Page 7 of The One that Got Away

Oliver felt the tremble in Lisa's touch, a subtle yet profound assurance anchoring him more securely than any harbor could. In that contact, the electricity of unspoken words danced between them—a dance of trust, shared scars, and love that refused to be undone by the tempests of life.

Their joined hands became the focal point in the room, a symbol of unity that faced down the specter of their complicated past. Oliver's eyes met Lisa's, finding there not just forgiveness but a recognition of their journey, a testament to the love that had grown, weathered, and blossomed in the fertile soil of their togetherness.

And so, they remained with his hand in hers, bonded by an understanding deeper than the ocean he longed for, stronger than the finest wood he had ever shaped.

Ava caught the silent exchange between Oliver and Lisa, the entwining of hands that spoke volumes in the quiet room. She exhaled slowly, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, as the realization settled over her like the softest shroud. Her gaze, once locked onto Oliver with a fierce hope, softened at its edges, now tinged with the gentle hue of resignation.

"Daniel needs stability," she murmured, more to herself than to the couple before her. Her voice, laced with the weight of her decision, filled the space between them—a space that had grown vast and insurmountable. With each word Ava spoke, she weaved the fabric of her son's future, choosing threads of security and happiness over the tangled yarns of what-ifs and might-have-beens.

She looked down at Daniel, his innocent eyes wide, reflecting the flickering candlelight on the dining table. His small hand found hers, his trust in her as boundless as the ocean.

It was for this boy, this beautiful culmination of her past love and present strength, that she would lay down her own heartache.

"Oliver," Ava finally said, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her, "I want what's best for him. I want him to get to know you, his dad. Can we do that?"

At that moment, she was the epitome of maternal protection, her resolve as unyielding as the wood beneath Oliver's skilled hands—wood that could weather any storm when treated with care and purpose.

The room fell into a tense silence, heavy with the gravity of their intertwined lives. Lisa's hand remained steadfast in Oliver's, their fingers a testament to enduring love amidst the tempest of emotions that threatened to engulf them all.

Oliver's eyes roved from Lisa to Ava, and the internal struggle was clear on his face. Each thought, each fleeting emotion, etched deeper lines into his visage—the charming smile he once wore with ease was now a distant memory. He grappled with the pull of the past and the anchor of his present, his heart torn by the swell of conflicting tides.

With her eyes a well of empathy, Lisa watched the scene unfold, her heart thrumming with a cocktail of emotions—love, fear, and determination. The tremble in her touch had steadied, replaced by a resolve as unshakeable as the foundations of the home they had built together.

“Of course you can,” Lisa answered for him. “The boy needs his father. You should be that to him.”

Chapter Four

Lisa Montgomery sat at the desk, a fortress of paperwork and bills hemming her in on all sides. Her fingers traced the edges of an envelope, the motion mechanical, as if she could divine its contents through touch alone. With each crease and crumple under her fingertips, Lisa's brow furrowed deeper, a physical testament to the tumult of worry gnawing at her insides. No matter which way she spun them, the numbers still didn't add up, and a shiver of dread danced down her spine.

"Oliver," she whispered to the empty room, his name tasting like a plea on her lips. Their love was a lighthouse in the storm, but even lighthouses could falter against relentless waves. Could their relationship withstand the mounting pressures, or would it crumble like sandcastles to the tide? The numbers weren’t good; they were actually very, very bad. And Oliver had gone fishing for the day on the river. It was Sunday, and the café was closed.

The front door creaked open, slicing through the silence. Sunlight poured into the room like liquid gold, heralding the arrival of Maggie Martin. Her curly red hair caught the light, setting it ablaze with fiery hues that defied the gloom of Lisa's thoughts. Maggie's smile was a warm blanket, wrapping around Lisa without a single word spoken.

"Hey there, stranger," Maggie chimed, her voice carrying the comforting familiarity of home. She closed the door behind her, the soft click resounding like a promise: You're not alone.

Lisa looked up, attempting to mask her turmoil with a thin veneer of composure. But Maggie knew her too well and saw right through the façade as easily as glass. There was no hiding from Maggie Martin, a truth Lisa found both terrifying and utterly heartwarming.

"Hey, Maggie," Lisa replied, her voice a threadbare quilt, warmth fraying at the edges. "Just trying to make sense of all this." She gestured limply at the financial quagmire spread out before her, each document a wave threatening to pull her under.

Maggie walked over, her every step exuding the quiet confidence of a woman who had weathered her own storms. She pulled out a chair, the scrape against the floor a grounding note amidst the cacophony of Lisa's fears.

"Mind if I take a look?" Maggie asked, the offer hanging between them like a lifeline. Her eyes, bright with empathy and resolve, locked onto Lisa's, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed a little less crushing.

Maggie settled into the chair beside Lisa, their shoulders nearly touching in the cramped space.

"Talk to me," Maggie urged gently, her hand finding its way to Lisa's arm, a tactile whisper of support. Her fingers were warm, a subtle anchor in the storm of Lisa's emotions.

Lisa turned to face her, and the deep furrows in her brow softened just slightly. "It's like I'm caught in this riptide, Maggie," she confessed, her gaze flickering down to where Maggie's hand lay reassuring against her skin. "And every time I think I'm swimming back to shore, something pulls me right back out again."

Maggie's eyes reflected a pool of understanding, her head tilting in a silent nudge for Lisa to continue. She had been there before, treading water in life's tempests, and that shared history of hardship wove the tight bond between them.

"I remember a few years ago when the tavern nearly went under," Maggie began, her voice steady despite the tremor of past fears. "I was so close to giving up and letting it all go. But I learned something important—waves keep coming, but you learn how to ride them. You're one of the strongest swimmers I know, Lisa."

A small, tentative smile played at the edges of Lisa's lips, the first genuine sign of warmth since Maggie had entered. Hearing someone else's story of survival was visceral comfort, a reminder that neither of them was navigating these waters alone.

"I’m sure your strength got you through then, Mags," Lisa murmured, leaning in closer now, a silent acknowledgment of the bond they shared. "But what if my strength isn't enough?"

"Then you lean on mine," Maggie said without hesitation, her grip tightening ever so slightly, a lifeline cast in the shape of friendship. "You lean on Oliver's, too. We're a lighthouse collective here, each of us beaming out to guide the others home. Things will change. I’m sure they will. Business will pick up, and soon, you’ll see the numbers change. It’s always tough in the beginning. That’s why so few people start up their own business. If it were easy, everyone would do it."

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