by Liz Johnson
Meg scrambled down after them and held her mom steady as Oliver set up cushions for them to sit on. After she was comfortable and secure, they headed into the darkness. The boat purred and trembled beneath them for ten minutes until Oliver maneuvered it into position only seconds before the growing dawn split the sky from the earth.
He grabbed the totes he’d brought, pulled out contractible camping chairs, and set them up. “I thought these might be more comfortable.”
Her mom sank into hers, and Meg tucked a blanket around her legs before falling into her own seat just as the show began. The base of the giant gray bridge exploded with color, and her mom leaned forward, almost bent in half to see it more clearly, more closely. She gasped a breath of pure joy, lost in the moment.
At a gentle tap on her shoulder, Meg glanced to her left. Oliver sat in his own camping chair on the other side of her mom, his legs outstretched, ankles crossed. He was staring at her, a gentle smile telegraphing exactly what she was thinking.
It was worth it.
His fingers dipped from her shoulder toward her elbow, hooking her arm and pulling it free until his fingers locked with hers behind her mom’s back. The touch of his hand was familiar now, but his gentleness never ceased to surprise her. He was so tender. Unhurried. Cherishing. He squeezed her hand once, and she squeezed back twice. Thank you.
“Anytime.” He mouthed the word, but she felt it vibrate deep inside her as she held his gaze, his blue eyes as deep as the ocean.
This. This was romantic. It wasn’t dancing under the stars, it was doing whatever it took to help her fulfill her dreams. It was caring for her mom, carrying her mom. It was making memories possible. Meg couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—done any of this without him. She didn’t want to do it without him either.
The truth rose in her like the sun rising on the bridge, steady and then overwhelming.
This was love.
She had to look down as her throat closed. How had she ever thought him selfish or unkind? How could he be when he loved her so well?
When the light reached the top and flashed its brightest, Oliver whispered, “So what do you think, Mrs. Whitaker?”
“Gold and fire and . . . and . . . and light.” Her words were hushed with awe, her face open and bright. “Again?”
Meg laughed back a trembling sob. “Yeah, Mom. We can come again.”
Oliver shoved open the door of the studio with a little more force than necessary. It slammed against the adjacent wall, rattling a window.
“Well, hello to you too.” Violet looked up from the rotating wheel before holding her red clay–caked hands off to each side. “To what do I owe such a genteel arrival?”
“Is my mom around?” His voice was more growl than he wanted, but his insides had been eating him up all day, and he needed some advice. Worse, he wanted to go to Meg for it, and he couldn’t.
“Nope. You just missed her. She’s headed to the women’s Bible study at church.”
He sighed, leaning his head on his arm against the open door frame. His mom would be unavailable until after he had to be back to the boat, where he’d likely spend another evening talking with Meg. Which was normally one of his favorite things to do.
Except when it wasn’t. Like that very moment.
Violet rubbed her sticky hands together over an oddly shaped bowl in the center of her wheel. “Something I can help you with?”
He squinted at her with one eye. “Doubtful. Unless you can turn back time?”
She sat up a little straighter, shifting the skirt of her apron to fall between the legs of her jeans as she spun her stool in his direction. “Interesting. And exactly what part of history are you interested in rewriting?”
“All of it.” The words came out on a groan, and he thumped the frame with his fist, shaking a nearby shelf.
“Hey, careful now. Those haven’t been fired yet.”
He jumped back. His mom would send him packing if he toppled a vase or ruined one of her signature pieces before it made it into the kiln. “I’m sorry. I just needed to talk with my mom. I’ll go.”
“I didn’t say you had to go.” Violet walked over to the sink at the back of the room and turned on the faucet. “I’m not your mom, but maybe I can help. Tell old Aunt Violet what’s going on. Have a seat on my sofa.”
Right. Because “old Aunt Violet” was about a year younger than he was. And the “sofa” she pointed at was the stool in front of an empty wheel, the one his mom generally occupied. The rest of her office consisted of wooden worktables lined with benches down each side, six-foot wooden shelves that housed pottery in various stages, and trays upon trays of ceramic glazes. A wooden staircase over the sink led to the loft apartment where Violet lived, and in good weather, the enormous garage door on the adjacent wall let in the sun and birdsong.
Nothing was pristine, but it was clean and tidy and inspiring. Maybe it would inspire some answers for him. He sank onto the stool she’d indicated, pumping the pedal with his foot and making the empty gray wheel spin.
“You want me to throw down a hunk of clay on that thing, or you want to tell me what’s going on with you lately?”
“I haven’t told my mom about Eli.”
“I figured as much. She hasn’t said anything to me.” With the back of her hand, she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. It was already coated with red, and she had a matching streak down her face. “I guess there’s no rush—except that the rest of the town knows. Your mom will hear sooner or later.”
Yeah. He knew that too. But he was hoping it would be later. After all, the rest of the town had learned not to say anything about Eli to anyone in his family for years. Why should this change anything?
“Is that what this”—she waved a hand to encompass all of him as she dropped to her own stool—“is all about? Your brother?”
“Not exactly.” Clapping a hand on the back of his neck, he pumped the pedal even faster.
“Then what’s this—” She sucked in a quick breath, her voice dancing. “Is this about Meg?”
“I might have . . .” He held up a finger to correct himself. “I may have sort of . . . you know. I kissed her.”
Violet clapped her hands and stamped the toes of her once-white sneakers. “Tell me everything.”
He scowled. “No. This is not a slumber party, and we are not girlfriends.”
She frowned. “Okay. Tell me something, at least. What happened? How did you get there? How was it?”
Great. Fantastic. Amazing.
But he was not going to tell Violet that. “We . . . we had this moment. See, there’s been something strange happening on the boat. Someone cut one of our lines and broke our hauler. Not enough to really damage the business, but enough that I’ve been sleeping on the boat—we’ve been sleeping on the boat.”
“You and Meg?”
He nodded.
“Tell me more.”
“There was this . . .” Maybe he’d already said too much. “Never mind. I changed my mind. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come on, Oliver. I’d tell you if I was kissing someone.”
“I wouldn’t want to hear about it,” he grumbled, meaning every word.
“Too bad,” she singsonged. “I’m like the sister you never wanted. If I’m going to bestow my wisdom on you, you also have to listen when I want to share. Now keep talking. You and Meg have been spending extracurricular time together.”
Wiping damp palms down his jeans, he sighed. “Her mom is sick.”
The glee in Violet’s eyes went out like a flame. “I heard that. I’m so sorry. I know how much you like Walt and Sandra.”
He nodded. “I suggested to Meg that she might want to make some memories with her mom. Sandra loves the beach, but it’s not a great place if you’re not so stable, so Meg asked me if I’d go along. We had such a good time, and Sandra just—it was like she was a kid seeing the ocean for the first time. She was splashing and kicking at the waves, and we were
laughing. It was such an amazing afternoon. We took her home, and then Meg kissed me. Out of the blue. She just kissed me, and I swear, I wasn’t going to kiss her back or anything.” He held his face in his hands. “Then she started to walk away, and I thought, if that was the only kiss I ever got with Meg Whitaker, I didn’t want that to be how she remembered me. So I kissed her. For real.”
“And?” Violet pumped her eyebrows.
Heat rushed down his neck, and he ducked his head, wrapping his hands around the parts surely turning red.
“That good, huh? So why is this such a terrible thing? It seems like she liked it. And you really liked it.”
“Shut up.”
“Well, why is this making you stomp around like a moose in a bear trap?”
He wasn’t. Okay, maybe he was a little bit. But he had reasons.
When he was silent too long, Violet nudged his shin with her foot.
“Because one of us is going to get the business, and the other one is going to be devastated. Either way, there’s no future that ends with Meg and me together.”
“Why not?”
He scoffed. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t think Violet should need it spelled out. “If her dad gives me the business she wants, she won’t forgive me. She’s got nothing to fall back on. No job. No prospects. No stability. The only thing in her life that’s stable right now is the legacy of that fishing license. But if he gives her the business, I’ve got nothing to offer her. I have no job, no money, and no future.”
“You think you’d lose your job? Walt wouldn’t do that.”
Oliver shook his head. “He wouldn’t, but he won’t be in charge for long. And I can’t work for Meg.”
Violet pursed her lips. “I’m going to bite my tongue and assume that you have reasons other than not wanting to work for a woman.”
“No, it’s not about her being a woman. It’s about—how do you work for someone you want to hold tight every day and whisper all your secrets to every night? How do you keep it professional knowing that you want more but don’t have anything else to offer?”
“Okay. That would be hard. But what makes you think the business is all you’d have to offer?”
Oliver groaned. “She wants stability. Her life is changing faster than she can come to terms with it. And the life of a fisherman isn’t exactly what I’d call steady. The price per pound is tanking, and I’m going to have to sell my truck just to even get close to being able to make the first payment I promised Whitaker.”
At least he’d found a buyer, a dad who wanted an old beat-up truck for his sixteen-year-old son. Oliver didn’t know what it said about him that he was having to sell that old beat-up truck—and that it was the most valuable thing he owned. But in a day or two, the money would be in his account. Ready for Whitaker. Just in case.
“And then there’s this little matter of another buyer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a call the other day from a broker who has an interested buyer ready to pay cash up front. Whitaker always said it wasn’t about the money, but who would turn down that kind of offer? He’ll pay more than what I can. Even over five years.”
Violet’s features had grown increasingly taut, her grimace clearly from pain. “What did Walt say when you told him?”
Oliver peeked out from between fingers covering his face. “I haven’t told him.”
“Well, what did Meg say?”
He only shook his head.
“Oh, Oliver. You have to tell them.”
“I know I do. But how? Casually knock myself out of the game? ‘Oh, by the way, there’s another offer I really think you should see, but don’t forget the great deal you promised me.’”
“Maybe he wouldn’t take it.”
“I don’t know if I can risk it. But every day I don’t tell them, I feel sick. Worse than seasick. Like something inside me is trying to claw its way out.”
“Then you know what you have to do. Tell Walt the truth. You want to stop feeling sick? Be honest. Leave the rest up to God.”
Argh. She was right and he knew it. He’d thought the same thing a million times, but he still hated her for making it sound so simple. Yes, he needed to confess the truth, lay it bare. Hidden secrets only ever festered. God would do what he would do, and it would be what was best.
But knowing that and acting on it were different. Yet if he didn’t act on what he believed, did he really believe it at all?
“And what about Meg?”
He scratched his nails down his face. “What about her?”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He’d never been more honest in his life.
“What would it take for you to have a chance with her?”
His throat tried to close around the words, but he pushed them out. “I’d have to walk away from the business. She’d have to know that what I feel for her has nothing at all to do with the Pinch.”
“And would it be worth it? Would she be worth it?”
Such a hard question. Such an easy answer.
twenty-two
Meg flew through the door at Carrie’s, her money already in hand. The small café was busier than at the height of tourist season. Every table was filled with grown men and women whispering with their heads together. One name seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Eli Ross.
Carrie caught her eye from across the room, a full busing tub in her hands. “Your order isn’t quite ready. Give me a few more minutes?”
Meg nodded, looking for an empty chair. But there were none.
“Hey, Miss Whitaker.” Jenna flew by, carrying a tray of drinks.
“Hi, Jenna. Good to see you. Tell your mom I’m going to wait outside.”
Jenna nodded, and Meg slipped onto the front deck, its wooden beams sporting a fresh coat of white paint. There were no chairs, so she leaned her arms against the rail, staring off into the row of homes beneath the outstretched arms of big oak trees. The leaves were only just beginning to change, sparks of gold and amber dotting the green landscape, reminding her of a childhood spent raking piles of leaves only to run and jump in them. Her mom had laughed, raked them again, and fallen right back into them with her.
“Hey, Meg.”
She turned at the sound of her name to see Violet and offered a smile.
“I always seem to run into you here.”
“Just picking up dinner for my parents.”
Violet gave her a knowing smile. “And then back to the boat?”
Meg paused, not sure how to respond. “Um, how did you know that?”
“Oh, you know Oliver. He let it slip that you’ve been spending a bit of time together. I’m sorry to hear about the issues on the boat, but it sounds like it’s all going to work out.”
“What do you—” Meg wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to ask. “I’m sorry, what’s going to work out?”
Violet’s face turned blank, a flash of uncertainty in her eyes. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and bit her lip. “Just, you know. I told him to be friendly. I knew it would all work out if he was . . . It seems like you’re getting along.”
Meg nodded slowly, her brain trying to register exactly what Violet wasn’t saying. “You told him to be friendly?”
Violet dismissed her own words with a flippant wave. “You know how it was at first, back before the season started. Well, you both would have had a terrible season working together. And neither of you would have gotten—”
The door flew open, and Carrie shoved a plastic bag with three trays in it in her direction. “Meg, I’m so sorry about the wait.”
Meg held out the colorful twenties in numb fingers and mumbled, “Keep the change” before flying down the steps.
Violet called after her, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Meg could barely hear her for the ringing in her ears and the thunder of her own footsteps as she marched toward her parents’ home.
Be friendly. Vio
let had told Oliver to be friendly. She’d told him to become her friend. Was that why he had apologized? Why he’d been so nice to her? Except for that whole pretending to drown when she’d pushed him off the Pinch, he’d gone out of his way to show how nice of a guy he could be. But how far had it extended?
She understood wanting peace between coworkers. But Violet had admitted there was more—a bigger reason.
What about all of the things he’d done for her? No one was that good of an actor.
The way he’d held her when she cried. Cared for her mom. Kissed her until she was breathless. No one did those things unless they were real.
Unless . . .
Unless it was all part of some scheme. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Nothing was worth all that. Except . . .
The business.
Her stomach heaved, and she thought she was going to be sick on the side of the road. This was ridiculous. She just needed to talk with him. Oliver would clear everything up. Of course he would. He wasn’t pulling some scam to steal the business out from under her. Besides, it was her dad’s decision, and he hadn’t made one yet.
No. Just no.
She was letting her imagination get the better of her.
By the time she got to her parents’ home, barely a kilometer from Carrie’s, she’d worked herself into a fine lather, teeth grinding and sweat dripping down her forehead. Rushing inside, she dropped the bag on the counter and took two deep breaths.
You’re overreacting, Meg. Pull yourself together.
She took another breath. Then another. She walked over to her mother and sat down next to her on the couch. “Hey, Mom.”
Her mom rested her hand on top of hers. “Honey.”
A moment later her dad appeared from the back room. “Thought I heard you come in. Glad you’re here.” He pulled three plates from the cabinet beside the refrigerator. “Has Oliver said anything about talking to a broker?”
Her stomach took another roll, and it was worse than being on a boat without her patch. “What kind of broker?” Her voice was dry and little more than a whisper. She shouldn’t have bothered asking because she already knew.
“The kind who arranges buyers for lobster fishing fleets. I got an email from one today. He said he spoke to Oliver.” Her dad sounded more puzzled than concerned, but Meg couldn’t shut off the alarm bells fast enough.
