The law of the ocean? Was that a real thing?
As she gazed around the circle of faces—all basically strangers—her heart gave an unexpected twist. They truly did seem to care about her safety. Their primary concern was for their town, no doubt. She could understand that. A tiny collection of souls perched on the edge of a vast forbidding wilderness…their only chance of survival was to band together.
She, on the other hand, had been so alone since her mother died. During the years she’d spent caring for her, friends had dropped away, jobs had evaporated because she’d missed too many days. After Mum had died, she’d journeyed into a kind of wasteland of grief, a lonely wanderer trying to find her way.
The cruise ship job had satisfied her promise to her mother—there was traveling, dancing, even a few men. But she’d kept all those connections light and fun, not wanting to weigh them down with all her emotional baggage.
“How would this work?” she finally asked. “Would I still play campaign manager? I should warn you I have zero experience in that role. I convinced my postman to vote against Brexit, but that’s where it ends.”
“What kind of work do you usually do?” Maya asked.
“On the cruise ship, I was a dancer and a children’s entertainer. Tap is my specialty. I’m especially good with kids. I do a soft-shoe clown act that they adore. I’m quite good at pantomime.”
They all exchanged glances. “Not much call for tap-dancing clowns around here,” said Lucas. “What did you do before you joined the cruise ship?”
“I’ve had many small jobs. Dog groomer, garden tender, silver polisher.” Then, for some inexplicable reason, she went further. “But for the last few years I’ve been a full-time caregiver.”
“A licensed caregiver?” asked Maya. “We could probably find—”
“No. Strictly family. So that’s a no-go.” Impatiently, she shook off the conversation, already regretting that she’d revealed that much. “Look, clearly I’m not suited to a life in Alaska.” She gestured at her sunny outfit. “I’m like a daisy next to a clump of,” she eyed the stern deck, “seaweed.”
Tristan snorted and braced a hand on Lucas’ shoulder. “I’m thinking we’re the seaweed in that scenario.”
“I like it,” Lucas said. “Underestimate seaweed at your peril. A clump of the stuff can stall you out like nobody’s business.”
Good to know.
“Anyway, no one’s suggesting you live here,” Tristan continued. “Just get through the next few days until it’s safe to leave.”
Did she have a better plan? Not really. She’d been scrambling ever since she’d figured out what Mr. Bad Guy was up to.
“If I’m going to stay, I’ll need to blend in a bit more. Can anyone direct me to a store where I can procure some Alaska clothing? Nothing with a moose on it, mind you. They terrify me. They’re so large, how can they be allowed to roam around freely?”
The little group of rescuers reacted with relief and amusement.
“We got you, babe,” said Toni. “We’ll have you looking like an Alaska chick in no time.”
Seven
After leaving Lulu in Toni’s hands―there was talk of shopping, then toasting their shopping at the Olde Salt―Tristan drove to his house to check in on the roof repairs. The leak had started in the spring. He’d first noticed it while he was recovering from his surgery.
From his couch, he’d watched the amorphous stain on the ceiling spread and change shape. It was almost like a movie, if you didn’t need characters or a plot or a setting. There was dialogue, though. Or at least a monologue.
“Way to kick a guy when he’s down,” he’d grumbled at the stain. “You couldn’t wait until I got back on my feet? What’s that face you’re making? Better lose the attitude or I’ll paint over you like a bitch.”
Yeah, he’d come close to losing it during his recovery. If not for Bash and Toni and even Trixie, he might have.
In a more energetic moment, he’d put a bucket under the leak, then dragged his ass over to empty it when required. When he got clearance to move around more, he’d gone up on the roof and added some caulking, but really he needed a new roof. One successful fishing season later, the new roof was going on. He had the skills to do it himself, of course, but since he was running for mayor he’d hired a buddy to do it.
Also, he didn’t trust his body the way he used to. Blame it on his surgery, or the toll years of fishing took on a guy…either way, he was a lot more cautious than he used to be.
His house sat on a ridge overlooking Misty Bay. He loved the way clouds of mist clung to the bluffs and surrounded his home in suspended moisture. In the off season, he sat for hours with a cup of coffee, watching the clouds and listening to music, or losing himself in a book, or kicking back with some friends. That was what he’d be doing this winter, he assumed, but the prospect didn’t fill him with the usual contentment.
Maybe he should do something else. Travel, the way Trixie did. Spend some time in Chile with his parents. Adopt a dog. Learn a foreign language besides Spanish.
Of course, by this time next month, he might be mayor of Lost Harbor and have no spare time. He could be running this town. The idea filled him with nothing but dread. Why had he agreed to this cockeyed campaign?
The crew hadn’t arrived for work yet. Heavy gray-bellied clouds hung overhead, which made him wonder if they weren’t going to risk working on his roof today. Checking his phone, he found a text from Jon saying exactly that.
Damn. Another delay. He’d be staying on his boat just a little bit longer.
With a trespasser, no less.
He put his dirty clothes in the washing machine, then grabbed a few changes of clothing from his bedroom—extra sweaters and a set of long underwear. Then he collected the pile of paperwork he’d gathered to prepare for tonight’s mayoral debate. It was mostly facts and figures about the fishing industry and what it meant to Lost Harbor. That was his platform, after all. He needed to put together a mission statement that would sum up the reason people should vote for him.
So far, he hadn’t come up with much.
I can lead a fishing crew, so why not a town? Nope.
I’m a fisherman and it’s our turn. Definitely not, though that seemed to be the thinking of the fishing community.
Tristan Del Rey. Born to Lead. Just like my father. Ugh. Terrible. How was he supposed to fill the shoes of someone like Victor Gammelgaard? It was impossible. He was just a guy, a fisherman who didn’t take much seriously except for fishing.
He stood at his front window for a long moment and surveyed the town where he’d been born and raised. A thousand feet below his ridge, at the base of the bluffs, tiny toy houses were scattered like Legos on a green carpet. Some clung to the hillsides, others perched on the shore. Extending into the bay like a long curving arm was the boardwalk. On one side, it embraced the harbor and its bustling, bristling boats.
On the other side, rollers pounded against the breakwater that shored up the muddy spit of land. From here those waves looked like meaningless wrinkles in the water’s surface, but Tristan knew they were five-foot southwest swells. Because he knew that sort of thing.