by Liz Johnson
His mouth pulled into a half smile as he rubbed one big palm up and down his cheek. “What gave me away?”
She shook her head and mumbled, “Nothing,” as she poured laundry soap into the tub and turned it on. The rush of water and cranking of the machine covered her silence—and apparently his footsteps. When she looked up, he’d made his way to the rocking chair near her mom. He sat with a strange grace for someone his size, and she couldn’t look away as he reached for her mom’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey there, Mrs. Whitaker.” His voice was soft, his tone low. “How you doing today?”
Meg held her breath, somehow praying both that her mom would respond and also that she wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair, not when Meg had spent so many hours talking to her and had gotten so little.
Oliver leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and glanced up. Meg dropped her gaze and stared at her idle hands. She had to do something, if only so she didn’t look like she was watching him. She turned on the kitchen faucet, poured in dish soap, and filled the sink. But the clinking dishes didn’t drown out Oliver’s words.
“We missed you this morning at the dock. Just a Pinch looked good as ever, all washed up and shining in the sun. She did a good job today, and we got all our traps set, right where Whitaker likes them.”
Meg snapped her gaze up. Was he talking about her or the boat? Did it really matter?
Given the bitter taste in her mouth, apparently it did.
“She still rides smooth on the water. You should come out on her sometime.”
He was talking about the boat then. Good.
So why are you jealous?
She was not jealous that he’d complimented a lobster boat. But it wouldn’t kill him to say that she’d done a good job too. She’d kept up with him and Kyle both. Although she hadn’t volunteered to shove her gloved hand into the bait bucket, she’d been useful. Even if she’d been moving a little slow by the time they pulled back into the dock.
She couldn’t help the annoyed breath that escaped, and Oliver’s questioning side-eye followed. This time Meg met his gaze, refusing to look away.
Maybe it was the look on her face or his mind-reading skills. Either way, he said, “You’d have been proud of Meg today too. She worked hard. Fishing’s in her blood.”
See? That wasn’t so hard.
Except it didn’t make sense. There was no good reason he would compliment her, not if he wanted the business as much as she did. And he did, she was sure of that. Maybe he figured whatever he said to her mom would never be repeated—couldn’t be repeated.
Her chest burned, and she pressed a sudsy fist to her sternum. It didn’t help. There were too many reminders that what she had was only temporary. That everything was going to change. Soon.
“Where’s Whitaker?”
She blinked quickly to clear her mind and figure out if Oliver was talking to her or her mom. His gaze squarely in the direction of the kitchen, she decided he was asking her.
“On the phone in the office.”
Oliver nodded.
“Did you need something? I figured you’d be getting to bed early after our day today.”
He snorted. “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”
Right. Yes. Comparing the way he looked to the way she felt, she was the one in need of a nap. But her dad had always said it was better to push through the day. Otherwise she risked not being able to fall asleep when it was time.
She squared her shoulders and took two deep breaths. Then she gave her tired limbs a pep talk. Keep going. Just a little longer.
“You want to come join us?” he asked.
As if she needed an invitation to sit with her own mom.
“No. I have some more work to do.” She spun around, looking for another chore, something else that would help her dad out around the house. Her gaze stopped on the fridge, and she swung it open, looking for supper. A pot roast sat on the second shelf, and there were potatoes in the pantry. But her mom would have a hard time eating that.
She decided on a simple creamy potato soup, soothing and warm. Just like her mom used to make it. Only her mom hadn’t had a heavy blue gaze following her every movement. The weight of Oliver’s stare made her motions stiff and her fingers fumble the potato.
“Do you need a hand?”
He was right by her side, his breath shooting sparks down her spine, making everything inside her tingle.
No. No. No. Not okay.
She spun around and waved the potato in his face. “What are you trying to do?”
“Help you make some supper?” He was so much closer than she’d thought, so close that she could see the thread of blue in his plaid flannel shirt that exactly matched his eyes. So close that she could count the freckles on his cheeks and smell the lavender scent of his face cream. So close that she could feel his warmth all the way across her body.
She stumbled back and bumped into the counter next to the stove. “No. Not that.” She laid her potato down. “This . . . Why are you pretending to be so nice?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m not pretending.”
“Ha.” It came out as more of a dry cough than a laugh, but it still made his dimples appear. And boy, did they show up, lighting his face, making his eyes sparkle and his lips twitch.
“Maybe I’m just a nice guy who wants to be your friend.” He leaned forward, closing what little gap had been between them.
“Unlikely.” It struck her why that was so true. “Not with the business on the line.”
Still so close she could feel his breath on her skin, he whispered, “Maybe I’m not the same guy you knew before.”
“Or maybe you’re exactly the same guy.”
He stepped back, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
His smile bordered on a smirk, but there was a kindness in the tilt of his head. In the way he’d made sure she was prepared for the season. In the way he’d treated her mom.
She wanted him to be the same guy who’d kicked her robot into the wall and watched it fly into a thousand pieces. She knew what to do with that guy. She’d been practicing for ten years.
She didn’t have a clue what to do with this Oliver, with the one who was slowly sneaking into her thoughts. The one with the broad shoulders and—it had to be admitted—the eyes that could stop traffic on Route 1. The one who picked up a peeler and a potato and swiped the skin off in long, sure strokes.
“What are we making?”
She turned around, standing by his side at the counter. “Creamy ham and potato soup.”
He raised his eyebrows in a playful salute. “My favorite.”
She shook her head and groaned to herself as she dug a pot out of the cupboard by the oven and plopped it onto the stove. She took the peeled potato and diced it into small pieces along with a ham steak from the fridge.
Before long Meg stirred as Oliver poured a milk and flour mixture into the water that held onions, ham, and potatoes.
“Smells good in here.”
Meg smiled in her dad’s general direction but kept her eyes on the simmering pot. “Hi, Dad. How’s Aunt Ruth doing?”
“I’m not sure. Didn’t talk long before the hospital in Toronto called.”
She dropped her wooden spoon, which splashed into the pot and sent drops of their supper sizzling across the hot surface of the stove. “What did they say?”
Her dad shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. Everything inside her wanted to curl up and return to another time. She didn’t care when. Just so long as there was no more illness and she didn’t have to watch her mom deteriorate.
“They have an opening at the hospital this week,” he said.
“Thi-is week?” Her voice cracked, and a firm hand rested between her shoulder blades. She wanted to shrug it away, but she had a feeling Oliver’s support was keeping her upright.
This should be good news. Her mom was going to be seen
by one of the best neurologists in the country—in the world. This is what they needed to find the truth, to get a diagnosis. But a slithering voice in the back of her mind whispered the truth. Maybe you don’t want to know.
Knowing was all well and good when there was a treatment plan, a cure. But what if there wasn’t one?
Rocking back on her heels, she leaned into Oliver’s hand, felt his forearm down the length of her spine, and just tried to breathe.
“We have to leave tomorrow.”
She choked on another gasp. “Okay.”
They could decide not to go. They could stay put right there in Victoria. Only she wasn’t free to ask them to do that, to beg her dad not to leave when the entire world was shifting. That’s not how their family operated or what her dad needed. She was better than her desire to fall apart.
Pushing herself away from Oliver’s hand, she squared her shoulders.
Say it. Just get it out.
“I’ll help you pack.”
Some fishermen got their fill of the sea in the early morning hours, the salt water spilling into their boats and rocking them back and forth. Yet Oliver had been so busy watching Meg the past few days that he’d missed it. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed watching Meg—what with her shaky sea legs and hesitancy with the merchandise. But he was determined to stop watching her and start enjoying the job again.
She clambered on board, those black pants she’d worn every day since setting day hugging her legs in all the right places and drawing his gaze whether he liked it or not. Okay, he was determined to watch her less. Enjoy the wind in his face and the smell of clean air more.
She passed out the three coffees she’d brought, and Oliver thanked her with a quick nod before she wandered off.
Kyle thumped him on the back. “’Mornin’ to you, Captain.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ve a good feelin’ about this one.”
Oliver cringed at the title. Technically Whitaker still owned the Pinch, and until the ink was dry on the contract, Oliver wasn’t about to call himself the captain. He glanced toward Meg, whose face was the same as it had been every other morning at this time—stiff and pinched. She gave no indication that she’d heard Kyle’s remark or of her thoughts on it. But as much as he wanted the title, it could just as easily be hers.
She looked like she could pilot this morning, arms crossed as she stared out to sea. The sun was almost up, but the lights on the dock illuminated her. Hair pulled back, braided, and roped into a knot at the nape of her neck, she was practically a Viking princess.
Less. He was supposed to be looking at her less.
Jerking his gaze back to Kyle, he tried for a good smile. Kyle smirked and shook his head.
So he wasn’t quite as stealthy as he’d hoped. Sure, Meg was beautiful. Didn’t mean he would ever—ever—act on that. There were plenty of other things to focus on.
Druthers’s boat coughed once and then growled to life, breaking through the soft birdsong and sending fine ripples back against the shallow waves. Without so much as a wave, Druthers pulled away from the dock and set out for the open water.
There’d been no sign of Little Tommy’s boat when he arrived forty-five minutes before.
Oliver turned on the engine, and Meg whipped her head in his direction. “Ready?” he asked.
She pressed a finger to the spot behind her ear where she’d stuck a little patch and nodded.
He didn’t ask Kyle. He was always ready.
As they rolled over the small crests, Oliver closed his eyes. Just him and the sea. Just him and a vast ocean before him. Technically New Brunswick was only a few kilometers away, but for him, there was nothing but water.
Whitaker had once told him that this moment in the morning, before the work had begun, was his quiet time with the Lord. A still moment when all the other noise of the world disappeared until there was only the Creator and the created.
Oliver wanted to wrap himself in the moment. It was warmer than a parka and twice as comforting. He could just breathe it in. Despite the brisk wind and sharp spray off the water, it felt like home. It felt like security.
The last time he’d felt anything remotely like this was his sixteenth birthday. Mama Potts had made his favorite pie from peaches she’d picked herself, and the sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar had permeated the whole house. Back when they’d had a house. Back when he’d happily shared a room with Levi.
Back when he couldn’t imagine losing any of it.
His eyes flew open. He was so close to losing all of it—everything he’d worked for, everything he’d prayed for—again. He couldn’t let that happen.
He licked his lips, recoiling at the salty tang and forcing his mind back to the work at hand. Pulling up to their first buoy, he reached for the gaff only to see that Meg had already picked up the long staff with the hook on the end to scoop up the floating marker. Like she’d been doing it for years, she grabbed the rope, fed it into the electronic hauler attached to the stern of the boat, and reeled in the line.
When the first trap of the cluster popped to the surface, Kyle reached over to help her pull them onto the narrow counter attached to the edge of the boat. But even with the help, the strain of the work tugged on Meg’s features. Her mouth turned tight, the tip of her nose wrinkling. After the traps were lined up, she dropped her hands to her sides, flexing her fingers a few times before digging into the trap’s parlor to see what they’d caught.
There he went again, watching her instead of doing the work.
Opening up the closest trap, Oliver found two brown lobsters. Their shells wouldn’t turn the famous red until they were boiled, and these two seemed just about the right size for the pot.
Seventy-seven millimeters. That was the magic number. Any smaller and the lobster got tossed like a bath toy back into the water per governmental regulations. Too much bigger and it had been alive too many years, its meat too tough to enjoy—no matter how much butter sauce was served on the side.
He whipped out his reverse pliers, slipped a rubber band on the tip, and squeezed the tool open. Then he picked up one of the unlucky crustaceans, flipped it over to check for eggs, and slipped a band on each of its claws.
With his metal gauge, he measured from the back of its eye sockets to the point where the tail began. One lobster was right at seventy-seven and the other just a millimeter more. Perfect. He tossed them to Kyle, who tucked them into little compartments in the bottom of the plastic crate at the stern. It would hold more than a hundred pounds by the time they filled it up. And with any luck, they’d fill at least two or three that morning.
As he moved to the next trap, he glanced at Meg, the reverse pliers in her hand trembling against the pressure of the band around it. Suddenly the pliers snapped closed and clattered to the deck with a metallic chime, followed almost immediately by a nonmetallic thunk.
Meg screamed and dropped to her knees, holding a writhing lobster in one hand and the claw it had dropped in the other. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and unblinking. He had a feeling her lower lip might have quivered if not for the way she’d sunk her teeth into it.
Squatting down before her, he pursed his lips to the side, trying to decide what he should say. What she needed to hear. “Guess he didn’t have a good grip on his claw.” Scooping it up, he waved the pincher like a hand, shooting for a smile and settling for a grimace.
“I know. They drop their claws when they’re scared. I didn’t mean to . . .” She nodded to her pliers and squeezed her hand by way of explanation.
She wasn’t the first deckhand to drop her tool, and he nodded in understanding. Her little friend wriggled again, flapping his tail against the underside of her forearm. She screamed but held on tight, twisting out of reach of his other claw as she shoved it to arm’s length. Right in Oliver’s face.
He gasped, jerking away but not fast enough. Pain sliced through the tip of his nose. His pulse thundered in his ears, accompanied by visions of losing his entire nose to the ang
ry lobster. And he might have if Kyle hadn’t slipped a band on it and taken it out of Meg’s grip. His mustache didn’t quite cover a smug grin as Oliver dabbed at the blood on his nose with the back of his glove.
Meg, on the other hand, received a gentle smile and a firm hand on her shoulder. “You should have seen Oliver his first season. You’re doing just fine.”
She blinked then, her blue eyes nearly glowing with the praise.
He should have said that. He should have said something—anything—kind.
Maybe he was supposed to be watching Meg a little less. But he couldn’t ignore her. All of his hopes hinged on her. On helping her succeed. On helping her see that this wasn’t the life she wanted.
On helping her see she had a choice.
eleven
Everything hurt.
Everything.
Meg tried to throw off the light blanket, but her shoulders and arms screamed in protest. She remained wrapped in cotton.
Okay. Maybe it was smarter to try to roll over first and slide out of bed.
She pushed her foot against the mattress and immediately decided she’d rather lose her whole limb than try that again. Her body didn’t work anymore. It was that simple. But that didn’t fix her problem.
Her alarm kept chirping, and church wouldn’t wait. She’d sworn she just needed to rest her eyes for a minute. They’d had a good morning, more than three hundred pounds of hard shell before eleven. Back home with plenty of time to get ready.
She’d just needed a tiny little nap before late church. That’s what her dad had always called it. Some of the lobstermen called it seasonal church. Either way, Grace Community had adopted a schedule of starting their service at two during lobster season.
Pastor Dell was fond of joking that God’s love wasn’t dependent on whether they made it to church every Sunday, but his might be. At this point Meg wasn’t entirely sure she would be able to make it to any church service ever.
She tried to pull her blanket away from her chin, but her fingers refused to grasp. Or open, for that matter. Her hands were basically immobile claws after grabbing and throwing traps most of the week.
