CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CODY DIDN’T NEED OR WANT A LOT OF TIME OFF. Time off in Nantucket meant time to think, and thinking was about the last thing he wanted to do.
But his schedule was two days on, two days off, with every other weekend free. Suddenly that felt like a lot of time to keep his mind occupied.
Now he stood in line at a new coffee shop on Washington Street. He figured if he only visited places that weren’t here twelve years ago, he was safe. He didn’t need his memories accosting him in public.
The place was busy. Maybe he should get out of the Coast Guard and open a coffee shop. Maybe the civilian life was the way to go.
But no. He’d joined to save people. To do something. And every day there was more to do. Every day, more people to save.
Five people lost. Six if he counted his dad. He always counted his dad.
Six he couldn’t save. How did he make amends for those?
“Hey, you’re that guy.” A woman sitting at a nearby table spoke loudly and, to Cody’s horror, pointed at him.
He glanced around as if to indicate he didn’t know what guy she was referring to.
She stood. “You’re the guy who rescued that woman from drowning the other day.”
Oh, so he was that guy. Heat rushed up the back of his neck and he wished he could turn invisible.
“You’re a hero,” she said with a wide grin.
“No, ma’am. Just doing my job.”
A young boy with blond curls at the back of his neck clung to the woman’s leg, arms wrapped around her waist. She knelt down and put an arm around him. “See that man, Carson? That man is a hero. He saved a woman’s life.”
The boy’s eyes widened, and for a brief moment Cody felt like Captain America. But then the onlookers in the little coffee shop began to look at him, and that feeling got awkward in a hurry.
He tried not to notice the chorus of “That was you?” and “Wow! A real-life hero!” but within seconds, everyone in the coffee shop stood and began applauding him.
Cody did his best to wave them off, reminding himself that these people were simply being kind and appreciative. Never mind that his “act of heroism” had done nothing to fill the void he’d been working so hard to fill since that awful night twelve years ago.
The young woman behind the counter flashed a grin. It was his turn to order, but all he wanted to do was walk out. He reminded himself of the reason he was on Nantucket—to make the Coast Guard look good. How would it look if he bolted in the middle of his impromptu appreciation applause?
He turned to the crowd, lifted a hand, and said, “Thank you,” though he doubted anyone could hear him above the ovation. Finally the clapping stopped. The talking continued, however, and Cody heard snippets of conversation—as the story of Louisa’s rescue reverberated throughout the small coffee shop.
“What would you like?” the woman asked.
He ordered a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin to go.
She poured the coffee, put the muffin in a bag, and handed them both to him in record time. “On the house for the hero.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said.
“Neither is saving lives, but you still do it.” The woman shook the bag in his direction, the paper making that crinkling noise.
He took it, along with the hot cup of coffee, and thanked her, then started toward the door. If he’d been wearing a hat, he would’ve tipped it at the other patrons, but instead, he kept his eyes on the exit in hopes of a clean getaway, trying to ignore the constant chatter.
He’d almost made it to the door when someone said his name.
Cody turned in the direction of the man’s voice and stopped moving. There, just inside the door to the Handlebar Café, was Warren Chambers, Louisa’s father and Cody’s dad’s best friend.
So much for not being reminded of all he’d lost.
Warren had aged. He was grayer now, with thinner hair, and there were deep wrinkles around his eyes. But mostly he looked the same. And here he stood, staring at Cody, looking a little like he’d seen a ghost. Cody likely wore the same expression.
He shifted the bag to his left hand and extended his right hand toward the older man. “Mr. Chambers. Good to see you.”
There was a tangible tension in the air—a reminder that things were broken between their two families—the kind only covered with the politeness of good manners. Cody didn’t know much about the rift between Louisa’s parents and his mom, but he knew his mom wanted nothing to do with them anymore.
At first he’d thought it was her grief reacting to Warren and JoEllen, like being with them was too painful, too great a reminder of what she’d lost. He’d assumed she would eventually come around—hoped for it, even. But all these years later, Marissa Boggs still seemed to have a chip on her shoulder where the Chambers family was concerned. This was why he hoped Louisa had the good sense not to invite her or his sister to Maggie’s party.
Whatever had happened between the Boggs and Chambers families, it wasn’t something any of them needed to relive anytime soon. And it wasn’t something a fish fry on the beach could cure—no matter how much Louisa wished it could.
“That happen everywhere you go?” Warren’s grip was firm as he shook Cody’s hand.
“I can honestly say that’s a first, sir.”
The man released Cody’s hand and straightened. “I gather you saved someone’s life here recently?”
Cody felt the confusion spread across his face. “Yeah, that’s right.” It had been over a week and Louisa still hadn’t told her parents what happened? That was so Louisa.
“A boater or . . . ?”
“Paddleboarder,” Cody said, feeling like he was lying simply by omitting the details.
“Life vest?”
Cody shook his head.
“When will people learn?” Warren crossed his arms over his chest. “Someone said you’re in the Coast Guard?”
“That’s right. Since I graduated.”
“Impressive. You’re stationed here?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Brant Point.”
Warren nodded. “Can’t think of a better place to live.”
Cody could think of a hundred better places to live, starting with Siberia.
“Good to see you, son.”
The word, a simple identifier, stopped Cody cold. Nobody called him son. Not anymore.
Warren clapped a hand on Cody’s shoulder and walked toward the line at the counter.
And Cody tried hard to swallow the lump at the back of his throat.
Louisa wouldn’t say that Maggie was a hoarder—at least not to her face—but the woman had crammed so much stuff into her cottage, it was a miracle she ever found her way to the front door.
Louisa had promised to help her sort through her things, and though neither of them said so, she knew it was because Maggie wanted to get her affairs in order before she became too sick to do so.
They could both see the end on the horizon. Louisa kept wishing that horizon further and further away.
“You hear back from anyone about my birthday?” Maggie asked, sorting through a box of National Geographic magazines that dated back to the seventies.