Page 38 of Timber Ridge
“Let's have ice cream and cookies,” she says.
I chuckle and lead the way to the house. “Let's start with something warm—grilled cheese and tomato soup—and then we'll talk about ice cream.”
Her face falls but recovers fast. “Okay, and a movie night?”
Stepping into the kitchen, I'm hit with a sense of gratitude. The warm glow of the lights, the hum of the refrigerator, and the certainty of the gas flame are all luxuries that are comforting tonight. “That's a deal.”
As I cook, there's a cozy normalcy to it all, a stark contrast to the cabin's solitude. I think about Kane coming home, how he'll step through the door with stories etched by the sea—tales of close calls with the waves or the thrill of the catch.
The soup bubbles away and the sandwiches crisp up nicely, but there's a knot forming in my stomach with each passing minute. Hailey's voice is a bright thread through the growing dusk, yet my eyes keep looking at the clock. It's later than I expected.
At first, I tell myself when he said he'd be home “late,” the definition of “late” was loose, especially for a fisherman. But as the evening wears on, “late” starts to seem more and more like “too late.” A chill seeps in, not from the evening air, but from the worry that's pooling inside me. Then again, I volunteered to feed Hailey and bathe her. Somehow, I must have expected he’d miss dinner and bedtime.
I consider calling Eliza, but I dismiss the thought. What would I say? That I'm worried because he's not back at the time I arbitrarily decided was “late?” I'd sound foolish, paranoid.
We sit down to eat, and the savory scent of melted cheese mingles with my rising concern. Hailey is blissfully unaware, her spirits as high as her laughter, but with each chime of the clock, I glance toward the window, half-expecting to see Kane's silhouette.
Post-meal, we set the plates and used soup bowls in the sink. “Next up is movie time.”
Hailey nods enthusiastically, and for a moment, I let her excitement push away the cold knot of worry in my stomach. We settle on the couch, the opening credits casting a soft light in the dim room, and for the length of the film, I immerse myself in the adventure, sharing laughs and glances with Hailey.
Yet, even as we watch Willy Wonka, a part of my mind ticks away with the clock on the wall. I hoped Kane would join us, laughing at the silly parts. But the space beside me remains empty.
Movie time shifts to bath time. I run the water, making sure it's just the right temperature, and Hailey splashes among the bubbles. Her carefree joy is a stark contrast to my growing unease. The sound of wind against the house prompts me to check the window, and the dark outside offers no comfort.
I tuck Hailey in, her room bathed in the pale blue night light she can't sleep without. “Dream of ice cream castles,” I say.
“And chocolate rivers,” she adds, already half in dreamland.
Downstairs, the silence presses in. I curl into the couch, drawing the blanket tighter around me, trying to recall May's words. “He's a seasoned fisherman.”
But Aurora and her troublesome engine are haunting me. Kane has been late before, but never this late. I have never been on the troller myself, but from Kane's frustrated updates, I know it has seen better days. He's skilled, no doubt, but even the most experienced sailor can't always predict the sea's whims.
Another gust of wind lashes the house, more ferocious than the last. Instinctively, I rise and peer through the window, searching for any sign in the pitch-black night. The clock ticks on, a relentless reminder that time—and perhaps the sea—waits for no one.
It's ten o'clock now. The void of Kane's absence fills the room like a tangible presence, and I can't sit idle any longer.
With a trembling hand, I reach for the phone, and dial Eliza's number, hating that I might disturb her rest, especially now, with a newborn in the house. The line clicks, and after a couple of rings, a groggy voice answers.
“Hello?” The man’s voice is thick with sleep.
“Who's this?” I ask.
“I'm Matt, who's this?”
“It's Timber, the teacher covering Eliza's summer program,” I begin, my voice betraying my worry. “I'm sorry to call so late, but it's about Kane—he hasn't come back, and the storm...”
Matt's sleepiness vanishes, replaced by a sharpened tone. “Kane's still out? That's not like him. He knows better than to risk the storm. That damn boat.”
His words confirm my fears, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the night's chill. The room spins slightly, and I brace against the kitchen counter, my concern for him growing into a knot that threatens to choke me.
“I'll alert the Hollisters. We'll start looking for Kane now. Don't worry, Timber, we'll find him,” Matt assures me, but the edge in his voice is unmistakable. This is serious.
I hang up the phone. The taste of metal fills my mouth, the early signs of panic that I try to swallow down. Despite the complexity of our attraction, the idea of Kane's absence becoming permanent is unbearable.
With Matt's assurance that they will search, there's nothing I can do but wait.
Throughout the night, I am stationed on the living room couch. Every creak and whisper of the house calls me to the window, searching for signs of his arrival. But as the first light of dawn washes the room in a pale glow, the reality that Kane is still out there, somewhere, hardens like ice in my stomach.