Ryan and I had been sitting on the back deck, catching up with one another on our way out to survey, when we’d rounded the point only to nearly topple over two kayakers. Alan was in a rush and didn’t even slow down.
We attempted to wave an unspoken apology but were met with four middle fingers aimed in our direction.
Ryan roared with laughter, and I couldn’t help but chuckle myself. Most people are too kind to ever make such a vulgar gesture here in Smuggler’s Cove. I was caught off guard and stricken by intrigue.
“Was that Hilary James?” I turn to Ryan, amusement riddling my voice.
“Looks like it.” Ryan pulls off his baseball cap and brushes his hand through his hair. “She sure is something.”
Ryan and I grew up together in Smuggler’s Cove, born and raised, which means I know when he says something, he really means something incredible. I ignore the opportunity to pry him with questions.
“Who’s with her?” I ask as I look over the brunette with a fiery personality matched by her flaming cheeks.
“Cammie Anderson, Hilary’s roommate from college,” Ryan says nonchalantly. “She moved here about a year ago. Cool chick.”
“Huh.”
“Jacob Davis.” Ryan slaps me on the back with a hardy laugh. “Already liking what you see, eh?”
“Nope,” I say matter of fact. “Just didn’t recognize her is all.”
“Well,” Ryan huffs beside me. “If you really want to make a memorable entrance call her Camille.”
His laughter grows beside me and I’m aware I’m on the outside of some insider’s joke.
“Camille,” I commit the word to memory in time to find a delinquent corner of my lips starts to lift with a boyish grin.
When we had surveyed the streams on Alan’s property, we found signs of salmon which means Alan. Is. Pissed. He’s never liked doing things “by the book”. He rocks back and forth on his rickety old legs, his long graying hair whistling in the breeze under his cap, hands shoved deep into his pockets. The smooth talker asks if we’d be willing to “look the other way”.
I decline.
The commute back is unpleasant as Alan continues his attempt at bribery, guilt=tripping, and sweet-talking us. Ryan entertains the idea simply to try and make the boat ride tolerable, knowing full well we would never agree to it.
The roar of the motor slows as we approach the harbor. Smuggler’s Cove comes into view and I’m reminded how good it feels to be home, even if it’s bittersweet. Fresh sea air fills my lungs as bystanders wave as we pass by, a gesture I return.
The Kayak-gate event this morning has me chuckling to myself. I’m sure they were going for pissed-off and intimidating, but it created the opposite reaction. Instead of being warded off out of sheer terror, I couldn’t help but want to know about this newcomer.
We pull into a boat slip at the harbor, and I jump from the boat and tie us off to the cleat. I look up the run-down wooden dock for no known reason other than to get my bearings, and that’s when I see her. As if my body could feel her before I even knew she was here.
Cammie’s rich mahogany hair sways as she engrosses herself in, what appears to be, an intense conversation with Hilary and Tommy, her face flushed from the heated debate. She tosses a glance over her shoulder and finds me in the sea of blackened rain gear.
Her demeanor changes in an instant as her stormy gray eyes settle over me. It dawns on me that the object of their heated debate is likely linked to our encounter this morning.
“Well, thanks for taking us out, Alan,” I say and give him a handshake.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He waves me off as he storms up the dock.
Ryan checks his watch. “Well, it’s nearly one, which means he’s likely due for a drink or two.”
I watch Alan walk toward the ramp when the poor sucker is stopped in his tracks by Hilary. All five and a half feet of her.
“Oh, she looks pissed.” Ryan winces as he pats my chest, getting my attention. We move toward the commotion and overhear Hilary laying into old Alan there.
“You can take your apology and stick it right up your–”
“Whoa, ladies,” Ryan interjects.
“Can it, Lewis,” Hilary says, directing her daggers toward Ryan who silently abides.
I smile to myself as I catalog the details of the woman standing next to Hilary, the one out kayaking with her this morning who, if I had to guess, is Cammie. I smile and give her a polite nod. She rolls her eyes and crosses her lean arms against her chest.
If Ryan hadn’t already told me that she’s an out-of-towner, I would have known by the fact that I don’t recognize her. Everyone in Smuggler’s Cove knows one another.
She’s pretty cute when she’s not flipping me off. Rain gear hugs tight against her figure accentuating the curve of her hips. I hadn’t noticed the golden flakes speckled throughout her blue eyes becoming amplified against the hue of her raincoat. Lips full and reddened like the blush of her wind-burned cheeks.
After a thorough examination, my attention is drawn back toward Hilary as she pokes her finger into Alan’s chest. “Watch who you try and wake with your damn boat, Alan. Or Cammie and I won’t be so generous with your drinks.”
Low blow.
Playing into poor, old Alan’s drinking problem. Old bloke’s been this way since I can remember.
“I’m sorry, darlings,” he says, removing his cap on a quest to search Hilary’s eyes until he finds some compassion. “Won’t happen again. I was in a rush and needed to get these fellas out to check my stream for any habitat issues.”
That’s when Hilary finally notices me standing there. I’ve taken my sunglasses off at this point so she can actually see who she flipped off earlier.
“Jacob Davis,” Her scowl is replaced by a widening grin. “Is that you?”
I give her a confident and knowing smile. “Sure is.”
She throws herself into my arms before I’m aware of what’s happening. “How the hell have you been? It’s been way too long.”
I set her back on her feet. “I’ve been good. Just moved back.”
Her face falls just a bit. “I’m sorry to have heard about your mom.”
“Thanks. It’s a change, but we’ll adapt.” I say the well-rehearsed line. I’ve gotten some form of this statement since I returned home. Sometimes in the form of a question but always spoken with the same pitiful look from people.
“Ryan,” Hilary says with a limited tolerance.
“Hilary,” Ryan touts, crossing his arms against his chest.
“Jake, this is my friend and roommate, Cammie.” She gestures toward the brunette and I feel a grin tugging at my lips.
“Nice to meet you,” Cammie says, arms still folded across her chest, the hood of her yellow raincoat pulled tight around her face.
“You’re not from here,” I say, unable to stop myself. Something about her cold demeanor begs me to irritate her.
“Excuse me?” she narrows her eyes.
“You aren’t from here,” I flash her a full-blown smile as I cross my arms to match her body language.
“Cammie’s from Denver,” Hilary intervenes.
“Ohhh, that explains it,” I say with obvious undertones and a dramatic nod of my head. Ryan eggs me on with his laughter.
“Explains what?” Cammie interjects defensively.
“Your theatrics earlier this morning.” I shove my hands into my front pockets. “Us folk around here grew up learning a thing or two about manners and how to treat your neighbors.”
“Is that so?” A smile tugsat the corners of her lips.
“Mhm… I guess I’m just surprised that we haven’t run your kind out of town yet. Once word gets out that you flipped me off...” I trail off.
“Flipped off Jacob Davis,” Ryan adds for dramatic effect, shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket.
“Well, I’ll just say that it was nice to meet you.” I wink at Cammie who rolls her eyes with disgust. “Safe
travels home.”
“We should be going,” Cammie says as she jerks her head up the ramp. Hilary, seemingly amused, nods in agreement.
“It was great to see you. We’re working at the Fish House later if you boys aren’t busy. You should stop by,” Hilary says as she turns to walk up the ramp—Cammie giving her an exasperated glare.
“Oh, we'll be there,” Ryan calls after them.
I watch Cammie walk away from me. She’s guarded and a little rough around the edges, but there’s something about her that intrigues me. We rarely get newcomers to Smuggler’s Cove. Most don’t stay past the summer season.
“How long has Hilary’s friend lived here?” I ask Ryan.
About a year.”
Interesting.
She’s made it past the trial phase where most people leave. Most tourists that come to visit and decide to stick around leave after winter. There isn’t much to do in the off season, not compared to the summer. The weather is often crap, and because we are coastal, it doesn’t get too cold, meaning many winter activities are out of the question.
Ryan and I take the boardwalk as we wander back toward the office. We walk through town, greeting some of the elderly women and men who have watched as I’ve grown up over the years. We pass boat harbors and hear the fishermen calling out to one another as they prepare their boats for season openings. The familiar smell of sea water in the air as the warm humid breeze blows through my hair.
Along our route, we’re stopped by Mrs. Johnson, an older woman in her seventies who used to babysit me when I was a child. She’s been a widow since I can remember and quite the gossip if my memory serves me correct.
“Jacob Davis, is that really you?” Her voice is shaky in her old age.
“Hello, Mrs. Johnson. It’s lovely to see you.” I bend to embrace her as she places a lipstick kiss on my cheek.
“You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you. I remember when you were just this big.” She places her hand near her hip as if she is measuring the memory of me. Her hands reach for my arms as if she’s gone blind. “You look like one of those basketball players—so tall and muscular.”
She wiggles her eyebrows.
I chuckle as I run my hand through my hair, embarrassment tinging my cheeks. “I’ve grown up a lot since then I’d say.”
Mrs. Johnson looks at me and not-so-subtly licks her lips. “I’d say you most definitely have.”
This causes a bark of laughter to escape my chest. I try my best to cover it with a cough into my fist.
“How’s your mom?” She asks.
I reflexively sigh, “my mom’s doing good. It’s an adjustment, but nothing she can’t handle.”
“Are you back for good?” She continues to interrogate me.
“I’m here for the long haul. Just moved back.”
“And… is there a special some––” She begins but I cut her off.
“Nope, no special woman.” My answers are polite but to the point. Can’t have people going around spreading rumors after being back one measly day.
“Well, I should be going,” she says as she continues to walk slowly along the boardwalk.
“Nice seeing you, Mrs. Johnson,” I say as Ryan laughs openly next to me. I backhand him in his gut, causing him to topple forward.
We continue on our way to the office. Word spreads fast here in Smuggler’s Cove, and it seems as though the entire town has heard I’m back. People stop to ask about my mother , how long I plan to stick around for, if I have a woman in my life. My answers are always brief.
Sometimes, I worry I’ve made a mistake moving back to Smuggler’s Cove so quickly. I dropped everything and returned when my mom got sick, no questions asked. But in these moments of walking around town, greeted by an array of familiar faces, I’m reminded how much I missed this place. Reassurance comes from the comradery, the fresh sea breeze, and all the kooky characters we let run amok.
This is my home. Always has been.
We reach the office on Main Street, and are greeted by Susan and Carl, the two other biologists that work in the office with Ryan and me.
“Jake, great to have you join us,” Susan says as she stands from her desk and greets me at the door.
Susan’s graying ringlets and warm, welcoming face give the illusion that we’ve known each other for years. She has this aura about her that makes me feel like family.
“Happy to be here.” My eyes wander around the office before returning to Susan’s smiling face crinkled with delight.
“Someone with your educational background”—Ryan clears his throat beside me—“and glowing recommendation from Ryan, was an obvious choice,” she continues, giving Ryan a wink.
“Yep, this one is sure edu-ma-cated,” Ryan says, mocking me as he pats me on the back. “I guess a master’s degree from Johns Hopkins will do that to you.”
“Anyway, Ryan can show you your desk. It’s great to have you.” She smiles and wanders back into her office.
“Alright, ready for the grand tour?” Ryan asks facetiously as we stand in the middle of a large open room, which appears to be the gist of it. “Your desk is here next to mine,” Ryan says as he motions over to a cubicle-style workstation. “And this, here, is Carl.”
“Nice to meet you, Jake.” An older man in his early sixties swivels his chair around and stands to greet me.
“You too,” I say and shake his hand in return.
“Carl, here, is getting ready to retire, so he won’t be around too much longer,” Ryan informs me.
I smile at him. “Is that so?”
“Sure is,” Carl assures me. “Couldn’t be happier.”
“He’s ready to move on with life. He actually signs all his emails with the remaining days left till he retires,” Ryan continues, causing Carl’s proud grin to grow wide across his face.
“One hundred and twenty one days left, as it stands today.” Carl gives me the update as I catch myself chuckling.
“Well, congratulations are in order.”
I head toward my desk and start arranging my office space. It’s small but quaint. A similar representation to Smuggler’s Cove.
I think I’ll like it here.
It isn’t a half hour before Ryan is throwing balled up paper at me from across our desks. “You need something?” My eyes don’t look up as I continue to unpack my belongings.
“What are your plans for this evening?” he asks, leaning back in his chair.
I don’t have plans.
“Just going to check on my mom and then head to my place.”
“Boring.” Ryan rolls his eyes.
“I just got to town,” I say, chuckling at his disgust. “Give me a bit to settle in.”
“Let’s go to the Fish House. Check on your mom, make sure she’s doing alright, then let’s hit the town.”
I ponder over the possibility of seeing more of Cammie and trying to figure out what her deal is. I’m also trying to decipher why I find her so damn intriguing. I can’t seem to get her off my mind.
“I think you’re more interested in seeing Hilary.” I notice how his eyes divert from mine and how his cheeks burn at the confrontation.
“Nah, just thought it would be nice to give you a welcome home party. Get you immersed back in the culture of Smuggler’s Cove.”
I chuckle to myself, knowing damn well he doesn’t care if I’m immersed in the town shenanigans.
“Well, since she’s that important to you, I guess I’ll go.”
Ryan’s face lights up, and in an attempt to regain his composure, he clears his throat. “Cool.”
“Cool.” I shake my head, giving Ryan a knowing look.
One he ignores.
Three
Cammie
Hilary and I have finished our last tour for the day. We’ve showered and changed into our Fish House apparel: dark denim jeans and a black V-neck tee. I towel-dry my hair and apply a couple coats of mascara to my eyelashes.
“So,” I star
t talking as Hilary walks out of the bathroom, hair still wrapped in a towel. “Who is that Jake guy?”
“Jake Davis?” She asks, a grin illuminating her face. “We grew up together. He, Ryan and I were all super close.”
“Oh, okay.”
Hilary giggles as she lets down her hair. “Any particular reason you want to know?”
Meeting Jake today on the dock replays in my mind. His strong, sharp, features at a juxtaposition with his kind eyes and welcoming smile. There was a familiarity in the way he looked at me, although I can’t entirely explain it. It was in the way he ran his large, rough, hand through his ashy-brown hair. The way his smooth, warm, olive skin was a contrast to his rugged working exterior. My body became consumed in chaos at the inability to categorize him which historically has offered a sense of safety is now at war with my internal distress alarm.
My skin tingles at the memory of him but my mind creates logic.
“He was nice to look at,” I say, ignoring the uncomfortable knots in my stomach. “But his cocky attitude didn’t win him any points.”
“Well, once you get to know him, you’ll see he’s one of the good ones,” Hilary says as she dries her hair.
I scoff, “I don’t plan on getting to know him.” I add matter-of-factly. Hilary casually shrugs, the corner of her lips turned upward signaling what I’ve feared all along.
I’m in trouble.
We walk along the dock toward the Fish House, the sun casting golden hues across the quaint town of Smuggler’s Cove. The sunlight reflects like diamonds off the calm water as the sound of crashing waves falls just beneath our feet. Locals and tourists alike are scattered across the boardwalk swapping stories of adventure and discovery, laughter and astonishment.
“Photos, or it didn’t happen.” Alan says to a group of younger out-of-towners. I pinch my lips together to refrain from laughing. The audacity this group of tourists has for competing with Alan’s fishing stories.
“Pics, or it didn’t happen,” Hilary whispers as we near the Fish House.
Every Step of the Way: (Smugglers Cove #1) Page 2
