by Liz Johnson
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she called with a wave.
He slammed his truck door, and his tires spit gravel as he sailed down the empty black road. The world was deserted this early in the morning. Smart people were still in bed. But as the wind whipped through his open window, he’d never felt more wide-awake. The cool air carried the scent of salt water and freedom. The ocean. He purposefully kept his radio off on these early morning trips to the dock. A chance to listen to the waves, to hear what the water might say. It whispered this morning, an invitation to spend time with it. A welcome to the season, a welcome back to the sea.
The birds were quiet, as if they too knew the day belonged to the tides and the waves. And as he pulled into the parking lot, the clouds split and the moon shone on the water. If the golden bridge by the light of the sun was his favorite thing in the world, the silver ripples of the moon’s glow in this very spot were his second. He enjoyed them for a long moment until he stepped onto the dock and saw two men standing in the shadows next to his boat.
Okay, technically it wasn’t his boat yet. But it would be. It could be—as soon as Meg realized that this wasn’t the life she wanted. That even if she conquered her motion sickness, the early mornings and hard work were never going to change.
When he got closer, he recognized Little Tommy Scanlan and Jeffrey Druthers, whose boats were on either side of his, still empty. They hadn’t even begun to stack their lobster traps on the back end. And somehow he didn’t think they had been waiting for him just to have a friendly chat.
“G’morning,” Oliver said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Something I can do for you gentlemen?”
Little Tommy’s eyes were beady and dark, and he scratched at his graying whiskers. “It’s true then. You’re captaining Whitaker’s boat.”
He wanted to have a quick retort and a witty remark. All he really had was the truth. “I suppose.”
Druthers frowned, his bushy mustache failing to cover the displeasure that lurked in every other feature of his face. “Are ya buying in then?”
“Nothing’s been decided just yet.” That was true too. Let them infer what they would.
“You know what yer old man did, right?” Little Tommy asked.
His chest tightened at the reminder that Dean Ross had run out on them just before the season started. He hadn’t just run out on Mama Potts and his sons. He’d run out on a perfectly good job on a fishing boat and a captain who’d been counting on him.
The conclusion was clear. They expected him to be just like his dad.
“Don’t think you need to worry about that. I’ve been working Whitaker’s boat for six years.”
Druthers waved his hand, dismissing the number and all that it represented. “Yer dad worked mine for nearly ten.” Crossing his arms over his overalls, he leaned forward. “Cost me near a third of my usual profits that year. Had to train a new hand on the fly and replace all he took.”
Oliver had no response to that. Every bit of it was true.
So long as he was just a deckhand, no one had seemed to mind that he was working on a boat. But if he owned one—if he was an equal with the other fishermen—well, they might not be willing to bear it.
“You know there are rules, boy,” Little Tommy said. “And punishment for not following them.”
Oliver dropped his arms to his sides and squeezed his fists. Everything inside him wanted to ask just what rules they thought he would break. He knew the written ones—the laws that limited the number of traps he could set and the regulated area he could fish. He knew the days of the season. He knew the requirements for sustainability and throwing back females with eggs. And he knew the size minimum.
He knew the unwritten rules too. How fishermen didn’t mess with another boat’s haul. How a license for the area didn’t mean he was free to fish the whole area. How the first boat left the harbor at six in the morning on setting day every year, and from their small dock, Druthers led the way.
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of the rules.”
What Oliver didn’t know was if he’d done something to deserve the aforementioned punishment. Or was this entirely about the sins of his father?
An uneven gait joined them on the dock. Curr-thump. Curr-thump.
He knew before turning around who the steps belonged to. Meg, who was still learning how to walk in her muck boots. Meg, who had barely begun to earn her sea legs.
Meg, who somehow twisted his insides tighter than a rope.
The two experienced lobstermen cringed and curled in on themselves.
Maybe this wasn’t only about him. Maybe it was about having a her around too.
Meg stopped at his side, gripping two steaming paper cups of coffee. She held one out toward him, and he took it, curling his chilled fingers around the warmth. “Figured it’s going to be a long day. Got you a double-double at Timmies.”
He nodded his thanks. Two creams. Two sugars. Just how he drank his Tim Hortons coffee. She’d had to drive over to the head of the bridge to find the open shop, and he savored the rich flavor of his first drink.
She eyed the men across from them with a narrow gaze. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
It wasn’t even close to an apology that any good Canadian would offer if they didn’t have coffee to share. And Oliver loved it.
“Just watch yourself out there,” Little Tommy said as he and Druthers shuffled toward their own boats.
Meg took a long sip from her cup before saying, “What was that all about?”
“Guess maybe they aren’t so happy that your dad’s not going to be here.” No need to tell her they weren’t thrilled that Whitaker was thinking about selling to him. Or that they didn’t seem particularly fond of her.
Let the old guys get used to it. He and Meg had a job to do. In a minute.
He took his time sipping the coffee, staring out at the open water as the warmth trickled through his middle and to the very tips of his fingers.
“What would you have been doing today?” he asked, risking a glance in her direction. She wore a heavy sweatshirt, the hem of her plaid flannel shirt sticking out halfway to her knees. The black leggings that Kelsey had recommended made her legs look longer than usual.
“Besides cheering on the boats from the wharf?”
He jerked his eyes up and nodded.
“Lesson plans, I guess.” There was a longing in her words that he’d never heard from her before.
“You like making lesson plans?”
She laughed out loud—a pop of noise overtaking the sound of the waves and the creaking of the rocking boat. “About as much as getting a tooth pulled.” She sipped and let out another sigh. “But I like teaching. I like the students, and I like seeing them get something they didn’t before.”
“And you gave all that up for early mornings and smelly fish.”
She shoved his shoulder. “And I don’t plan to regret it.”
By the time Kyle Mulligan arrived, Meg and Oliver had filled the back half of the boat with lobster traps stacked taller than she was. Meg paused to mop her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She bent over, resting her hands on her knees and taking a few deep breaths.
“Doing okay there, rookie? Your patch working?” Oliver asked as he leapt onto the dock.
She closed her eyes as the boat swayed, waiting for the discomfort. But her stomach stayed put and her head didn’t go on a fair ride. “Just fine.”
Oliver had already reached Kyle, clapping him on the shoulder and smiling. Even in the yellow light of the overheads that pooled on the dock, she could see the deckhand return the smile.
She tried to force one of her own but couldn’t make her muscles do it. She already wanted to be back in bed. Back at school. Back where she wasn’t the rookie.
Then again, she didn’t have a job there any longer. She’d closed every door but this one. This was her only option. And it wouldn’t take long to get the hang of it all. She just needed a little practice.
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nbsp; Ignoring the twinge in her back as she pushed herself up, she clomped across the fiberglass floor and shinnied up the ladder.
“Meg Whitaker. So it’s true.” Kyle reached out his hand and nearly shook hers right off. “Oliver here told me, but I couldn’t believe it. You’re here for the season?”
She managed half a smile and a jerky nod.
Kyle’s grin was wide, his salt-and-pepper mustache stretching across his face. “I bet your dad is awful happy you’re carrying on the family name.”
Oliver’s shoulders visibly twitched, and Meg didn’t quite know how to respond. “Happy to be here.” She didn’t add the I guess that crossed her mind.
“What happened at the school? The kids too much for you?”
She chuckled. “No. Just . . . wanted to help out my dad.”
Kyle smoothed his mustache with his knuckle, the brightness in his ruddy face dimming. “I was sorry to hear.” He paused for a long moment, seeming to weigh how much he should say. “It won’t be quite the same without him.”
Kyle and her dad had been working the boat together for more than thirty years. Other deckhands had come and gone, but Kyle had been her dad’s first hire, the most stable.
Her gaze swung to Oliver and back to the barrel chest of the man she’d known since she was a child. Why had her dad offered to sell his business to Oliver? Why not Kyle?
She had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting it out. The dock was beginning to fill up with hands loading traps and buoys and buckets of bait, and it wasn’t the time or the place to ask. But she made a note to herself. Something had made her dad choose Oliver when Kyle had been standing right in front of him, and she wanted to know what.
“If I’d have known you were starting so early, I’d have been here an hour ago. Thought I’d be here earlier, but Mrs. Mulligan, she always says that setting day is no day to skip breakfast. She did up a big feast—salmon quiche and hot scones. I swear, she was baking all night.” Kyle rubbed the overalls covering his round belly. “Woulda been rude to refuse, eh?”
Oliver patted his own flat stomach. “I couldn’t wait to get here, but right about now I’m wishing Mama Potts had sent me with a second sandwich.”
The sun was only just beginning to paint the morning sky a pale gray at the horizon, erasing the stars with its power. They couldn’t have been working for more than two hours. Meg had thrown a frozen egg thing into the microwave and shoveled it in on her drive to the wharf, but now she felt hollow too, a low ache in her belly. Which growled loudly the minute that Oliver plucked an energy bar from the pocket of his pants.
He raised his eyebrows in question. “Hungry?”
She shrugged. She’d make it the rest of the day. She’d be fine.
But when he reached into his pocket, pulled out another bar, and held it out to her, she snatched it like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. “Thanks,” she mumbled as she clawed the wrapper away and chomped into it.
Kyle’s laugh echoed, drawing the attention of at least a few others in the area. “It’s good to keep your strength up. You’re going to need it.”
After their early-morning snack break, they set about loading the rest of the traps, carrying them from the shack to the dock and then passing them to Kyle on board. He loaded the boat with the precision of an architect, threading the traps together to fill every nook and cranny.
Meg wanted to believe that she and Oliver had been just as efficient, but Kyle was built like a moose and twice as strong. Even as she struggled to carry one awkward trap, he tossed their gear around like plastic buckets on the beach. Their boat was fully loaded before the others on the dock, sitting low in the water.
“Well, well. She looks pretty good.”
Meg whipped around at the familiar voice, her dad’s lanky frame leaning against the front of his truck in the parking spots opposite the dock. An immediate question popped to mind, but she bit it back, refusing to ask about her mom. “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“You didn’t think I’d let you head off on setting day without cheering you on, did you?”
“Walt!” Kyle called from the boat, offering a sharp salute and a quick nod of his head.
Her dad returned the gesture with a lazy hand. “Looks good.”
“It won’t be the same without you out there,” Kyle said.
Her dad’s gaze dropped toward her. “You’re in good hands.”
Suddenly his features blurred, and she swiped at her eyes. Ridiculous. There was no reason she should be crying. Except that it was great to see her dad—just for a moment—in the setting he loved, with people who respected him.
He was giving all that up.
“Where’d you find that getup, kid?” her dad asked. “You fit right in.”
She ran her hand down her leg and popped the stretchy fabric before wiggling her booted foot. “Um, Oliver took me shopping.”
He snorted. “Oliver? That Oliver?”
The very one who strolled down the dock from the shack, several lengths of line hanging from his shoulders. “She said she was going to wear jean shorts,” Oliver said without preamble. “Figured you wouldn’t take kindly if I let her catch her death out there.”
“I think you’re right. Her mother and I are pretty fond of this girl.”
The early morning glow had reached over the horizon and all the way to their little alcove, and Meg raised her hands to her cheeks to cover the pink there. Dads. Embarrassing their kids since the dawn of time.
Still, she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
She smiled at her dad. “I’ll stop by later today, all right?”
“You think you’ll have the energy for that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Famous last words. She’d watched her mom take care of her dad during lobster season for years. She should have known better.
They were second to head out to sea—one of the unspoken rules of Victoria’s harbor. They waved at the local families lined up and down the jetty, Oliver at the helm and Meg and Kyle on either side of him. There wasn’t anywhere else to stand, so she held on to the dashboard with all of its beeping, blinking gadgets as the wind whipped around her. She’d pulled her hair into a braid, but already wisps had escaped. She shoved them out of the way, closing her eyes and lifting her face into the wind. It smelled of life and vitality.
“Feeling okay there, kid?”
Without even looking at Oliver, she waved one finger in the air. “First, no one gave you permission to call me ‘kid.’ My dad has special rights.” She waved another finger. “Second, I feel absolutely perfect.”
Okay, so her knees were a little wobbly, and she’d rather sit than stand as they flew across the waves in the wake of Druthers’s boat. But her stomach hadn’t threatened an all-out uprising. As far as she was concerned, that counted as a victory.
Oliver’s deep chuckle carried over the hum of the boat. “What about Kyle?”
“What about him?”
“Can he call you ‘kid’?”
She leaned around Oliver to get a good look at the man who had been her dad’s right hand for years. His big brown eyes wrinkled at the corners, humor deep in each line.
“Yeah. Kyle gets a pass.”
Oliver tapped one of the screens in front of him while pursing his lips to the side. “That seems a little unfair. What if Kyle doesn’t even want to call you ‘kid’?”
She shook her head in mock seriousness. “What can I say? I don’t make the rules.”
His laughter was deep and scratchy but melodic. It almost sounded like he was out of practice. Like he hadn’t taken time for humor. Like he wanted more excuses for joy. But he said only, “This is our spot,” as he cut the engine and let the boat drift.
Whatever hint of humor had played across his face disappeared as he put his hands on his hips, took a deep breath, and let it out through tight lips. And in that moment, she knew. He felt the weight of responsibility like she didn’t. Not yet anyway.
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nbsp; But she would. This wasn’t just her dad’s legacy. This was all of their livelihoods.
Kyle moved first, practiced and certain with his steps. He grabbed a cluster of traps and lined them up on the edge of the boat. Before he could get the second straightened, Oliver scooped up a handful of sour-smelling herring and tucked it into place. Lobsters would crawl through the netting to eat the tasty fish in the trap’s kitchen and then get stuck when they tried to crawl out. With any luck, two or three might find their way in each day.
Meg stood watching for a long moment before finally grabbing a bright green buoy and attaching it to the long rope connected to each of the six traps.
When each trap was baited and marked, they shoved all of them overboard. The cool water splashed into the boat, sloshing beneath her muck boots. At least she wasn’t wearing sneakers. Oliver steered them to the next spot and the next and the next, where they repeated the actions until Meg could do them in her sleep.
By the time all 240 traps were set, all she could think about was cozying up in her bed, closing her eyes, and dreaming of anything but the smell of herring.
Only she’d promised her dad she’d stop by for a visit.
ten
Do you need anything, Mom?” Meg called over her shoulder as she tossed a load of towels into the washing machine. She waited for a moment, hoping, wishing, praying. Her mom sat tucked in the corner of the sofa on the far side of the room, her eyes open. But from the laundry room, Meg could see just how little her mother actually saw.
There was no response except a short knock on the side door, followed immediately by the groan of it opening.
“Hey there.” Oliver had let himself in like he belonged in this home, like he was the one who had grown up under this roof. At least he wiped his feet on the mat before ambling past her into the living room.
His hair was damp and clean, and he smelled like soap. Much more pleasant than the herring he’d spent the morning digging through. And his skin glowed even beneath his five-o’clock shadow.
“Been using that face cream?” Her question surprised even her, and she clamped her lips closed as he turned toward her.
