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“She was.” Mac stood abruptly and stalked back to the window. “Anyway, it’s handled now. Registration, insurance paid, everything transferred to her name.”

“Mmm.” Truman sipped his tea. “You know, she comes by on Mondays. Usually around ten.”

“Grandad...”

“Just saying. If you wanted to check on your investment, make sure she likes the car.”

Mac watched a pair of gulls wheeling over the bay, their cries carrying faintly through the glass. Around the bend out of view floated the Nereid, with promises of escape and solitude in her sleek lines.

“More tea?” Truman asked innocently.

“You’re impossible.” But Mac found himself checking his watch, noting it was only nine thirty.

“Got anything better to do today?”

He smiled at the old man. The only family he had left in the world. And Mac saw what he hadn’t before—the dark circles beneath Truman’s eyes, the hollows in his cheeks that hadn’t been there a few months ago. He wondered if Truman was being truthful this time about his health.

And then he wondered if he could bear it.

Mac’s footsteps crunched on the gravel path leading from his grandfather’s cottage.

His grandfather’s wheezing echoed with every step. How had he missed the changes? The tremor in those once-steady hands, the way he’d needed three tries to stand from his chair. Mac pulled out his phone, scrolling to his calendar. When was the last time he’d actually attended one of his grandfather’s medical appointments?

Four years as his durable medical power of attorney, and he’d been letting his assistant handle all the medication changes and other issues. He’d been available for any emergencies of course, living mostly on the same island, same estate. But his software business kept him away for most of it. It was easier that way. Safer. Like everything else in his life since Marlene.

The memory hit without warning, Marlene’s laugh as she’d told him about the baby, her hand pressed to her still-flat stomach. “A late September baby,” she’d said. “Perfect timing for leaf-peeping.” They had both been so young and in love, with the world and their lives in front of them.

They’d never made it to September.

Mac leaned against a weathered fence post, forcing air into his lungs. Ten years, and sometimes the grief still felt fresh as yesterday. His grandfather was right. The boat was an escape. Another way to run from people and empty houses with unending quiet days and nights. Exactly what he needed it to be.

He walked toward his Range Rover keys heavy in his hand. His grandfather’s words echoing. I’d like to see you settled, happy again, before I go.

It was a tall request for someone like him. What he wanted from humanity was for it to leave him alone.

The morning sun caught the brass numbers on his grandfather’s mailbox. It was the same address that had welcomed his grandparents when they were first married and full of dreams.

They could afford to live anywhere they wanted, and have staff waiting on them day and night, but it was here in their humble cottage where his grandmother had spent her final days, where his grandfather now insisted on staying until the end. It had been here where they raised their daughter, his mother, and built their business empire.

His grandmother had been a maid at the large mansion that graced the island, now sitting empty as the center stone for both their houses and a few other cottages. He didn’t know the full story, but he knew his grandfather had purchased the whole estate for his grandmother. Since then, the mansion had stood empty. Maintained, and preserved. Just unused.

All Mac knew was this was how his grandmother had wanted it. And so it was.

Mac slid behind the wheel. I’d like to see you settled, happy again, before I go.

Mac stood at the water’s edge, the gentle April waves licking at his boots. The sun had burned off the morning’s fog, but a stubborn chill lingered in the air, an undercurrent of cold that the sunlight couldn’t quite reach. Even as the sky promised summer, the Atlantic’s restless surface told a story of waiting, of old wounds slow to heal. He drew his jacket tighter. The wind pressed salt and loneliness against his skin, as if the island itself echoed the hollow places inside him, the ones he kept hidden even from himself.

Out here, there was nothing to demand a smile, or an answer, or a promise he couldn’t keep. He preferred it that way. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He scanned the empty, silent cove. He’d spent hours doing general chores around his house and tending to his new boat, but his mind kept drifting back to breakfast with his grandfather. Mrs. Anderson, the head of the board of directors for the community clinic, had also called to talk again about her suggestions to honor his grandfather. She even wanted Mac to give a speech. Mac had put her off for months. But after the conversation today with Truman, maybe it was time to throw him a party, let him know how much he was appreciated.

The memory of his parents’ swift decline surfaced. He’d been twenty-three, fresh out of business school, when cancer took them both. His mother first, then his father following barely three months later, as if unable to exist in a world without her. Before Marlene, before the baby, before everything fell apart.

But his grandfather had been there, steady as the lighthouse beam that now flashed its warning from the point. Truman Costigan hadn’t just given him a job at Truman Transport—he’d insisted Mac learn every aspect of the business. “Can’t lead men whose work you don’t understand,” he’d say, sending Mac out on routes with the drivers, having him load trucks, teaching him to read both balance sheets and people.

It was from that experience in learning the business that Mac later developed a specialized software—a groundbreaking tool for shipping and transport companies that allowed them to manage inventory in every warehouse they owned as well as those abroad. It helped companies increase their efficiency and shipping times, beating their competitors by miles in reliability and costs. He later sold the software, making him rich beyond his wildest dreams.

Wandering down to the little beach, Mac picked up a piece of driftwood, turning it over in his hands. His own company had been his life for so long. Work had kept him busy and occupied his mind. Some days he still questioned selling it, even though the offer had been too good to refuse. His grandfather had understood, even supported the decision. “Money’s just paper, boy. It’s what you do with your time that matters.”