The invitation had been extended with a casual warmth that felt uniquely Eastport. Barbara Smith had simply appeared at the door of the Chronicle that Friday afternoon, her arms full of fresh sunflowers that seemed to capture the afternoon light.
"Just a little gathering at our place tonight," she'd said to Trisha, her voice a cheerful melody. "Potluck. Nothing fancy. Charles is grilling, and I've made enough potato salad to feed a shipload of sailors. We'd love to have you and George and the children. It's past time we gave you a proper welcome."
That evening, as the Reeves family walked up the crushed shell path to the Smith residence, the golden hour light cast everything in a warm, honeyed glow. The house stood before them—a proud, three-story Victorian painted a soft seafoam green with crisp white trim. Gingerbread detailing adorned the eaves, and a wide wraparound porch held several rocking chairs and hanging ferns that swayed gently in the salt-tinged breeze. Light spilled from every window, and the sound of jazz music—something classic with a smooth saxophone line—floated through the screen door.
Barbara greeted them at the door, looking radiant in a flowing, cobalt blue caftan embroidered with silver thread that caught the light. Her silver hair was piled artfully atop her head, and large silver earrings swung as she moved.
"Welcome, welcome!" she exclaimed, pulling the door wide. "Come in, darlings! The party's just getting started!"
The entryway opened into a living room that took Trisha's breath away. The walls were painted a deep, warm terracotta, adorned with vibrant artwork that looked like local seascapes and abstract pieces bursting with color. Bookshelves overflowed with volumes, and comfortable-looking furniture was arranged in conversational clusters. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth filled with candles that flickered warmly. The air was rich with the scent of garlic, herbs, and roasting meat, mingled with the faint, sweet smell of wine.
The room was already full of people. The low hum of a dozen conversations created a warm, lively atmosphere. Fred, the printer, was there in a surprisingly clean navy flannel shirt and pressed trousers, holding a bottle of beer and nodding along as a man George recognized from the grocery store gestured emphatically about a football play. William Corbin held court in a corner by the fireplace, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, telling a story that had a circle of men chuckling.
"Everyone, look who's here!" Barbara announced, her voice cutting pleasantly through the din. "The Reeves family has arrived!"
A wave of friendly faces turned toward them. There were smiles, waves, a chorus of "Welcome!" and "Glad you could make it!" It was overwhelming, but it was genuine. There was no stiff formality, just an easy, inclusive warmth.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a kind face and a neat gray beard emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He wore a spotless apron over his collared shirt that read 'GRILL MASTER'.
"Charles, my love, this is George and Trisha Reeves," Barbara said, pulling him over.
"Wonderful to finally meet you," Charles said, his voice a warm, deep bass that matched his stature. He shook George's hand firmly and gave Trisha a genuine smile. "I've heard nothing but good things. Let me take that." He relieved George of the wine bottle and Trisha of her basket of rolls. "Barbara, these are still warm!"
"Come, come, get something to drink!" Barbara ushered them further in. "Red, white, beer, or I have a lovely non-alcoholic punch for the youngsters."
Trisha was immediately swept away by a group of women gathered around the large dining table, which was groaning under the weight of culinary offerings. There were ceramic dishes of baked beans with a crispy bacon topping, a magnificent glazed ham, multiple salads, a towering vegetable platter, and at least four different kinds of pie. A woman named Marianne Williams—David's wife, the mother of baby Isla—took the basket of rolls from Charles with a grateful smile.
"Oh, these smell divine, Trisha! You'll have to give me the recipe," she said, her voice warm. She was a pretty woman with laugh lines around her eyes and her hair in a messy but elegant bun. "Everything here is from someone's garden or their own oven. Store-bought is a cardinal sin at an Eastport potluck." She winked.
Soon, Trisha had a glass of chilled white wine in her hand and was surrounded. The women, of varying ages, were effortlessly kind and intensely curious.
"So, a real journalist!" said Louise Peabody, her eyes bright. She was an older woman with stylish glasses and a clever smile. "What was it like? Working in the city? All those deadlines and skyscrapers?"
Trisha found herself laughing, easily falling into stories of her old life—the chaotic newsroom, the thrill of a breaking story, the exhausting commute. They listened, fascinated, their questions peppered with a sense of wonder for a world that felt as distant to them as the moon.
"It sounds so exciting," sighed a younger woman, Sarah's mother, Chloe Jenkins. She had the same freckles as her daughter. "But so loud. I think I'd get a headache after a week."
"It has its moments," Trisha conceded, taking a sip of wine. "But this… this is nice. This is real."
Across the room, George was handed a bottle of local ale by David Williams. He was quickly absorbed into the circle of men.
"So, Doc," said Tom Jenkins, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered, friendly face and a strong grip. "Think the Patriots' offensive line is going to hold up this season? We're betting a crate of lobsters on it down at the dock."
George, who followed sports more out of marital duty than passion, grinned. "I think if I answer that, I might affect the local economy. I'll just say I hope they've been doing their stretches."
The men roared with laughter. William Corbin clapped him on the back. "A diplomat! We needed one of those!"
The conversation flowed from sports to fishing to the quirks of the town. George listened, learning more about Eastport in twenty minutes than he had in two weeks.
Meanwhile, Amelia had found Sarah and a group of other teenagers commandeering the sunroom at the back of the house, their laughter a higher pitch than the adults'. They were gathered around a phone, scrolling through photos.
"This is so cringe," a lanky boy groaned as an embarrassing childhood photo flashed by, and everyone erupted in laughter.
Mike, after initially clinging to his parents, had been discovered by Elijah. Barbara, ever the gracious hostess, had shown them to a small den off the living room where a large coffee table could be used as a drawing desk. She supplied them with a massive bucket of colored pencils and a ream of paper. The two boys immediately retreated into their own world, their heads bent together in intense, silent collaboration.
For nearly two hours, the party was a perfect, roaring success. The wine and beer flowed, the incredible food was devoured, and the laughter was constant and real. Trisha felt a glow that had nothing to do with the wine. This was it. This was the feeling she'd hoped for. Connection. Community.
But as the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten deep, resonant times, a subtle shift occurred.
It was almost imperceptible at first. A slight tightening of the air. Fred's wife, Agnes, a small, quiet woman with kind eyes with whom Trisha had been discussing heirloom tomatoes, suddenly glanced at the clock, her pleasant smile fading. She excused herself with a soft, "Pardon me," and moved across the room to her husband's side. She didn't say anything, just touched his arm and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod toward the door.
Fred's jovial expression didn't change, but he set his beer down on a coaster with a definitive click. "Well, the tide waits for no man, and my bed is calling," he announced, his voice still hearty, though the timing felt abrupt. "Agnes, fetch my coat, would you, my dear?"
Around the room, other glances were sneaking toward watches and clock faces. The easy, sprawling feel of the party began to contract, to tighten.
William Corbin finished his story, but the ending seemed rushed. "Anyway, that's enough of my yammering," he said, draining the last of his drink and setting the glass down. He clapped his hands on his knees. "Big day tomorrow. David, Marianne, you about ready?"
David Williams nodded, already standing and fishing his car keys from his pocket. "Yeah, Isla will be up with the sun, no matter how late we are." He smiled at George, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Great to finally have a proper talk, Doctor. We'll have you out on the boat soon."
"You too, David," George said, his own smile feeling slightly confused. "We'd love that."
On the other side of the room, Chloe Jenkins sought out her daughter in the sunroom. "Sarah, time to go, sweetie. Help me gather your brothers."
"Mom," Sarah groaned, the universal teenage protest. "It's only ten. The party's just getting good."
"I know, honey, but your father has an early start on the water tomorrow," Chloe said, her voice firm but with an undercurrent of something else—anxiety, perhaps. Her hand was already on her daughter's shoulder, gently guiding her toward the door. The excuse was reasonable, but the urgency behind it was palpable.
The warm, noisy room began to dissolve into a flurry of sudden, coordinated departures. Coats were fetched from the hall closet, thanks were given to Barbara a little too quickly, goodbyes were called out across the room instead of lingered over.
Barbara herself moved through the thinning crowd, her famous smile still in place but looking a little strained at the edges. "So glad you all could come! Drive safely, now! Mind the fog!"
The Reeves family found themselves standing together near the fireplace, the sudden exodus leaving them in a quickly expanding bubble of quiet. They exchanged puzzled looks. The jazz record had ended, and no one had put on another.
"Is it something we said?" Amelia whispered, her teenage radar pinging hard on the social awkwardness. She hugged her arms, suddenly self-conscious.
"No, sweetie, of course not," Trisha said automatically, though she was wondering the same thing. The warmth of the evening had evaporated, leaving a strange chill in its wake.
Tom Jenkins, the lobsterman, was one of the last to leave. He shook George's hand firmly. "Truly great to have you folks here," he said, his voice low and sincere. But his eyes flicked toward the clock on the mantel. It was 10:25. "You'll have to come out on the boat with us soon. We'll make a day of it."
"We'd love that," George said.
"Good, good. Well." Tom clapped him on the arm again. "Best be off. You know how it is." The phrase was delivered like a familiar code.
And then, they were gone. The roar of engines starting up outside seemed jarringly loud after the sudden quiet. Within five minutes, the only people left in Barbara's beautiful, warm house were Barbara, Charles, and the Reeves family.
The silence was deafening. The large room was a mess of empty glasses, crumpled napkins, and half-eaten plates of food—the ghost of a wonderful party.
Barbara let out a long breath, her shoulders slumping just a little. She turned to them, her smile now soft and apologetic. She began gathering glasses quickly, the delicate silver earrings quivering with the motion. "I am so sorry about that. Really. Eastport folks… they're creatures of habit. Superstitious about the night, some of them. Early to bed, early to rise." The explanation tumbled out, smooth and practiced.
"Please, don't apologize," Trisha said, jumping in to help her pick up a plate. "It was a wonderful evening. Truly. We had a great time." She caught George's eye over Barbara's head. His expression was thoughtful, his doctor's eyes noting the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in Barbara's hand as she picked up a wine glass. It wasn't fatigue. It was something else.
"We did," George agreed, his voice gentle. "Thank you for having us. It was perfect."
Outside, the last set of headlights disappeared down the dark road. The grandfather clock in the hall began its heavy, rhythmic ticking, counting the minutes toward an hour that suddenly felt significant.
The party was over. The welcome had been warm, genuine, and utterly real.
But its ending carried the faint, unmistakable chill of something unspoken, a secret the whole town seemed to share, and which they had just, for the first time, witnessed.