His hand found the door grip.
The truck passed.
The sound faded behind us.
“You all right?”
He nodded, but the answer took too long.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Not well.”
His gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I gave the whistle softly.
Two short notes.
One long.
His shoulders lowered.
“Again,” he said.
I did.
He released the door.
“Keep driving.”
Bellweather Point had once been a coastal signal station. The tower was gone, but the stone keeper’s cottage remained behind a fence, and a line of concrete paths crossed the grass above the cliffs.
Wind swept most visitors toward warmer places.
We found an empty bench inside the lee of a low wall.
I spread one blanket beneath us and another across Noah’s legs. The powered chair waited nearby, though he had walked from the car with my arm around his waist.
The bay opened below.
Gray-green water reached toward the horizon. Fishing boats moved like dark marks beyond the harbor mouth. Farther south, the white curve of Greyhaven’s waterfront followed the shore.
Noah closed his eye and tilted his face toward the sun.
The wind lifted his hair.
For several minutes, he said nothing.
I poured chowder into insulated cups.
He accepted one and held it beneath his nose.
