Page 34 of Timber Ridge
“How will you get home?”
“I'll ask Rhys to drive me, but don't think you have to keep Hailey. I can get one of my brothers to step up. I don't want to take advantage of your kindness. It’s just that I'm trying to get this new boat as soon as possible.”
His words tumble out in a quick succession, an abrupt detour from the ease of our earlier conversation. The mention of his brothers stepping in implies a retreat, a polite but clear boundary being drawn. The change is stark, leaving me to grapple with a whirlwind of questions. Does he regret extending the offer, or is he trying to shield me from an imposition?
But seeing how badly he needs the new boat, I'm happy to help. I know what it's like to want things that are out of reach, and if I can help him get to his goal faster, that would be a good thing.
“Sure, I can do that.” It’s good to help, to be part of his journey toward a dream.
His eyes meet mine. “Thank you,” he says. That simple exchange, the smiles we share, says everything about the trust and friendship growing between us. “I don't think Aurora has that many trips left in her.”
“Aurora? How did your boat get that name?”
“She used to be my grandfather's, and he named her after the Borealis.”
“And you kept the name?”
“It's bad luck to rename a boat. Mine is bad enough already that I don't need to borrow any more trouble,” he says with a hint of a smirk, yet his tone is playful and edged with a touch of mock seriousness.
I let out a small laugh, understanding the jest behind his words. “So, superstitions are the sea captain's gospel now?” I tease back, playing along. It's clear he's not wholly serious, using humor as a way to lighten the conversation about what seems to be a run of tough luck.
I think about the vessels lined up at the docks, each with a woman's name proudly displayed on their sterns. It's a longstanding nautical tradition, but I wonder about the emotional toll of such a choice. What happens when the person for whom the boat is named departs or passes away? To me, it seems such a name might transform the boat into a floating memorial, a constant echo of someone absent, more a shadow than a tribute.
“What will you name the new boat. As its first captain, you get that honor, correct?”
“I do and it will be Seas the Day”
“I like that,” I say, and it's the truth. It speaks of living in the present, of adventure and capturing opportunities. Perhaps, in this small act of naming, he's also setting a course for the future, one that isn't overshadowed by what or who is no longer with us. I appreciate the name, not for its playfulness but for the freedom it signifies.
“Me too. It embodies everything I feel when I climb aboard my troller.”
“Then seize the day so you can get your new boat. Don't worry about being late. I'll feed Hailey and give her a bath.”
Hailey's head pops up, eyes filled with hopeful anticipation. “Can we have a bubble bath?” she asks, her voice pitching high with excitement.
I nod, “Of course, bubbles it is.”
Kane observes the exchange. He knows Hailey’s in good hands, and there's a mutual understanding between us. I’d care for Hailey like she is mine.
“That would be wonderful, but I don't want to take advantage.”
“Neither do I, so it would bring me great pleasure to help. I know having me staying in your home wasn't part of the deal.”
“True, but if I'm being honest, I like having you here.”
That smile of his, it’s more than polite. It’s as if he’s happy not for the help, but for the company—my company. And that thought alone fills me with joy.
“You do?”
“Yes, it's a big house, and while I love being with Noodle,” he reaches over and bops Hailey's nose, drawing a giggle of delight from her, “sharing conversation and enjoying a good glass of wine with another grown-up? That's the thing that hits the spot after a day out at sea.”
His words resonate with me, and the cold uncertainty of being an unwelcome guest is replaced by a sense of belonging. I realize now that my presence is not merely tolerated but appreciated—perhaps even needed.
Kane drizzles the warm syrup over his pancakes. “This was very nice of you. I thought it would be a cereal kind of day, but this is so much better.” Kane takes a bite of the pancakes and closes his eyes. A moment of quiet fills the room, and I hold my breath, waiting. When he speaks, his voice has a soft edge to it. “They taste like my mom's. Did you use the mix in the cupboard?”
The question takes me by surprise, and it takes a moment for me to respond. His compliment, filled with nostalgic kindness, washes over me, and a swell of unexpected happiness rises within me.
“No.” I shake my head. “My mother would have reached out from wherever she was and given me a good pop on the head if I did. She was a true believer in making things from scratch. She always told me that boxed food lacks the love it takes to make it good.”