drifts through trees and settles along Harbor Road like it belongs. Porch lights flicker. Windows glow. People call each other by first names without looking.
I parked the RV at the edge of Pine Hollow two months ago, telling myself I’d stay until the restlessness burned off.
Truth is, I didn’t know where else to point the nose of it.
Northwick Cove wasn’t on a plan. It was just the next right turn.
Now I find myself knowing which house makes blueberry scones on holidays and which porch light stays on late. I know the Turner boys walk too close together when they’re thinking and that Sam always stands slightly behind Henry when he laughs.
I know this town holds its people close, even when their relationships don’t fit neat lines.
And now, watching the Carters, I understand something I didn’t expect. I don’t want to be passing through anymore. The realization settles in my chest heavier than it should. This town has its own way of loving. I’ve been here long enough to see it. The Turner boys don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. And Sam, Henry, and Judith move through town with the quiet certainty of people who stopped apologizing for choosing each other.
Northwick Cove doesn’t seem interested in forcing love into tidy shapes.
That doesn’t mean the Carters are looking for anyone else inside theirs. Even so, the Daddy in me won’t stop whispering, “They need an anchor,” and every instinct I’ve got says I could be it… if they ever wanted one.
While I work on my task, people start gathering and pitching in, setting up tables, putting up decorations.
A trio I recognize from the hardware store, her tucked between them, one man carrying a cooler while the other keeps a steady hand at the small of her back. Then another trio, laughter already spilling ahead of them, the woman swatting one man away while the other leans in to press a quick kiss to her temple.
Diana from the B&B arrives with her men, all of them moving like they share the same rhythm, like they’ve done this walk together a hundred times. A little further down, the guys from the garage flock around a feisty redhead, her grin sharp, her shoulders brushing theirs as they flank her without crowding, like they know exactly how close she’ll let them get.
It doesn’t stop there.
Pairs, threesomes, foursomes… easy combinations that don’t draw a second glance. Hands finding familiar places. Bodies leaning without hesitation. No one explaining. No one asking permission to be what they are out here.
The yard fills. Voices rise. Someone strings up lights along the railing, soft bulbs flickering to life one by one as the sun dips lower, gold bleeding into amber, then into something quieter, deeper.
By the time I’m satisfied with my own work, the last of the daylight has slipped behind the water, and darkness has settled fully over the harbor. I reach for the firing control and trigger the first rack.
A loud boom rolls across the harbor, heavy enough to rattle glass and tighten the muscles in Daniel Carter’s shoulders before he can hide it.
It’s subtle, the kind of reaction most people would miss. His shoulders rise a fraction too high. His jaw locks. His weight shifts like he’s bracing for something he can’t see yet.
Melanie sees it.
She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t make a scene. She simply steps closer and slides her hand into his.
The second explosion blooms silver overhead. Smoke drifts low, carried by the wind I’ve been tracking all day. It curls between houses, threads through the bunting, settles along the street like fog.
Daniel doesn’t look at the sky.
His gaze moves instead, cutting across the crowd, measuring distance, counting bodies, tracking space like he’s placing people where they should be. It’s the hypervigilance of someone who has seen combat.
Melanie turns toward him instead of the fireworks. She shifts into his space, so their shoulders touch. Her other hand comes up to his chest, fingers spreading lightly over his sternum as if she’s trying to touch something deeper than skin.
The gesture is intimate, and I look away for a beat.
When I look back, he’s breathing differently. Still controlled. Still upright. But his focus has narrowed to her face.
