Chapter 10 - Table Eighteen
Six months later, spring had completely overtaken Briar Falls.
The salt breeze blowing off the Atlantic smelled of fresh rain, blooming lilacs, and warm cobblestones. Mercer Wharf was bustling with life, the historic brick storefronts freshly painted and restored under a new municipal preservation grant.
Above the door of number 42 Mercer Avenue, a brand-new hand-carved cedar sign hung proudly: Keene & Daughter Clockmakers — Est. 1928.
Inside, the steady, harmonious ticking of forty antique clocks filled the bright room.
Elliot Keene stood at the long workbench, wearing his brown leather watch and carefully polishing the pendulum of a restored Victorian mantel clock.
The front brass bell chimed with a crisp, cheerful ring.
Hannah looked up from behind the counter, where she was finishing her nursing shift schedule for the upcoming month.
Caleb stood in the doorway.
He wore dark denim jeans, a pale blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and a leather messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He looked rested, vibrant, and completely unburdened by corporate suits.
"Are you open for business?" he asked with an easy, crooked smile.
Elliot looked up from his bench, squinting over his reading glasses. "Only for paying customers, Rowan. And people who know how to keep roofs dry."
Caleb chuckled, setting a small cardboard box on the glass counter. "I brought the replacement balance wheels we ordered from Switzerland."
"Put them on the back bench," Elliot said, trying and failing to hide a fond smile. "Then take my daughter to dinner before she falls asleep standing up."
Hannah took off her apron and stepped out from behind the counter, her eyes bright as she looked at Caleb.
Since the trial, Caleb had left corporate real estate entirely, partnering with a non-profit historic trust to protect small businesses from predatory acquisitions across New England.
He held out his hand, and Hannah slid her fingers between his, feeling the steady warmth of his grip.
They walked out into the mild May evening, strolling down Mercer Avenue toward the Italian restaurant where their disaster had first begun.
The restaurant awning was dry today, fluttering gently in the harbor wind.
They walked inside, and the hostess gave them a knowing, affectionate nod. "Your usual table, Mr. Rowan?"
"Actually," Hannah spoke up, squeezing Caleb's hand. "We'd like table eighteen tonight."
The hostess smiled and led them to the small wooden table in the quiet corner by the window, the brass number 18 gleaming brightly under the candle chandelier.
They sat down across from each other.
Caleb poured two glasses of red wine from the fresh bottle, his amber eyes dancing with light across the tabletop.
"So, Miss Keene," Caleb murmured, leaning forward with his elbows on the linen cloth. "Twelve-hour shift at St. Vincent's tomorrow?"
"Seven to seven," Hannah replied, raising her wineglass. "And my Subaru finally got a new driver's-side window."
"A major mechanical breakthrough."
"Indeed." She tilted her head, her smile soft and radiant. "And what about you, Caleb? How's freight logistics?"
Caleb laughed, a rich, open sound that filled the corner of the restaurant.
May you like
He raised his glass and gently tapped it against hers, the crystal chime ringing clear and pure in the warm evening air.
"Much better," he whispered, holding her gaze with steady, unwavering devotion. "Now that I'm finally sitting at the right table."
