Page 19 of The Cherry Blossom Boathouse

“Sure did. My pa used to say this island was the lake’s jewelry box, where she keeps all her collected treasures.” He pointed to the far side where a century-old stone fire pit stood, blackened from generations of campfires. “Rhodes family tradition. First warm day of spring, we’d load up the boat and come out here. Grandma always claimed the lake fish tasted better when you cooked them here.”

He didn’t mention the summer his mom left, when he’d spent whole weeks camping on this island, too angry to go home but too lost to go anywhere else. Or how his grandpa had simply shown up every evening with fresh supplies, sitting in silence next to him until the stars came out. Some stories weren’t meant for sharing. Not yet, anyway.

“Your family sound close,” Sophie said.

“Used to be,” Luke replied. “But since my grandparents and my pa passed—”

“Oh. I’m sorry. When did he pass?”

“Ten years back. Weak heart.” A muscle worked in his jaw. “Technically a heart attack, but he drank too much, didn’t look after himself, especially after my grandpa passed five years before. What about your ma?”

“Lung cancer. Lost her last Feb.”

“I’m sorry. It was her letter I rescued, right?” Sophie nodded. “I noticed it was still sealed.” Sophie nodded again. Luke didn’t push her on it. Instead, he asked: “Your dad still around?”

“He sure is.” Sophie smiled. “He lives in his tidy semi-detached with its precisely maintained garden and collection of birdwatching guides.” Then she frowned. “His semi-detached. Feels strange saying that. It was always theirs, before Mum passed.” She took a breath and recovered herself. “Anyway, he’s not much of a talker, especially about Mum. Very British about the whole thing, you know? But he’s got photos of her everywhere: on the mantelpiece, by his reading chair, even uses one as a bookmark. Doesn’t say much, but you can tell.”

Luke nodded, understanding the language of grief that didn’t need words. “What does he think about you moving to the US?” he asked.

Sophie laughed. “Well, he printed out a comprehensive sheet showing crime statistics for the States versus the UK, complete with highlighted sections and footnotes. Very thorough in his research, my dad. But when I showed him how this particular town has virtually no crime, he seemed to feel better about it. He even promised to visit once I’m properly settled in. It’ll be strange, him coming here without Mum. When I imagined moving abroad one day, I imagined them both visiting. Though sometimes it feels like she’s still around. I catch myself having full conversations with her. Usually when I’m making important decisions or when I find something particularly beautiful.” She gestured to the lake. “Like this.”

Luke was quiet for a moment. “Boat engine troubles,” he finally said. “That’s when I talk to my dad. He could fix anything with an engine.”

Sophie smiled and a ghost of a smile crossed Luke’s face in response.

“What would your mom think about this bookshop idea?” he asked.

“She’d love it. She was even more of a bookworm than me. Cultivated my love of books, pretty much forced them on me from when I was a baby.” She frowned. “God, I wish she could see me now. It still feels so raw, the grief.”

“It’ll change over the years,” Luke said. “The hole will still be there, but stuff grows around it, sinks it deeper so it doesn’t feel like it’s so much at the surface.”

“That’s a poetic way of putting it.”

“Don’t reckon anyone’s described me as poetic before.”

They sat in companionable silence, the weight of shared understanding between them. Two people who knew what it meant to carry on after loss.

“What about your mum?” Sophie eventually asked. “Does she live in Solace Springs?”

He felt himself tense up. “Not anymore. Moved to Vancouver when I was thirteen.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear that. That must have been tough. Do you see her much?”

“Nah.” His throat tightened as an unwanted memory surfaced: his mother on this very shore, laughing as she balanced on slippery rocks, dark hair wild in the wind, gathering driftwood pieces in her woven bag. Then that same evening, her walking out of the family home, like that day on the island was a kind of goodbye. “She liked this place,” he said, looking around. “Used to collect driftwood, turn it into little art pieces. Had this whole workshop set up on our screened porch. I’d find her there at dawn sometimes, sanding and shaping, lost in her own world.” He stopped abruptly, the sharp ache of remembering too much like pressing on a bruise.

Sophie looked like she might ask more about Luke’s mum. But then she seemed to sense he didn’t want to say any more and nodded.

“I like that idea, getting lost in making something,” she said. Then she frowned. “My ex wouldn’t get all this.”

Luke watched her carefully. There was something raw in her voice, something she wasn’t quite saying. “Get what?”

“The value in things that take time,” she said. “Marcus was all about shortcuts. Quick fixes. Instant gratification. If something couldn’t be solved with his credit card or a phone call to ‘his guy,’ he just wasn’t interested.” She gave a small laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Like when we moved in together, I spent weeks researching how to redesign our flat. Collecting fabric samples, reading design books, creating this whole vision board. I’d never had a real home of my own before, you know? Then I went away for a weekend with a friend and came back to find Marcus had hired some interior designer to just…do it all. Everything white and chrome. Not a single thing I’d planned.” She twisted the fabric of her sweater—more accurately, Luke’s sweater—between her fingers. “When I got upset, he couldn’t understand why. Said he’d saved me ‘all that trouble’ and now we had a ‘proper grown-up place.’ ”

A surprising sense of protectiveness stirred in Luke. It bothered him more than it should, picturing Sophie excited about creating a home, only to have that dismissed by someone who should have cherished that care.

“Oh God, sorry,” Sophie said, looking embarrassed. “I just totally overshared there.”

Luke shrugged. “I don’t mind. How long were you together?” he asked, keeping his voice casual while he examined a piece of driftwood, though his attention was fixed entirely on Sophie’s answer.