Page 59 of Widow’s Walk

“They are,” Amy said. “I haven’t seen much of them at all, though. This is the first time he’s sought me out at home.”

His tone cooled just a shade. “Good.” Then he caught himself, eyes glinting as he looked her over from head to foot. “You look fantastic.”

She laughed softly, and they started walking to his truck. “I put in a little effort.”

He opened her door with a lopsided grin. “Well, you sure do clean up nicely.”

Amy felt her pulse quicken again and let him help her up—always a bit of a climb with those running boards, especially in a dress and heels. Her skin tingled where his hand steadied her. The truck was made for worksites, all steel and practicality, yet it fit him perfectly.

Their conversation slipped into easy small talk as they drove into town. The bay shimmered ahead, and the lowering sun washed the water in gold. For the first time in weeks, she believed normal might be possible.

Even if the shadows weren’t ready to let her go.

The marina came alive right before sunset. Porch lights glowed over weathered wood, the clatter of dishes and low hum of conversation rose from the waterfront café that spilled onto the deck. A gull swooped low against the fading light, and somewhere down the dock, a guitar threaded through the chatter.

Inside, the restaurant was half locals, half early-season tourists, everyone glowing with that new warm evening energy of summer. Sully’s large hand touched the small of her back, guiding her forward with the gentlest pressure.

Sully seemed to know all the locals—more so than Amy. He nodded to the host, who waved them toward an intimate booth near the window. Hands clapped shoulders, names were exchanged, and a few jokes were traded across the room. Amy watched him with small, pleased amusement. This wasn’t the work-worn version of Sully, but the quietly joyful version she’d seen when his nieces were visiting. Here, among people, she watched him unfold like a tide.

Over a bottle of coastal red, their conversation took on a gentle rhythm. They lingered over appetizers—fresh mussels, warm bread, sharp white cheese. His hand brushed hers once, reaching for the same plate, and neither of them rushed to move it.

“So,” she said, swirling her glass, “Mac told me you went to art school.”

Sully leaned back with a wry smile on his lips. “You asking around about me?”

“A girl’s gotta know things,” she admitted. “I’m interested.”

He shook his head. “I’m not used to talking about myself.”

Amy leaned in earnestly. “Try? I really would like to know you better.”

He sighed, eyes drifting to the window where the sunset caught the water in shards. “Well, my parents didn’t like it. They thought it was a phase. As their only son, my father expected me to run the family business.” A shrug. “I tried proving them wrong. But rent and reality got expensive fast. I told myself I’d get back to it later. Then life stacked up—married and divorced young. My mother got sick, and I came back. Then, I guess it was easier, more practical, to do what was expected. Mostly, anyway.”

Amy tilted her head. “Practicality has a way of looking noble at first.”

“Yeah.” He frowned, shifting in his seat. “Or it’s just fear dressed up.” Seemingly to avoid saying more, he poured more wine. “Anyway, you know the rest of the story. You, though—you’re building something from scratch. That takes a special kind of guts. How’d you find the island in the first place?”

Amy smiled, tracing the rim of her glass. “After my parents died, it was just me and Kelsey. And then after David died, it was me, Kelsey, and Noah. We stuck together to build a life. I got on the ferry one day, looking for something new. The island felt… safe. Felt like home.” Her voice dropped. “And you know the rest of that story.”

He nodded. “People sometimes say a place recognizes your weight before you do.”

Silence settled lightly between them—comfortable and deep. Outside, a wave slapped softly under the pilings.

“Rooted,” she said finally. “We’re trying to find our own way in the world.”

He grinned, that small dimple appearing. “And doing a questionable job of it.”

She laughed, and it loosened the knot of stress in her chest. “Well, you know my life’s work,” she joked. “But I still want to see your paintings one day.”

His eyebrow arched. “That’s usually my line—to get a woman back to my place.”

Amy nearly choked on her wine. “So I walked straight into that one?”

“Didn’t even have to set it up.”

“Smooth,” she said.

Their meals arrived then—her baked cod fragrant with lemon and herbs, his prime rib special still steaming. Amy watched him as they ate, marveling at his attempts to be open with her. It was a far cry from the Sully she’d worked beside.