Chapter 10 - The Anchor and the SeaThree weeks later, the sun over Port Haven was warm, bright, and smelled of salt, fried clams, and new beginnings.
The fish market was bustling again. Mr. Daley at stall nine was happily gutting cod, tourists were lining up for paper cups of chowder, and the gulls were wheeling overhead, diving greedily for french fries tossed from the boardwalk.
Mara Pruitt stood in the middle of the wet planks, wearing a brand-new green sweater that actually fit her properly, her brown braid neatly tied with a crisp blue ribbon. Her smudged glasses had been replaced with a clean, shiny new pair.
She stood with one hand on her hip, pointing directly at a wooden bench near the bait shop where a tall man in a dark wool coat was sitting, holding a small paper bag of fries.
"You're doing it wrong," Mara announced, walking over with the authoritative stride of a magistrate.
Roman Bellamy looked up, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face—a smile that hadn't existed in nine years.
"Oh?" Roman asked, raising an eyebrow. "And how should I be throwing them, Professor?"
"You have to throw them up, not sideways," Mara instructed, sitting down beside him on the bench and snatching a french fry from the bag. "If you throw them sideways, the gulls hit the dock railings and get confused. My grandmother says you have to give them a clear flight path."
"Your grandmother is a very wise woman," Roman agreed.
Down the block, Evelyn Pruitt stood in the doorway of her newly renovated cottage—the roof patched, the porch painted fresh white, and a brand-new wooden door swinging effortlessly on brass hinges. She watched the two of them through her kitchen window, twisting the thin gold bracelet on her wrist—the one with the two charms: an anchor, and a small, shining letter M.
She smiled softly, pressed her hands against her apron, and turned back to the stove to put the kettle on.
Roman looked out at the gray Atlantic, watching the whitecaps roll endlessly toward the horizon. The weight that had crushed his chest for a decade was gone, replaced by the warm, steady rhythm of a little girl swinging her legs beside him, arguing passionately about the aerodynamic habits of Maine seagulls.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against a small, smooth piece of sea-glass Mara had found on the beach that morning.
May you like
He wasn't a ghost anymore.
He was home.
