The old wooden stage creaked ominously beneath June’s weight as she tested its stability. She bounced lightly on the planks, a small frown creasing her brow. Tonight was the inaugural Story & Song Evening, an event she’d poured weeks of planning into, a direct response to the lingering questions about Camp Blue Heron’s financial viability. Her storytelling was meant to bridge gaps, yes, but also to bring in vital new revenue. The stage, however, seemed determined to undermine her efforts, its central support beam sagging just enough to cause concern. One of the newer counselors, Leo, a lanky college student with an earnest face, appeared at her side. "Everything alright, June? Need a hand?"
June stepped off, running a hand over the rough wood. "It’ll hold for the songs, I think, but for the actual storytelling, with people moving around? I don’t know. This main support is iffy. Looks like dry rot on the beam.“ She pointed to a patch of discolored wood. “It needs a proper carpenter, not a quick fix.”
Leo peered closer. “Looks pretty bad. Who would even be available on such short notice?”
June’s stomach clenched. She already knew the answer, the name forming a familiar knot in her throat. Ethan. He was the best, the most reliable, and arguably, the only one in Heron’s Inlet who could assess and remedy such an issue before sundown. The thought of another prolonged interaction, after the charged silence of the inspection, sent a ripple of unease through her.
“I know just the person,” she said, her voice a little too firm. “Go make sure the bonfire pit is clear of debris, Leo. I’ll make a call.”
Retrieving her phone, June stared at Ethan’s number in her contacts, the one she’d found in the town directory, filed under ‘Ethan Miller, Carpenter’. It felt wrong, cold, compared to the number she used to know by heart. She pressed dial before she could second-guess herself, the familiar ring echoing in her ear like a chime from a distant past.
He answered on the third ring, his voice low, devoid of inflection. “Miller’s Carpentry.”
“Ethan, it’s June Ellis,” she began, immediately regretting the formality. “From Camp Blue Heron. We have a rather urgent situation with the main stage. The central support beam…it’s compromised. We’re hosting an event tonight, and I can’t risk it.”
There was a brief pause, the kind that spoke volumes. “Compromised how?”
She described the dry rot, the sag, her voice quick and efficient, focusing solely on the structural integrity. “I understand it’s short notice, but I don’t know who else to call who could handle it properly by this evening. It’s for a community event, bringing in some much-needed funds.” She added the last part, a small, desperate plea for understanding.
Another silence, longer this time. She imagined him at his workshop, perhaps running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, weighing her request. “I’m finishing up a trim on the old Henderson house,” he finally said. “I can be there in an hour, but it’ll cost you. And no promises on an instant fix if it’s structural.”
“Just come,” June said, a rush of relief and apprehension washing over her. “Please. We’ll make it worth your time.”
---
True to his word, Ethan arrived precisely an hour later, his beat-up Ford pickup rumbling up the gravel path. He moved with a practiced efficiency, his gaze sweeping over the stage before June could even offer a detailed explanation. He knelt, his limp more pronounced as he navigated the uneven ground beneath the stage, his headlamp illuminating the damaged beam.
June watched him, a familiar ache settling in her chest. His hands, though rougher now, still moved with the same deliberate grace she remembered. They were strong, capable hands, the kind that built treehouses and carved names into picnic tables. The kind that once held hers, calloused but gentle. He wore a faded flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to expose muscled forearms, and a baseball cap pulled low, shadowing his face.
“It’s worse than you thought,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the wood. “The rot goes deeper. Can’t just patch it. Needs a whole new section of beam, properly reinforced.”
“Tonight?” June asked, her heart sinking. “The event starts at seven.”
He pushed himself up, wincing slightly. “I’ve got some treated lumber back at the shop that’ll work. It’ll be tight, but if you can give me a hand, and one of your counselors, we can probably get it done.” He looked at her then, his eyes, the color of a stormy lake, meeting hers for a fleeting second before darting away. There was no softness, no flicker of the boy she knew, only the hardened gaze of a professional assessing a job.
June nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Of course. Anything.”
For the next few hours, the camp air filled with the scent of freshly cut wood, the rhythmic thud of a hammer, and the low hum of Ethan’s saw. Leo, eager to help, carried planks, while June, despite her initial awkwardness, found herself drawn into the work, holding up beams, steadying tools, and passing screws. They worked mostly in silence, punctuated by Ethan’s terse instructions and the occasional clang of metal. When their hands brushed as he took a level from her, a jolt, small but unmistakable, shot through June, but Ethan gave no indication he felt it, his focus absolute.
She observed him from a distance during a brief water break. His profile was sharper now, carved by time and, she suspected, hardship. A faint scar feathered his left temple, barely visible under the brim of his cap. Her gaze drifted to his leg, the way he favored it, the subtle tension in his jaw when he pushed off it. It was a constant reminder of the chasm between them, the years of unspoken questions.
As he reached for a tool in his truck bed, June caught a glimpse of something tucked into the dashboard: a small, crudely drawn picture of a smiling stick figure holding hands with a larger stick figure. A child’s drawing. His daughter. The image, innocent and pure, tightened her chest with an unexpected pang of longing, a quiet confirmation of the life he had built without her.
By six o’clock, the stage was solid, reinforced, and ready. Ethan wiped sawdust from his brow, his face streaked with grime but etched with the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. “That should hold,” he said, his voice rough. “Better than before.”
June walked over, a genuine smile touching her lips. “Ethan, thank you. You saved the evening. Saved a lot more than that, probably.” She hesitated, then took a chance, her gaze softening. “It’s good work. You’ve always been good with your hands.”
He stiffened, his eyes flicking to hers, then away. “It’s what I do.” He pulled out a crumpled invoice from his pocket. “Here’s the bill.”
June took the paper, her smile fading. The coldness was back, a solid wall between them. “Ethan,” she started, her voice lower, more gentle. “That drawing in your truck. Is that…?”
He cut her off, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “My business. Just like this stage is yours.” He turned, making his way toward his truck, each step of his injured leg a stark punctuation to his retreat. “I’ll send over my account for payment.”
He climbed into his truck, the engine roaring to life. June watched him go, the image of the stick figures, and the raw abruptness of his deflection, leaving her with a chilling realization. He wasn't just guarded; he was impenetrable. The past was not just a memory to him; it was a fortress, and he was determined to keep her out. The mystery of his life, and the reason for his departure, now felt heavier, more distant, and far more painful than she had anticipated. She had wanted answers, but he offered only walls, making it devastatingly clear how deeply she would have to dig to find anything at all.