Page 39 of Timber Ridge
The thought of Hailey, possibly without her dad, sends a shiver down my spine. Her mom's distant, Eliza's got her hands full, and her uncles ... they're great, but they're not Kane. It would upend everything. Could I step in? Should I? These questions churn in my mind.
I’ve got responsibilities, too—my job, this town, other kids who count on me. But as the minutes tick by, the temptation to hunker down next to the phone, to call someone, anyone, grows. Yet I force myself to stick to the routine, for Hailey’s sake, for normalcy.
With a heavy heart, I wake Hailey. She blinks up at me, her first words are a sleepy question. “Where's Daddy?”
The truth hangs heavy on my tongue, but she deserves more than a well-meaning fib. I kneel beside her bed, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. “Daddy's been delayed, sweetheart. There was a big storm, and sometimes that can happen. People are looking for him, and we hope to see him soon.”
Seeing Hailey's worried frown, my stomach clenches. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, vowing to protect and comfort her. The fear that Kane might not return sends a surge of determination through me—to be a steadfast presence for her, no matter what. Inside, I’m a storm of worry, but for Hailey, I'll be a shelter until he's home.
I maintain a calm exterior as I help Hailey get ready, but inside, my thoughts are a whirlpool of concern. Each time she looks up at me, I wonder if she's searching for the same reassurance I'm aching to give. “Will Daddy be home soon?” she asks again, and I can only nod, offering a hopeful, “Very soon,” even as my stomach knots tighter.
After breakfast, we step out into a world that seems unchanged, under a sky too blue for my inner turmoil. “Let's go feed the chickens,” I suggest, trying to usher in some normalcy. I've never done it before, but I say, “Hailey, can you show me how?” Her face lights up, eager to be the guide. As she leads the way, I follow, grateful for this moment of leadership that makes her feel big and important.
After the chickens are fed, Hailey scampers to gather her things for the day. I stand in the kitchen with bread and bologna. Should I make sandwiches for Kane? The act is like stitching normalcy and hope into the fabric of an uncertain day.
I decide yes, because hope is something you do, not only something you feel. Making his sandwich, placing it alongside Hailey's in the lunchbox, is my quiet act of faith. It’s a declaration to the universe. I expect him back. I’m waiting, we're waiting. It's normal, it's hopeful, it's necessary.
Hailey and I walk in silence to the ATV. I secure her into the passenger seat and climb in beside her. The engine rumbles to life. The path to the community center unfolds with familiarity, each turn a route I've navigated with Kane. What once seemed so vibrant and full of life is dull and lifeless.
As we ride, Hailey sits quietly, her usual chatter absent. She stares ahead, and I wonder if her young mind is trying to make sense of the uncertainty or if she's conjuring images like me. Images of her father, safe and sound, coming home.
We pull in front of the community center, and the ATV grinds to a halt. I help Hailey off, and her hand finds mine, a small act that speaks volumes.
At the door stands May. Seeing her there, out of place against the backdrop of the building instead of her usual spot in the diner, sends a jolt of fear through me. She's a fixture behind her counter, not here. This isn't right. My stomach drops, and I tighten my grip on Hailey's hand, readying myself for the kind of news that can tilt your world off its axis.
We approach, and I tell Hailey, “Why don't you start getting the art supplies out today? I'll be right in.”
Hailey walks inside and I turn to May. “What do you know that I don't?”
"They've received a signal on the beacon. Kane's vessel—it's way off course, further out than it should be."
I feel a jolt of panic. The beacon? Off course? My mind races with what this means and what comes next. The uncertainty is suffocating, but I'm comforted by the fact that he turned on the beacon. That has to mean something good.
“Is he okay?”
“Hard to know until they find him.”
Hearing the hesitation in May’s voice, I search her face for any glimmer of hope, any sign that this is just a precaution, that Kane is okay. I force calm into my voice, steady and sure, despite the tremor of fear that’s breaking through. “They'll find him,” I say quietly, almost in a whisper. “Kane knows that boat, knows the sea. He’ll hold on. He has to.” And I cling to that belief because the alternative is too scary to entertain.
“He’ll come home, Timber,” May says, but her voice lacks the conviction I need right now.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll wait, and hope.”
Taking a moment, I prepare myself for the day ahead, drawing on every ounce of strength to be the pillar Hailey and the other children need.
As I step inside, the silence of the center is a stark contrast to the tumultuous rush of my thoughts. I find Hailey in the art room, her small hands diligently setting out paints and brushes, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Good job, Hailey,” I say, my voice steady. Hailey’s smile is a small comfort, a reminder of innocence and trust. But then Tommy and Lucas arrive with their parents, and their parents’ masked concern adds weight to the facade I'm trying to maintain. The question in their eyes is as clear as the words they whisper to me. “Any news about Kane?”
I shake my head slightly, forcing out the facts. “No news yet, but they've picked up the beacon signal and are looking for him.” Repeating it, I'm clinging to the hope those words carry, trying to keep the worry from my voice for the sake of everyone listening. “They’ll find him.”
They nod, grateful for the reassurance, however fragile. They turn to their children, bending down to plant kisses and whisper encouragement before leaving for the day.
I'm left with the kids, their presence a balm to the helplessness that gnaws at me. They gravitate toward the art supplies Hailey has laid out.
“Let's make something special today,” I suggest, hoping to channel their energy into creativity and maybe, just maybe, keep my mind off the waiting, off the beacon, off the relentless sea, off Kane.
Chapter Sixteen