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“See? It’s fate.” Maria grinned, and I was thankful for their presence, for this moment of camaraderie amidst the lingering shadows of my past. Of a residency rotation that had gone terribly wrong and changed the trajectory of my career. Even though that had been over six years ago, and I’d been a successful physician for four years, the failure still haunted me.
We spent a few more minutes chatting, discussing upcoming appointments and community events before we left the staff room for our various parts of my homey clinic. The two women dispersed, returning to their tasks with smiles and easy banter. I leaned against the counter, my heart lighter. While I may not have taken the path I had originally planned, this journey—my practice here in Dove Key—was shaping up to be something pretty fantastic after all.
I settled into the rhythm of the afternoon appointments, and with each diagnosis explained, each listening ear offered, trust was being built. This small town, with its tangled webs of relationships, was starting to accept me not just as the kid who left during his senior year of high school, but as Dr. Aiden Mitchell.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, signaling the end of clinic hours, I had managed to convince Mr. Jenkins to take his diabetes more seriously and Mrs. Henderson to consider physical therapy for her chronic back pain. The sense of accomplishment was a soft glow in my chest as I got in my Tacoma pickup and headed east on Main Street toward home. Salty air drifted through the open driver’s window, increasing in pungency as I neared the marina.
Sailing had always been my escape, the rush of wind and the snap of canvas like a balm to my soul. An escape that I’d had to forgo for many years, but which I had enthusiastically embraced as soon as I moved back. After walking down the wooden dock, I sighed with satisfaction as I boarded my sailboat. Trotting down the stairwell led me into the cabin, where I passed through the galley and dinette into my bedroom. It wasn’t huge but still held a queen-sized bed. I changed out of my slacks and dress shirt, loving the freedom of a T-shirt and cargo shorts. Back on deck, I grabbed a nearby bucket and was transported from the confines of my medical practice to the freedom of the open sea. Well, the potential of open sea. We weren’t quite there yet.
I grabbed a hand sander and attached a fresh sheet of sandpaper before hunkering down on my hands and knees. The hull, once battered by time and neglect, was slowly taking shape under my attentive care. I moved with precision, sanding the rough edges and ensuring every inch of wood became smooth. The work was meticulous, but it gave me purpose—a quiet satisfaction that balanced the demands of my new life.
I paused to run a hand along the smooth grain and could feel the history within the fibers. The boat had seen better days, yet here she was, being restored to her former glory. The stern was so worn that whatever name she’d originally been called was lost to the wind. I needed to christen her, but something as significant as naming a boat took careful consideration. No names had struck me yet, so I was content to wait for inspiration.
Without meaning to, my eyes lifted to study Calypso Key across the narrow channel of water separating the two islands. Every time I came out here, I thought about driving over that bridge and seeing what changes time had brought to Dove Key’s illustrious neighbor.
But I always chickened out. Wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
The marina was calm at this hour. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of water against the docks and the distant call of seabirds. Standing to give my knees a break, I leaned against the mast. Loneliness had been an unexpected companion since moving back to Dove Key. I hadn’t dated anyone in a while, and the quiet nights sometimes weighed on me. My head turned once more to Calypso Key and its sheer bluff on the northeastern edge. Toward all those memories.
Memories of Stella Markham, who had dared me to dream bigger. Her laughter had been the soundtrack of our high school years, her fiery spirit the counterbalance to my cautious nature. Had it really been over fifteen years? She had been my first love—and lover—as I’d been hers. We’d also shared our first heartbreaks when our paths diverged. Which had been my fault. Unresolved feelings for her surged like the tide, unpredictable and powerful.
Where was she now? Did she ever think of me, of us, or was I just a bitter memory? Stella had always been destined for great things. Surely, she had found them. Lowering once more to the deck, my hands returned to their steady pace. Each stroke was an effort to carve out my place here, where my roots ran deeper than I cared to admit.
The western horizon barely held a hint of orange when I set down my tools. The sailboat’s deck creaked gently underfoot, a familiar sound that spoke of progress and patience. After stretching my tight back and giving in to a luxurious groan, I cracked open a cold beer I stored in a nearby cooler. The hiss of escaping bubbles cut through the quiet air. I took a long sip, the chill of the drink a stark contrast to the warmth of the air on my face.
“Here’s to small victories.” I toasted the empty air, my voice blending with the soft lapping of water against the hull. My sailboat was thirty-seven feet long, and the cabin was in pretty decent shape. Too bad the engine didn’t work—I’d had her towed here from where I bought her in Key West. My gaze drifted to the deck panel that covered the engine, where I worked on repairing the motor when sanding and varnishing got to be too tedious.
I leaned against the wheel. It wasn’t just the boat that was being restored. I was too, piece by piece. A part of me wondered if this was all an attempt at rebuilding the life that could have been. The life where I had stayed with Stella.
The thought of her was like a ghostly breeze, cooling yet unsettling. I closed my eyes, picturing her dark hair wild in the wind, eyes bright with mischief. We’d been kids then, fearless and foolish, believing we could conquer the world together.
Vivid memories of her wove through my mind. Her smile, the curve of her lips, the intensity of her dark eyes. They all felt so tangible, as if she might appear if I wished hard enough. But wishes weren’t reality. Reality was this boat, this town, my practice.
I turned to look at the water, imagining a silhouette beside me and sharing in the quiet beauty of the moment. I pictured Stella as she had been—young, vibrant, full of dreams. But we were both thirty-five now. Time had shaped us into adults with lines of experience etched upon our faces.
What might she look like now? Had life been kind to her?
The light faded completely, leaving only the soft illumination of the boat’s cabin and the glow of lights along the marina boardwalk. For a fleeting moment, I had to wonder if Stella was still in the area. My next thought was automatic. If she was, in this small town where everyone knew everyone, might we cross paths again?
Chapter Three
Stella
The clatter of pans and the sizzle of searing onions formed a song in Orchid’s kitchen, where I stood at the helm, orchestrating the afternoon preparations for dinner service. Our new prep worker, Matt, sliced a cucumber under the watchful eye of Tomas, who had been working for us for years. Tomas and I exchanged friendly nods, then he returned his attention to his apprentice, who was concentrating on his slices with his tongue parked in the corner of his mouth. My sous chef, Rea, with her pixie-like brown hair neatly tamped down, was a blur of movement beside me. After whisking up a passion fruit compote that smelled like tropical rain, she turned to a sprig of chives and took her knife to them with slow but steady precision.
“Stella, these chives okay for garnish?” she asked, holding up a bundle so fresh they could have still been nestled in the soil outside.
“Perfect.” Nodding, I stirred a large stock pot of crab bisque. I added a slice of lime, and the scent of buttery seafood mingled with the tang of citrus, anchoring me to the moment. After grabbing a squeeze bottle of olive oil, I arced a line directly into the pot from several feet away, a skill honed by years of practice, and something I barely noticed.
Rea laughed, even as her eyes became round. “Show-off.”
I froze in mid-motion. Flaunting my skills had been the last thing on my mind. Being in a kitchen was almost unconscious for me. After a moment’s thought, I made light of it. “Learn from the best, right?” I winked at her, but the reminder of a belated phone call I needed to make nagged at the back of my mind, a dull thud against the rhythm of our bustling kitchen. I sighed, ready to slay this dragon at last. “Keep an eye on things, okay? I need to make a call.” I peeled off my apron as I headed to my cramped office tucked away in a corner.
“Got it, boss!”
The room was a tiny cubicle that doubled as overstock for pantry supplies, but it was my sliver of quiet amidst the storm of stainless steel and shouting. I dialed the number, the phone pressed against my shoulder as I started to sort through paperwork.
“Dove Key Clinic, how can I assist you?” The receptionist’s voice buzzed through the line, professional yet warm.
