Page 14 of Love Takes A Tumble
She nodded, and they fell into step together, Harrison matching his pace to her slower one. The sounds of conversation and music faded behind them as they moved toward the shore, close enough that the waves nearly reached their feet before retreating.
"What do you want to know?" he asked.
"Everything." She glanced at him, then away. "Or maybe how it felt. Why you did it for so long."
They reached a large piece of driftwood, bleached silver by sun and salt, shaped almost like a bench. Audrey lowered herself onto it with careful movements, and Harrison settled beside her, leaving respectful space between them.
"I always knew," he said finally. "Even as a kid. While other boys wanted to be astronauts or baseball players, I knew I'd be a firefighter. My uncle was one. I saw how people looked at him, respected him. How he made a difference."
"Was it what you expected? Once you started?"
Harrison leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yes and no. The physical challenges, the training was what I expected. But the feeling..." He paused, searching for words. "Imagine being absolutely certain of your purpose. Knowing exactly why you're here and what you're meant to do. That's what it felt like on good days."
"And on bad days?" Audrey's voice was soft, her attention fully on him now.
"On bad days, you question everything. Whether you're good enough, fast enough, strong enough." His voice dropped. "Whether you deserve to come home when someone else didn't."
The admission hung between them in the salt-laden air. Harrison couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken so openly about the weight he'd carried, the burden of responsibility that had shaped his entire adult life.
"That's why your character needs a lighthouse," he said, turning to face her. "After running toward fires for years, he needs a different kind of purpose. One where he's still helping, still guiding others to safety, but from a distance. Protected. Alone."
Audrey's eyes widened slightly. "Yes," she whispered. "That's exactly it."
Something shifted between them, a door opening that had been merely cracked before. They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the waves, the distant music from the bonfire.
"I took care of my mother for twenty-eight years," Audrey said suddenly. "After my father left, it was just us. And then she got sick. Not all at once, but gradually. The kind of illness that steals a person piece by piece."
Harrison remained silent, recognizing the rare gift of her confidence.
"I became a librarian because it was practical. Steady hours, close to home. I told myself it was temporary, just until she got better. But she never did." Her fingers twisted in her lap. "By the time she died last year, I'd spent so long being her caretaker that I didn't know who I was without that role."
"So you came here," Harrison said gently. "To find out."
"To write the book I'd been planning for decades. To do something for myself, finally." She gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "And I tripped over a piece of driftwood not unlike this one."
"Lucky driftwood," Harrison said, surprising a genuine smile from her.
The conversation flowed more easily after that, moving from her novel to his daughter in California, to the lighthouse that had drawn them both to this island. The moon climbed higher, casting silver light across the water, but neither made a move to return to the bonfire or the inn.
"Why did you really come to the island?" Audrey asked eventually, the question hanging in the night air between them.
Harrison was quiet for a long moment. "My heart," he said finally. "A minor episode, they called it. Enough to end my career, not enough to really slow me down. But suddenly everything I'd built my life around was gone." He looked out at the distant lighthouse. "I didn't know who I was anymore."
"And now?" Her voice was soft, cautious.
"Now..." He turned to face her, finding her eyes in the moonlight. "Now I'm starting to think maybe there's more to me than just what I did for a living. Maybe there's a second act I hadn't planned on."
Something vulnerable and hopeful passed between them, a current strong enough that Harrison could almost feel it physically. Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers finding hers on the driftwood between them. To his surprise and relief, she didn't pull away.
"I should probably get back," she said after a long moment, though she made no move to rise. "My ankle?—"
"Of course." Harrison stood, offering his hand. "Let me walk you? No heroics, no carrying. Just company."
Audrey looked at his outstretched hand, then up at his face. Whatever she saw there must have reassured her, because she took his hand and allowed him to help her to her feet.
"I'd like that," she said simply.
They walked slowly back toward the inn, their conversation continuing in comfortable tones. The bonfire was still going strong, but they skirted its edges with small waves to the others, following the shell-lined path that led up to the porch. The night air had cooled enough that the warmth of the inn beckoned invitingly through the windows.
