TWO
Cape Harbor, Washington, was known for its beautiful coastline, its majestic views, and its quaint style of living, as well as swashbuckling ghosts. Over the years, the story about the pirate ship, the Grand Night, sinking a mere thirty feet from the shore grew with each person telling the tale. It was a stormy night, might’ve been snowing, or was the wind whipping so hard the captain couldn’t keep the ship straight? There was no way to tell. What about the ghosts who sat at the bar of the Whale Spout long after it closed, causing a ruckus? As the folklore went, the gangplanks used for the Whale Spout came from the Grand Night, but how that came about was unknown. Some say the wind ripped apart the ship, and the wide pieces of wood slammed against local angler Justin Schreiber’s boat one afternoon, waking him from a drunken stupor. Others say he was a thief who robbed the ship, taking what belonged to the ocean and bringing a curse to all the fishermen. Whether the tales were true, no one would ever know, but the uncertainty hadn’t stopped fortune hunters from coming to the small Washington town with their diving gear, hoping to discover what many before them hadn’t—those elusive chestfuls of gold coins and jewels. The tourist shop in town sold magnets, T-shirts, and replica coins and necklaces related to the myth, and the old fishermen who sat in the same corner of the Whale Spout as the fishermen before them had continued to spread the story to anyone willing to sit and listen.
A man sat down at the bar and motioned to Graham. There were very few patrons in the bar tonight; most people were home or traveling to visit relatives for the upcoming holiday. “What can I get you?” Graham asked.
“Whatever you have on tap.”
Graham pulled a glass from the counter, set it at a forty-five-degree angle, and pulled the tap of his favorite local brew, the White Elephant Couch, and watched as amber liquid filled the glass. He held it up and admired his ability to create as little head as possible. Beer pouring was truly an art form, at least for him.
“Is it true?” the man asked Graham as he slid the pint toward him.
“What’s that?”
“The ghost stories. My buddy has been here a few times and says this place is haunted. Said if I stay until closing, I’m likely to catch the spirit of Blackbird.”
“As far as I know, Blackbird never sailed the Pacific.” There hadn’t been a day since he took over the bar from his father that he hadn’t been asked if any of the legends were true. Hearing what others had heard over the years was one of the best parts of his job, and he often wished he could confirm or deny the fables. Was the Whale Spout haunted? Likely. There were too many instances that left Graham wondering. Most often, he’d come in to work and find the barstools tipped over or a water faucet running. Each time, he would thank whoever did it for not touching the taps, because losing a keg of beer would be costly, especially during the winter.
Once Labor Day came and went, the tourism season slowed to a trickle. Thankfully, with the Driftwood Inn reopening, there had been a steady flow of people coming back to the area. Still, most of the people around town were locals who only frequented the town’s favorite watering hole on Friday or Saturday nights. Graham thought about limiting the hours during the winter, especially between the months of November and February, but didn’t know what he would do with all his downtime. He loved being a bartender, even though his passion lay in corporate America. He missed the challenges and the intricacies of working with computers, of being the tool everyone in his building needed. At night, when he was alone in his houseboat with only the sound of the ocean keeping him company, he thought about giving up the bar and returning to the rat race of traffic jams, meetings, and a cell phone that never stopped ringing. He missed the power-hungry women and the sexiness they exuded when they were asking him for help, as well as the corporate ladder and the feeling that came with being indispensable. He gave it all up, and for what? To be a bartender in an establishment his parents owned? Granted, he was free to do whatever he wanted with the place . . . except sell it. His parents were silent partners, the bankroll that kept the place afloat, mostly for his alcoholic brother, Grady. His twin brother.
Graham continued with his busywork. He lost count of how many times he wiped the bar top down, stacked coasters, and quickly sopped up any inkling of a water drop. The old decking that made up the bar top was rumored to have come from the same pirate ship the door and floor had. Again, rumors spread like wildfire, and he had no idea if it was true, but it was in pristine condition as far as he was concerned. At the end of the summer, once business slowed, he had begged his friend Brooklyn to teach him how to strip and refinish the piece. He wanted to maintain the chunks of wood as long as he could, and the previous finish hadn’t held up over the years. He filled the bowls of nuts, restocked the beers he kept in bottles, checked the taps of the newly installed IPAs, straightened the liquor bottles, dusted the glass shelving, washed the glasses, and checked on the old cronies in the corner.
The Whale Spout was Cape Harbor’s only watering hole. Not that others hadn’t tried to open other bars; they just couldn’t compete and often closed within a year or two. Sure, the restaurants in town served liquor, but the locals preferred the one that had been in town the longest. “The OG,” as you’d often hear residents tell visitors. Since Graham took over, he’d made a few changes, such as the large-screen projector in the back that aired local sporting events, the smaller televisions at the bar, a better jukebox—because even he knew he had to cater to the women who wanted to dance while their men wanted to be at the bar. He wanted the place to be the hot spot, the happening joint, the place to be, and for the most part, he thought it was.
There were a few other patrons in the Whale Spout, two of whom sat at the bar and four or five guys in the back, playing darts. Each week, there were darts and billiards tournaments and, in the summer, beach volleyball. He always offered cash prizes, the amount determined by the number of entrants.
For the past fifteen years, Graham had been behind the bar. Before him it had been his father, and before his father, his grandfather. Graham wasn’t sure if it was his grandfather’s intention to create a Chamberlain legacy, but he had. It seemed almost like one hundred years had passed since Floyd Chamberlain bought the Whale Spout. A framed picture of him holding the driftwood sign sat near the cash register, along with similar pictures of the other previous owners. Graham never intended to take over the bar, and it really hadn’t been expected of him either. His parents never pushed and instead encouraged him to go to college in California. They secured the loans with the understanding he would pay them back once he landed his first job. His first, and subsequently only, job came in the form of a systems IT analyst and came with a nice Silicon Valley paycheck.
Living in California wasn’t exactly a dream but a stepping-stone to something bigger and better. His intentions were to either return to Washington or move to Oregon in ten to fifteen years and open his own security and IT company. Far too often, small businesses and the average computer user didn’t protect themselves from cyberattackers, and he had a plan to combat the rising epidemic. After college, he found a couple roommates, four to be exact, to share in the expenses of living in one of the most expensive areas. Carpooled to work to save on the wear and tear of his car, rode his ten-speed bike as often as he could, and opted to have people over rather than going out on the town. Paying his parents back was a priority, and when he wrote the first check out to them, he had done so with pride.