Chapter 3 — Paths Crossed

Jake

The morning air was crisp, carrying the sharp tang of salt from the ocean and the earthy scent of dew clinging to the grass. Jake Miller walked the narrow path toward the guesthouse, the sturdy box in his hands balanced carefully. Inside were essentials he’d gathered the night before: fresh towels, a roll of paper towels, some cleaning supplies, and a jar of Emma’s favorite blueberry preserves. As he adjusted his grip, the jar shifted slightly, and he felt a flicker of unease—he hadn’t meant to include that. He should’ve brought something simpler, something less personal. It wasn’t for her, not really—just something spare from the pantry. Yet the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of his mind like a splinter too deep to dislodge.

The guesthouse emerged through the veil of pine trees, its weathered exterior faintly softened by the golden cast of morning light. Wildflowers crouched close to its base, their bright petals a stark contrast to the peeling paint and sagging roof. Jake paused at the clearing’s edge, shifting the box in his hands as a knot of doubt tightened in his chest. He hadn’t set foot in the guesthouse since cleaning it for Sophie’s arrival. Hours spent scrubbing counters and sweeping floors had left him dusty and sore, though not with the satisfaction that usually came from hard work. It had been for Liam, he told himself—or maybe for Emma, whose world Liam had so often helped steady after Sarah’s death. But standing here now, he wondered whether he’d agreed too quickly, caught off guard by the weight of obligation and the unspoken promise of their friendship.

He climbed the shallow steps to the door, each one creaking faintly beneath his boots. The box shifted again in his arms, and he raised one hand to knock, the sound dull and hesitant against the weathered wood. A moment later, the door eased open, and Sophie stood in the frame. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a casual, slightly uneven bun, with loose strands curling around her face in the damp air. She wore a faded sweater, the sleeves rolled up to reveal hands speckled with charcoal smudges, and her green eyes flicked from the box in his arms to his face, searching for something beyond the surface.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but cautious, as though unsure what to expect from him.

“Morning,” Jake replied, his tone clipped but not unkind. He adjusted his hold on the box and extended it toward her. “Thought you might need a few things.”

Sophie stepped aside, the faintest hint of surprise crossing her face as she motioned toward the small kitchen counter. “Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.”

Jake entered, setting the box down on the counter with deliberate care. Around him, the space felt transformed. The dust and cobwebs he’d battled were gone, replaced by the faint scent of lavender and lemon cleaner. The small room showed signs of life—Sophie’s life: a woven blanket draped over the sagging couch, an open sketchbook on the coffee table surrounded by pencils scattered from a tin can. On the mantle, a painting of a lighthouse caught his eye, its stormy seascape vivid and arresting. The sight tugged at something deep within him—something old, something unresolved.

Sophie began unpacking the box, her movements precise yet unhurried. When she reached the jar of blueberry preserves, she paused, a smile softening her features. Holding it up to the light, she said, “Blueberries. I haven’t had homemade preserves in… forever.”

“My daughter’s favorite,” Jake said, his hands sliding into his jeans pockets. The words came out heavier than intended, as though they carried too much meaning for something so simple. He glanced away, unsure whether it was an explanation or an apology.

“I’ll have to thank her,” Sophie said, her voice warm but tentative. She set the jar down carefully, as though it were something worth treasuring.

The mention of Emma brought a flicker of warmth to Jake’s face, though he kept it carefully guarded. “She’s curious about you,” he admitted, his tone almost begrudging. “Got a lot of questions.”

Sophie chuckled softly, her laughter light but genuine. “Kids are good at that, aren’t they? Asking the things adults are too scared to say out loud.”

Jake’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile, though the humor in her words stung more than he expected. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter. “They are.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the words they’d exchanged. Sophie fidgeted with the cuff of her sweater, her earlier ease replaced by something more uncertain. “I hope I’m not… intruding,” she said finally, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I know this can’t be easy—having someone you barely know staying so close. But I really do appreciate it. Liam didn’t exactly give me much of a choice, and I—well, I’m trying. To make this work.”

Jake studied her for a moment, the vulnerability in her voice breaking through some of the walls he’d instinctively raised. He thought of Liam, of the quiet urgency in his voice when he’d asked for this favor. And he thought of Emma, whose laughter seemed louder these days, though always tinged with a faint echo of the past.

“You’re not intruding,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “This place—it’s been empty too long. Could use someone to give it life again.” His gaze drifted back to the lighthouse painting on the mantle, the stormy seas around it swirling with quiet intensity. “Looks like you’ve already started.”

Sophie glanced at the painting, then back at Jake, her green eyes softening. For a moment, the air between them felt different—warmer, less fraught. But Jake stepped back, breaking the spell before it could deepen.

“I should get back to the shop,” he said, his tone brisk again. “Got a full day ahead.”

“Of course,” Sophie said quickly, stepping aside to let him pass. “Thanks again, Jake. For the box—and for letting me stay.”

He nodded, the motion curt but not dismissive. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Jake exhaled slowly, the cool morning air meeting him like a bracing wave. His boots crunched against the gravel path as he made his way toward the main house, the familiar sounds grounding him, though his thoughts remained unsettled.

The carpentry shop came into view, its weathered siding glowing faintly in the sunlight. Usually, the sight brought him comfort—a sense of steadiness and order. But today, the shop felt quieter than usual, its stillness pressing against him.

Stepping inside, Jake inhaled the familiar scent of sawdust and wood varnish. He moved to the workbench, where half-sanded planks waited in neat rows, their edges smooth beneath his calloused fingers. Picking up a piece of sandpaper, he began working on the arm of a chair, the rhythmic scrape filling the space. But his mind wandered—back to Sophie, her messy auburn hair, the smudges on her hands, the way she’d held that jar of preserves like it meant something more.

His gaze drifted to a pile of wood scraps in the corner. He walked over, lifting a slender piece and running his thumb along the grain. The idea came unbidden—a bookshelf, simple and sturdy, something for the guesthouse. For Sophie. The thought startled him, and he set the wood down abruptly. It wasn’t his place—not yet, anyway.

Returning to the workbench, Jake forced his focus back to the chair. But the image of Sophie’s lighthouse painting lingered in his mind—a beacon against the stormy seas, quiet but unyielding. He sighed, the scrape of sandpaper filling the room, though the rhythm felt less steady than usual.