by Liz Johnson
The beam of her flashlight bounced, and then she saw it. A red wire, severed. The power supply couldn’t get to the motor if the wires weren’t connected. She clipped the red outer protector and peeled it back to reveal the tip of the loose wire. Crisp. Sharp. Cut.
This wasn’t an accident. In fact, it was clearly sabotage. But why so subtle? Last time it had been blatant. This was hidden inside and covered back up with the motor’s casing. Someone had wanted them not to find it or to discover it far from shore.
Well, she wasn’t going to let them win.
With the pliers, she unwound the short end of the cut wire, careful not to jostle any of the other small pieces.
The tarp over her head rustled, and a pair of broad shoulders wedged their way into her cocoon. “Find anything?”
She held up the ends of the wire. “Someone didn’t want us to be able to use our hauler.” She kept her voice low, her gaze darting toward Kyle, who was baiting a cluster of traps.
A shadow fell across Oliver’s face. “You’re saying someone broke onto the boat last night, took apart the hauler’s engine, clipped one little wire, and then put it back so we wouldn’t notice?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t see any other explanation.”
“But who knew we weren’t staying on the boat anymore?” He pinched his eyes closed and sighed. “If this is really about my dad . . .” He didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t need to.
But no one had confessed. No one would own up to anything.
She cocked her head as she stared into the distance through the clear tarp. There wasn’t much to see but gray skies and clouds so low they covered the bridge. So she tried to conjure memories of her dad telling stories at the dinner table. Tales of the water and sailors and the rules.
“My dad told me a story once about a guy who fished out of his area. He was technically in his zone, but he set his traps in another fisherman’s spot. His line was cut, and no one fessed up to the actual act. But his sins were made clear, and he never made that mistake again. Last time, you said someone thought we broke a rule. That means you thought someone was trying to punish us. But that doesn’t work if you don’t know what you’re being punished for. You can’t change your ways if you don’t know what you’ve done wrong.”
He grunted in agreement.
“This isn’t punishment. They’re trying to scare us off.”
His eyes narrowed. “Can you fix this?”
“I just need a spool of wire.”
He disappeared, the tarp flapping in the wind and letting in a gust of cold air, and returned before she’d warmed her little shelter back up. Bending on one knee, he presented the gray wire to her as a knight to his princess.
Chuckling, she snipped and twisted the wires together. In two minutes she had the motor humming and the wheels spinning, pulling in the catch. Kyle cheered and Oliver bestowed a broad smile, and they fell back into the rhythm of their routine.
With every buoy she caught and every haul she made, Meg couldn’t help but wonder just who wanted them to give up. Who would benefit if she and Oliver backed out? Was there another buyer interested in the business? Or was it all about Oliver’s dad?
She had so many questions. And the only person who might have some answers was the one person she couldn’t ask. Talking to her dad would mean revealing the trouble they’d encountered, adding a weight to his shoulders. He’d told them he didn’t want to be bothered by phone calls and negotiations. He didn’t want to deal with questions and problems. He just wanted to take care of her mom.
Besides, if she asked what he knew, she’d be compelled to share what she knew—or at least what they assumed. And if she shared their assumptions about Druthers, she’d have to reveal what she knew about Oliver’s dad.
Her own dad knew what had happened—at least the part about Oliver’s father leaving town. But something in her gut told her that a reminder of Oliver’s father’s theft wouldn’t reflect well on the man he wanted to sell his business to. Dean Ross’s reputation couldn’t sink any lower, but Oliver’s would take a hit too.
And Oliver didn’t deserve that.
That evening, Oliver slammed the door of his truck below the stairs to his apartment. He eyed the kitchen window on the house, the light shining bright even in the twilight. Mama Potts had surely made something delicious, but darkness would come soon. And with it, a return to the Pinch.
Whoever was sabotaging them was brazen and fearless, and apparently nothing short of sleeping on the boat was going to protect her, protect their business.
Meg had taken the hauler home for the night to give it a more permanent fix. But what else could be—would be—taken or broken?
He’d hoped his days of sleeping on the boat were over, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Even if he’d miss his night-watch partner. Meg could probably use the sleep, and he wasn’t about to guilt her into another night under the stars. Or another three weeks under the stars, as the case was likely to be.
A hearty meal would hit the spot. An hour in his own bed would be even better.
As he reached the foot of the stairs, his phone rang. Violet. Again. She’d called him nearly every day for a week, but she hadn’t left him a message. If it was important, she’d tell his mom, who would pass along the news. Not that he’d seen his mom much lately either.
He sent her call to voicemail and slid his phone back into his pocket. It immediately rang again. He yanked it back out, prepared to give Violet a piece of his mind. Only it wasn’t her number. It wasn’t one he had saved in his phone.
“Hello?”
“Oliver Ross? This is Chad Stein. I’m the sales manager at South Shore Auto.”
“Mr. Stein.” Oliver dropped to sit on the third step, resting his arm across his bent knees. “Thank you for calling me back.”
“What can I do for you?”
Oliver stared over the grass to his truck parked at the end of the gravel drive. She was faded and weathered and nearly as old as he was. And he’d owned her since he was eighteen. She was also the only thing of any value that he owned.
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you might be interested in purchasing a 1999 Ford F-150.”
Chad coughed. “A ’99, you say?”
“Yes. But she runs great and has less than a hundred thousand kilometers on her.”
“I’m sure it’s a great vehicle, but we don’t keep anything that old on our lot. Now, if you were looking to trade it in on a new model, I’d be happy to make a deal for you.” His tone turned salesy, something he probably didn’t even notice.
But Oliver scowled as it grated on him, a reminder that he couldn’t afford a new truck. He couldn’t afford a used truck. He couldn’t afford anything—including a dream that was almost in his grasp.
“Thank you,” he forced out. “I’m not looking for a new vehicle. Just looking to unload the one I have.”
“Ah, well, good luck with that,” Chad said before ending the call.
Oliver held his phone, resting his forehead against his hands. He tried to pray for wisdom, for the right next step, but his mind was a jumbled mess of boats and traps and a beautiful blonde and kisses—such perfect kisses.
Once, he had been focused. He’d known what he wanted and gone after it. He still wanted that boat, that license, that life. But he was afraid it wasn’t enough anymore. Even if he managed to scrape up enough money for that first payment, then what?
God, what am I supposed to do?
“Why aren’t you answering my calls?” A shrill voice carried across the lawn, jerking him out of his prayers.
“Violet? Were you calling me from inside the house?”
She shrugged, marching through the grass. “So what if I was? You’re the one not picking up.”
“I know.” He waved his phone. “I’ve had a few things going on lately. Some of us work for a living instead of playing with clay all day.”
She clucked her tongue. “You better not let Mama Potts hear you talk
ing like that.”
With a shake of his head, he said, “Never.” He meant it. His mom had worked endless hours to build Mama Potts’s Red Clay Shoppe, her artsy studio and boutique, from nothing. Literally. She’d squared his dad’s debts and then started at zero, working three jobs. She’d refused to let him drop out of school to work full-time. “What’s so urgent that you keep calling but can’t leave a message?”
Some of the fire left her eyes, and her shoulders stooped a little bit. Pushing at his shoulder, she squeezed onto the step beside him, the holes in her jeans splitting at the knees, revealing pale skin. “I heard something the other day, and I figured you’d want to know.” Her tone carried the weight of the world in it, and his stomach clenched tighter than a fist.
“What is it?”
“Your brother—”
“Levi,” he clarified, no doubt in his tone.
When she shook her head, her dark hair fell from one shoulder down her back. “Eli.”
The fist moved from his stomach to his chest, squeezing his heart, shutting down his lungs. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t know what had overtaken him. Fear? Dread? Hope? He nodded for her to keep going.
“Well . . . he’s been in the news lately. He was released from his contract with the Rangers.”
Oliver let out a loud breath. “Is that all? Players get released all the time. He’ll get picked up.”
Her back hunched and her face fell forward. “I don’t think so.”
Something in her tone made that stupid fist bear down even harder until his breaths were shaky and uncertain. “Why?” was all he could croak out.
“There’s a lot of speculation right now. The sports shows are all trying to figure out what happened, but no one’s talking. Not your brother. Not the Rangers’ front office. Not the coaches. No one.” She took a little breath, peeking at him from the side. “But he wasn’t suspended. He’s been blacklisted from the NHL.”
Oliver didn’t know how to respond. The NHL had been his brother’s dream. Shoot, it was the dream of every little boy who grew up on skates.
Gretzky. Howe. Messier. They were legends, household names. And Eli Ross had wanted his name to be among them. He’d deemed it worth turning his back on everyone else in his life. He’d walked away and never looked back. Never reached out. Never cared what became of his family. All for the NHL.
And now the NHL had turned its back on him.
For the last ten years, Oliver had avoided the sports channels, given up watching hockey games, and ignored every insinuation from his neighbors that he must be so proud. After a few months, they’d gotten the hint that he didn’t want to talk about Eli. Now it took every bit of strength inside him to ask, “What’s the media saying?”
She shook her head again. “It’s all speculation.”
He nearly growled. “But what are they saying?”
“Drugs, mostly. They’re blaming it on performance-enhancing drugs.”
“No. It’s not drugs. Even if he was on them, he wouldn’t get kicked out of the league. He’d get a slap on the wrist, a fine. He’d lose his spot on the Rangers’ bench. He wouldn’t be kicked out of the NHL.”
“What could it have been then?”
Shrugging one shoulder, he kept his gaze on the cement step between his feet. He could think of only one thing that would get a good player banished. Eli was selfish and arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid enough to do that. Or at least the Eli he’d known ten years before wasn’t.
“Have you told my mom?”
She snorted. “Why do you think I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all week? This is something that should come from a beloved son.”
“Then you should have gone to Levi.”
Crashing her shoulder into his, she chuckled. “I couldn’t get Levi to sit in the same room with me long enough to tell him. So you’re up. She’s still in the living room. She was reading when I left.”
“Sorry, not tonight.” He had other things that had to be done, like watching a boat that wouldn’t watch itself.
“But soon?” Violet made him promise before she wandered toward the road. She strolled toward the studio and her attached apartment as the sun made its last hurrah before turning in for the night.
Oliver watched her go for a long moment, wishing he could go to sleep, knowing he’d missed his chance. Instead, he trudged up the stairs, grabbed his pillow and an old sleeping bag, and walked toward the harbor. He wasn’t shooting for covert any longer—let whoever was messing with his stuff know he was coming. He’d meet them gladly. But it seemed a waste to drive a kilometer when he had energy to spare. Well, it wasn’t exactly energy. More like anger, a raging fire. And every step stoked it. Every step reminded him of his brother’s choice, his selfish, hurtful choice.
Yeah, maybe he’d told his brother to go. Maybe he’d screamed at him to never come back. But that had been ten years ago, and every single day Eli had made the choice not to call. Every single day he’d made the choice not to think about them.
And every single day he had left Oliver to care for their mom and little brother. He’d left their family a little more sad. A little more broken.
The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to kick something. Hard. Kicking a robot hadn’t helped the last time his brother broke his heart. But his toe caught a small rock, and he sent it flying in an arc toward the moon, then clattering against the pavement as it rolled away.
If only it were that easy to get rid of the memories. To get rid of his brother.
He marched down the pier toward the Lobster Barn, the gray building closed for the night, its windows dark. One car was parked down the way, but he didn’t recognize it in the shadow. When he reached the Pinch, he leaned over to toss his sleeping bag down.
His heart jumped into his throat, and he shouted as a dark shadow ran across the boat’s deck.
“Stop!”
twenty
Meg screamed and nearly dropped the hauler in her arms, her heart slamming against her rib cage. “Oliver?” It came out barely a squeak, and in the darkness she couldn’t be sure just who had joined her.
“Meg?” He tossed something fluffy aboard and scrambled down the ladder and onto the deck. “What are you doing here?”
“Returning this.” She lifted the machine higher in the air. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped closer, relieving her of her burden and carrying it to the compartment hidden in the stern. “Making sure nothing else happens on this boat.”
“Me too.”
He closed and locked the trap, pocketed the key, and looked back up at her. “I thought you were returning the hauler.”
“Yes. And . . .” Her gaze darted to the outline of blankets stacked on the port side. The storms had swept in more than rain and wind. They’d ushered in fall, and with it a drop in temperatures. She’d been chilled before, so she’d come prepared to stay warm. “I didn’t want to have to fix the hauler on the fly again.”
“You were pretty good at it this morning.”
“Thanks.” Her shoulders bounced. “It’s much better now, and I even gave it a little extra boost. It should work like a charm tomorrow.”
His chuckle was low and warmed her from her chest to her toes. “The morning’s going to get here soon. You don’t have to stay, you know.”
“I want to.”
White teeth flashed through the night, and she couldn’t help but smile in kind. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.
They set about making up pallets for themselves, Meg using thick comforters and even an electric blanket that she’d converted to plug into a battery. Oliver had a sleeping bag and a lumpy pillow. When he’d unrolled it, he stood back to admire his handiwork.
Meg laughed and threw an old quilt at him. “At least wrap up in this before you get in that thing.”
He wrapped it around the shoulders of his coat like a cape and swished side to side beneath it. “Am I doing it right?”
&
nbsp; Rolling her eyes in his general direction, she shook her head. She couldn’t afford to throw anything else at him, so she peeled back a few layers and crawled into her nest, then pulled the covers up to her nose. But her teeth still rattled, the tips of her nose and ears stinging in the wind.
“Here.” Oliver knelt beside her pallet, pulling a toque from his pocket. He slid it onto her head and over her ears. “Better?”
She nodded. “But you’ll be cold.”
He flapped up the hood from his sweatshirt and yanked on the strings until all but his nose disappeared. Laughter spilled out of her in waves. How could he do that? Make her forget her worries and just enjoy a silly moment.
She’d forgotten how to do that. After her mom got sick and her dad started worrying and she had to leave school, it had become easier to be serious, to think serious. But Oliver had been right about making memories with her mom. Memories filled with laughter and joy and sweet moments together.
And he was right to make her laugh tonight.
As he settled into his sleeping bag, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“What’s that? Can’t hear you through my super-warm hoodie.”
“Maybe it’s because you’re five kilometers away,” she yelled. The distance between them was rather ridiculous. When they’d stayed on the boat before, they’d shared a cushion and a blanket and plenty of body heat. But they’d both been expecting to spend tonight alone.
She didn’t want to. And she didn’t want to feel the two meters between them so acutely.
“Come closer,” she whispered.
He didn’t pretend he couldn’t hear her that time. Instead, he stared at her for a long moment, then—still zipped up in his sleeping bag—he rolled over twice until his body was pressed against the side of her pallet, his face only inches from hers.
“Hey,” he whispered, his breath warm and minty like he’d brushed his teeth before walking this way.
“Hi. How was your night?”
He wiggled his hoodie loose and met her gaze. In the light of the moon, she could make out his features and even the shadow of the divot beside his mouth. If it wouldn’t have opened her up to all sorts of cold air, she might have pressed her finger to it just because.
