Beyond the Tides

by Liz Johnson

  Violet’s gaze landed on her, and Meg waved. It seemed to be the invitation she needed to glide in Meg’s direction. “I’m looking for Oliver. Have you seen him?”

  “Um, no. I’m supposed to meet him here.”

  Carrie raised her eyebrows. “I’ll come back?”

  “Yes, thanks,” Meg said. Turning back to Violet, she asked, “Is everything all right? Is Mama Potts—”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Everyone is fine. Well, nearly fine. No one is . . . injured, exactly.”

  “Levi?”

  “Is at the school.”

  Precisely where he was every weeknight. Cleaning up after rowdy students, working quietly away. A few times she’d worked late grading exams and surprised him when he came in to empty the garbage bins. He’d mumbled an apology and scooted backward into the hallway. He didn’t say much, but the floors of their school shined. The walls received regular coats of fresh paint, and the pipes never froze in the winter. His name wasn’t on the building, but everyone knew that it belonged to Levi.

  “Wait.” Violet’s gaze swept over her, precise and assessing as she slid into the opposite chair.

  Meg ran a hand over her ponytail, taming any flyaways. She pressed her lips together, smoothing the pink gloss she’d applied before leaving her apartment. “What?”

  “Are you and Oliver on a date?”

  “No. Of course not.” Her cheeks heated, and to keep from covering them she tucked her hands under her legs. Maybe Violet would just think it was warm inside. Which was partially true.

  “I saw him earlier.” Violet’s smile grew wide, delight in her eyes. “He was shaving. He’s so lazy about it most of the time.”

  Meg couldn’t help it. Her hand shot to her neck, to the place that had been red after they’d kissed. It wasn’t even noticeable after a week. But Violet didn’t seem to miss anything.

  “It’s you. Have you and he been . . . ?” Violet’s fingers bounced back and forth. Meg didn’t even know what that meant.

  “Working together? Yes. A lot. And we’re talking tonight about more work things.”

  “Ri-ight.” Her singsong would have fit right in on a schoolyard, followed by a song about kissing in a tree. But there was genuine joy painted across her face. “He’s such a—”

  “You’re in my seat.”

  Both women looked up, and Meg had never been so thankful to see her coworker. Oliver towered above them, broad and imposing except for the gentle smile across his clean-shaven face. He looked younger, softer. She wondered what his skin felt like.

  She sat on her hands again.

  Violet got up slowly. “I thought you were having dinner with a friend.”

  He looked at Meg, then back at Violet. “I am.”

  “Uh-huh.” Violet’s gaze swung back and forth between them. “You kids have fun now.” She turned to go but stopped short. “And Oliver, call me later.”

  “Doubtful,” he said, falling into her vacated seat. “Sorry about that. She thinks she’s my big sister.”

  “Did you”—she gave the room another quick survey for familiar faces—“tell her about what happened?” How he’d kissed her silly and made her doubt everything she’d ever thought she wanted.

  “What? No.” His denial came out louder than her question, and he immediately dropped his volume. “I wouldn’t. I didn’t tell anyone.”

  She nodded silently, taking in the new lines of his face, crisp and even.

  “What about you? Did you tell your dad?”

  Chewing on her fingernail, she shook her head. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing we talk about.”

  He rubbed a hand down his face, and she could tell he wasn’t used to the smooth parts as his fingers slowed down, following the new shape to his chin. “I just meant, maybe it would be best if we don’t tell him—or anyone. At least not until . . .”

  His voice fell away, but she understood completely. It would do them no favors to confuse her dad about their relationship—whatever it was. A decision still had to be made. Besides, the extent of their relationship was an axis-tilting kiss. Nothing more.

  Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that.

  No. They’d had exactly one kiss and one almost-kiss. That did not make a relationship.

  What about the way he is with your mom?

  Irrelevant.

  And the way he held you when you cried?

  Those were extenuating circumstances.

  And how he’s safe and strong and way more handsome than you thought?

  Pipe down.

  This was no time for her inner voice to decide it had an opinion. A wrong one at that.

  In the end, she simply nodded her understanding to him and pointed to the books he’d brought with him. “Want to look at those or eat first?”

  He responded before she’d even finished her question. “Eat.”

  Oliver scooped up the last bite of Carrie’s famous pot roast and let it melt in his mouth. So tender and filled with rich flavor, its spices subtle and inviting. And so filling. He set his fork down, leaned back, and rubbed his stomach.

  Across the table, Meg looked down at her plate, still half full. Then she looked at his empty one. “Feel better now?”

  “I do, thanks.” He stretched from side to side. “But I’ll be ready for second dinner in a couple of hours.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Second dinner?”

  “Follow-up food. You know, that meal you have before bed so you don’t wake up in the middle of the night because your stomach is trying to eat itself.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, and he knew she was fighting a smile. Still, she managed a benign question. “Is that a problem you normally have?”

  He shrugged. He was a big guy with a big appetite, and he worked hard every single day. His peewee hockey coach had always yelled something about feeding the beast. And his beast liked protein. Lots of it.

  But for Meg, he said, “At least I share my snacks.”

  “Yes, you do. And it’s greatly appreciated.”

  They fell into silence, but without the clinking of their forks against plates and quiet chewing, it was louder than before. Before, he’d been able to focus on his meal. Now he could only stare at her and notice subtle things, like how her eyelashes swept across her cheeks when she looked down. How her honey-colored hair curled as it fell over her shoulder.

  How if he kept looking at her that way, someone was bound to notice. Bound to tell the whole town. And it was bound to get to Whitaker.

  That was the unknown.

  Whitaker could be overjoyed. Or he could decide he didn’t have to wait the four weeks until the end of the season to send Oliver on his way.

  Oliver couldn’t take that risk. Not when he already knew how he and Meg would end up.

  “So, the books?” Meg reached for the ledger at the same time he did, their fingers connecting, pausing. For just a moment, he let his touch linger on her hand, felt her curl into him, only their pinkies touching.

  He heard her breath catch and felt the sting in his chest, the desire to pull her into his arms in front of half the town.

  Instead, he slid his chair around to the side of the table, pushed the salt and pepper shakers out of the way, and opened the black book. Its fake leather cover gave way easily as the pages fell open to the latest entries in his own hand.

  Meg leaned in, squinting at the narrow lines.

  “How much do you know about keeping the books?”

  She looked up at him, her nose wrinkled and lips pinched. “Let’s pretend there were no accounting classes in my engineering degree.”

  “Sure.” He pointed at a column on the far right. “So the simple explanation—at least the way Whitaker explained it to me—is that this column is for expenses and this one is for income. Every business expense, from paychecks to fuel for the boat, gets recorded here.”

  Pointing a long finger at a line item, she nodded. “You made new traps to replace the cluster we lost.
”

  He nodded. “That’s the wood I bought for them. And these”—he pointed to the other column—“are income. Every time we deliver crates of lobster, the shore buyer pays us by the pound for hard shell based on the going rate.”

  “How come the numbers are going down? We’ve been catching more.”

  “The prices are fluctuating. They usually even out over the course of the season, but they’ve taken a hit for whatever reason. Could be a big supply from Nova Scotia or Maine. Or maybe the demand is just down right now.”

  Her lips pursed to the side, pinched together as she tapped a finger next to each of the income numbers. “There’s one for every day of the season so far, except the three days we couldn’t fish.”

  “No fishing, no income.”

  She nodded, her gaze devouring the numbers, probably seeing patterns and sequences that he never could. “And if we keep going in this direction, we’re barely going to break even for the season.”

  His gut twisted hard, but not from shock. He’d figured out the same thing. Sitting at his mom’s kitchen table on those rainy days, he’d seen the same trajectory. If the fisheries didn’t raise their prices or the catches didn’t increase, he and Meg would end the season with not much more than a handful of two-dollar toonies to split between them.

  Sure, they’d each been taking home a paycheck every week. Enough to get them by. But he’d been counting on an end-of-the-season bonus—the money that fishermen used to get them through the rest of the year. Only his wasn’t to hold him over for the rest of the year. It was to set him up for the rest of his life.

  As the owner, Whitaker would take home a hefty chunk. But without a decent paycheck at the end of the season, Oliver would never be able to afford his first payment on the business. He’d been saving for more than a year, socking away every nickel and dime he’d made the season before and every extra penny from the odd jobs he’d worked through the winter, spring, and summer. He was so close to having the first payment—but he’d been counting on making up the rest at the end of this season. He was determined not to be disqualified on a technicality.

  Okay, it was more than a technicality. No one would give a loan to someone who couldn’t pay them back. And at the moment, even paying Whitaker the first payment would be more than a stretch.

  It would all be different when he owned the business. At that point, he’d be the one taking home everything off the top. He might have to pinch pennies for a few more years, but he’d make enough for the next four payments. If he couldn’t come up with the first payment, though, he wouldn’t have to worry about making any of the others.

  Meg leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing against his, her gaze zipping back and forth over the lines. “Are there expenses we can cut?”

  He pointed at six lines. “These are all from having to replace the traps that were cut. Those others are bait and fuel.” He indicated another three lines. “These are our paychecks.”

  She tapped the largest number. “And what’s this one?”

  “Your dad’s cut.”

  She grinned at him. “I guess it’s good to be the boss.”

  He chuckled, but it didn’t really feel like a laughing matter. Of all the years for the market to tank.

  Her finger found its way back to the income lines, each day steadily lower. “So how much did we start at?”

  “Nearly eight dollars a pound.”

  “So we’re at a little more than half that now?”

  “A little better than five.”

  She closed her eyes, but he could see them shifting back and forth as she worked the numbers. “So if we stay at five, we’ll more than break even. But if the prices keep dropping, we’re going to be in serious trouble.”

  “Or if we have more unexpected expenses. Or if we can’t fish for some reason.”

  Her face filled with concern, she asked, “What do we do?”

  “Same thing fishermen have been doing for hundreds of years. Pray for good weather, floating boats, and a big catch.”

  That made her smile as he’d hoped, but he could still read the fear in her eyes.

  “Nothing about this job is stable,” he said. “None of it’s a guarantee.”

  “So why do you want it so much?”

  Her question pushed him back in his chair, and he crossed his arms, his mind playing over the right answer. This was his chance to convince her that fishing wasn’t the job for her, that this wasn’t a business she wanted to take on. But she had something he didn’t—a heritage of lobstermen who had weathered the storms of the industry a lot longer than he had.

  His legacy wasn’t anything to be proud of, but he could change it for the next generation. He didn’t have to leave the same for them. The sins of his father didn’t need to become the sins of his children.

  “It’s a chance I’ll never get anywhere else. I never went to uni—I never really wanted to. But the lobsters make sense to me. And if I want to pass anything down to my children, then this is my chance.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, as they often did. Cute and sweet. “You’ve thought about having kids?”

  “Sure. I guess. I mean, it’s hard not to when you think about buying a license that’s been one family’s heirloom for three generations. I see why your dad wants you to have it.”

  He could cut his own tongue off. He had no business blurting out things like that. Reminding her why she should care about something she hadn’t until a couple months before.

  But it was the truth. No matter how much leverage it gave her in this competition.

  That didn’t mean he was giving in. Not until Whitaker announced his decision. And that meant one thing. Oliver had to figure out a way to come up with the gap in his first payment. Fast.

  No problem. Five thousand dollars grew on trees. He hoped.

  nineteen

  After another week of sunshine, the storm clouds rolled in thick and heavy once again. The weatherman said that the rain wouldn’t stick around for long.

  Meg stuck another motion sickness patch behind her ear before she left the house. Just to be safe. Based on the numbers she and Oliver had looked at the week before, they couldn’t afford to miss even a day’s catch. Unless the waves were bigger than the boat or lightning was striking the water, they were going out.

  When she arrived at the dock, there was a chill in the air, which felt thick and wet. The leggings that had kept her warm and dry all season suddenly felt thinner than linen. She snuggled deeper into her hoodie, wishing she’d added a fourth layer. Once they were out on the water working, she’d warm up.

  She grabbed the paper tray of coffee cups from the passenger seat and held it close, breathing in the rich aroma and steam.

  Oliver and Kyle were already aboard the Pinch, and she handed them the coffee before crawling down the ladder. Kyle’s was gone before her feet landed on the deck. He raised his cup in a silent toast of appreciation.

  Oliver savored his, but his gaze never drifted from the horizon and the coming storm.

  “You worried?” she asked softly.

  He took another sip. “Don’t suppose that would help anything. Let’s get in and get out as fast as we can today.”

  She nodded and set about doing her part to get them on their way. In a few minutes they were chugging through the water, rolling with the waves. Her stomach took a roll too, and she pressed at her extra patch. It hadn’t been on long enough to do much, so she just had to fight through.

  Ignoring the rise and fall of her stomach, she pulled the hauler from its below-deck storage spot and wrestled it into place on its base. While she held it still, Kyle secured it to the footing with a metal pin. She extended the arm, adjusted the angle, and plugged it into the water-tight socket. As they approached the first green buoy, she gave Oliver a thumbs-up.

  But when she hooked the line and fed it through the wheels, the machine didn’t turn on. She flipped the switch again. Nothing.

  “Something’s wrong,” she calle
d to Oliver, who was almost immediately by her side.

  “What is it?” His eyebrows came together in a deep V, his arms crossed over his chest.

  They couldn’t afford this. Not any day. Especially not today, with the wind picking up and the storm brewing.

  “I don’t know. Either it’s not getting power or the motor is broken. But the rest of the boat has power, right?”

  “Yes. The GPS and everything else are plugged in and working.”

  Kyle stepped to her other side, silent, his face shadowed by uncertainty.

  “Maybe the motor snapped.”

  Oliver sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “We’re going to have to pull this in on our own. We’ve got a backup hand crank.” He didn’t say it, but they all knew that would take longer. So much longer.

  Meg unplugged the hauler and plugged it back in, praying to hear the subtle whirring. But there was nothing. She left it unplugged, lifting her face into the drizzle. Not the ideal place to work on anything electrical, but she had to try. “Do you have a screwdriver and needle-nose pliers?”

  Oliver pointed toward the wheel. “In the cabinet on the lower left.”

  “Okay, you set up the hand crank. I’ll see if I can fix this.”

  She immediately found the tools she needed in Oliver’s organized kit. It was sparse, but it reminded her of her dad’s garage with every tool in its place. She threw a clear tarp over the hauler and knelt under it. With a few quick twists of the Phillips-head screwdriver, she removed the cover from the little motor. Shining a flashlight around it, she looked for anything that might have caused it to stop working. It had worked just as it should the day before, and all the pieces of the motor seemed to be in place. She pressed her nose right up to the metal. No burning smell or strange odor.

  She couldn’t very well take all the pieces apart in this situation. But there had to be a Band-Aid. A patch. Something to get them through this day.