4
888 Words
Chapter 5
The Little Things
Over the next week, seeing Marco became as natural as watching the sunrise.
Sometimes he was already waiting outside Mrs. Dawson's bed-and-breakfast with two cups of coffee.
Other mornings, Leah found him teaching children how to surf, cheering louder than their parents whenever they managed to stand.
She began to notice the little things about him.
He always greeted the bakery owner by name.
He never walked past a stray dog without stopping to pet it.
He tipped more than he could probably afford.
He whistled whenever he was nervous.
And every evening, just before sunset, he disappeared for exactly thirty minutes.
When she finally asked where he went, he only smiled.
"It's a secret."
"You have a lot of those."
"So do you."
She couldn't argue with that.
---
One Saturday morning, Marco showed up carrying a cardboard box.
Leah frowned.
"What's that?"
"A mission."
"I feel like I should be worried."
"You should be excited."
He placed the box on the porch and opened it.
Inside were old paintbrushes, rollers, and several cans of bright blue paint.
Leah looked at him in confusion.
"Are we painting something?"
"We're saving something."
Before she could ask another question, he led her down the street to a small house near the marina.
Its white fence was chipped.
The porch sagged slightly.
An elderly man stood outside, looking overwhelmed.
"Morning, Mr. Harris!" Marco called.
The old man smiled warmly.
"You're here."
"Told you I would be."
Mr. Harris noticed Leah.
"And who is this lovely young lady?"
"I'm Leah."
"It's nice to meet you."
Marco handed her a paintbrush.
"Ready?"
She looked between the brush and the weathered house.
"You volunteered me without asking."
"I had faith."
"In what?"
"That you're too kind to say no."
She sighed dramatically.
"I've known you a week, and you're already manipulating me."
"It's a gift."
She laughed despite herself.
---
By noon, both of them were covered in blue paint.
Leah had somehow managed to get streaks across her cheek.
Marco's hands looked even worse.
"You've got paint on your face," she said.
"So do you."
"I know."
"You missed a spot."
"I can't exactly see it."
"I'll help."
He stepped closer.
Very gently...
He brushed his thumb across her cheek.
The movement lasted only a second.
Yet somehow...
The world seemed quieter.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them moved.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat loudly from the porch.
"If you're done staring at each other..."
They jumped apart.
Leah's cheeks turned pink.
Marco scratched the back of his neck.
"We were just—"
"I didn't ask."
The old man chuckled to himself and disappeared inside.
Leah buried her face in her hands.
"I'm never recovering from that."
Marco laughed.
"Neither am I."
---
Later that afternoon, they sat on the dock with their feet dangling above the water.
Mr. Harris had insisted they stay for lunch, claiming they'd "earned every bite."
Leah leaned back on her hands.
"You know..."
"Hm?"
"I never imagined I'd spend my Saturdays painting strangers' houses."
"Regret it?"
She looked toward the little blue house they'd just finished.
Mr. Harris stood on the porch, smiling proudly.
"No."
She smiled softly.
"I think it's my favorite Saturday in years."
Marco looked at her.
"Mine too."
---
As they watched the boats drift lazily across the bay, Leah finally asked the question that had been lingering in her mind.
"What do you do when you're not teaching surfing?"
Marco hesitated.
"A bit of everything."
"That's not an answer."
"I fix boats sometimes."
She nodded.
"What else?"
"I help at the marina."
"And?"
"I play guitar at Murphy's Bar on Fridays."
She blinked.
"You play guitar?"
"I try."
"Are you good?"
He considered the question seriously.
"My grandmother used to say I had enthusiasm."
"That sounds like a polished way of saying no."
"It absolutely was."
She laughed.
"I want to hear you play."
His smile faltered for the briefest moment.
"Maybe."
"Maybe? When?"
"When I'm ready."
Something in his voice told her not to push.
So she didn't.
---
That evening, as Leah returned to the bed-and-breakfast, Mrs. Dawson was waiting on the porch.
"You've been smiling all day."
"Have I?"
"You have."
Mrs. Dawson folded her arms.
"I like him."
Leah nearly tripped on the front step.
"What?"
"The surfer."
"We're friends."
"Mhm."
"Why does nobody believe me?"
Mrs. Dawson's eyes twinkled.
"Because I've lived long enough to recognize the beginning of something beautiful. My dear"
Leah looked away, smiling despite herself.
"It isn't like that."
"Not yet, but soon enough."
Leah walked in.
---
Across town, inside a black SUV, a camera lens followed Leah as she disappeared into the bed-and-breakfast.
The investigator lowered the camera.
His phone rang immediately.
"Report."
"She's spending every day with the boy."
"Name?"
"We're still digging."
"Occupation?"
"Surf instructor. Odd jobs around town."
A pause.
"He has no criminal record."
Another pause.
"But..."
The investigator frowned as he looked at a newly received file.
"...the past years of his life we can't account for."
Silence.
Then Richard Bennett spoke.
"Find out what he's hiding."
The call ended.
The investigator looked once more at the photograph of Marco laughing with Leah.
He had a feeling...
The answers weren't in Seabrook.
They were buried somewhere in the past
- Writer
