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Eleanor Thompson stepped forward first, her oxygen concentrator slung over her shoulder. “Happy birthday, you old scoundrel,” she said, patting his cheek affectionately.

A line quickly formed. Each guest wanted to personally greet the guest of honor. Mac slipped beside Kelsey as they watched Truman soak in the attention, laughing and clasping hands with each well-wisher.

“You did good,” she said softly. “Look how happy he is.”

“We did good,” Mac corrected, his hand briefly touching the small of her back. “Couldn’t have pulled it off without you.”

The evening flowed beautifully. The caterers kept glasses filled and platters circulating. Musicians played in the corner—a local trio whose gentle jazz created the perfect backdrop for conversation. Truman held court from a comfortable chair near the fireplace, receiving guests and telling stories that grew more colorful with each glass of whiskey.

Kelsey found herself drawn into conversations with islanders she rarely saw outside the clinic, discovering new facets of the community she’d come to love. Throughout the evening, she was aware of Mac circulating among the guests, the perfect host, but his eyes frequently found hers across the room.

Around nine, Mac appeared at her elbow as she chatted with Ruth. “Almost time for fireworks,” he murmured. “Would you mind helping me get everyone outside?”

Together, they guided the partygoers onto Mac’s expansive deck and the lawn beyond, where blankets had been spread and chairs arranged facing the cove. Truman was given a place of honor in the center, a plush chair with a clear view of the water.

Mac stood behind his grandfather, one hand resting on the old man’s shoulder. “If I could have everyone’s attention,” he called, voice carrying across the gathered crowd.

The conversations quieted as all eyes turned to him.

“First, thank you all for coming tonight. It means the world to my grandfather—and to me—to see how many lives he’s touched.” Mac’s voice carried emotion Kelsey rarely heard from him. “For those who don’t know, my grandfather started with nothing but determination and a beat-up fishing boat. He built a shipping empire, yes, but more importantly, he built relationships. He taught me that success isn’t measured by what you have, but by what you give.”

Truman reached up to pat Mac’s hand, visibly moved.

“Grandad, you’ve given me everything—a home, a purpose, a moral compass that sometimes I’ve ignored but never forgotten.” Light laughter rippled through the crowd. “Tonight is our small way of saying thank you for ninety-five remarkable years. We love you.”

Applause broke out, along with a few whistles. Truman waved them off, but his eyes glistened.

“Now,” Mac continued, checking his watch, “if you’ll direct your attention to the cove, we have one more surprise.”

The first firework shot into the sky, exploding in a shower of gold that reflected off the dark water. More followed—red, blue, green—painting the night with ephemeral fire. The crowd oohed and aahed as the display grew more elaborate.

Kelsey found herself drifting to the edge of the deck, slightly removed from the crush of people. The cool evening air carried the scent of salt and gunpowder, an oddly compelling mixture.

She felt rather than saw Mac approach until his presence was warm beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured, eyes on the sky.

“Yes,” he answered, but when she glanced over, he was fixated on her, not the fireworks.

The next explosion illuminated his face—strong jawline, those intense blue eyes. The moment stretched between them, charged with everything they hadn’t said over the past days.

“Kelsey,” he began. His voice was barely audible over the whistling rockets. “I—”

His hand found hers in the darkness between them, fingers intertwining. Another burst of light painted them in momentary gold, then blue, then red.

The fireworks reached their crescendo, multiple shells exploding simultaneously in a kaleidoscope of color. In that brilliant moment, Mac turned to her fully, and his free hand came up to cup her cheek.

“May I?” he whispered.

Her answer was to rise onto her toes to meet him halfway. It was the ghost of a kiss, only the few nearest atoms of their lips brushing in the air between them that tasted like whiskey and promise. Before their kiss could deepen, a particularly spectacular burst illuminated them fully, followed by a chorus of cheers and whistles that Kelsey initially attributed to the fireworks. Mac’s arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her closer.

Then she registered Truman’s distinctive voice rising above the others: “That’s my boy!”

They broke apart to find many of the party guests applauding their way, with good-natured enthusiasm. Truman was beaming from his chair and raised his whiskey glass in salute.

Kelsey felt heat flood her cheeks, but Mac merely laughed and kept his arm firmly around her waist as he raised his free hand in acknowledgment of the crowd’s approval.

“Well,” she murmured, “small towns…”

Mac smiled down at her, visible even in the dim light between fireworks. “Any regrets?”