One day, if I was lucky enough to find him, I’d marry my own husband on the bluff during the setting sun. I’d pledge to love him forever and then show our kids where we’d said our I do’s. Hopefully they’d also find the same comfort here I always had, and the Sea Sprite would remain vital and pivotal to generations of Gilleys to come. The Sea Sprite meant everything to me, and I couldn’t wait to bring it back to its former glory.
I left Nana and Grandpa’s dining room on bouncing feet, excited to move forward to the next phase in the Sea Sprite’s long history.
But of course I’d forgotten one of the most important facts about history: nothing ever turns out the way you imagine, and nothing worth having ever comes that easy.
1
James
After fighting early summer traffic from Boston to the Cape, including a massive backup on the bridge and a jeep full of rowdy teens nearly sideswiping me into the sign for Mashpee, my nerves were shot, and I finally understood why my ex had always insisted on vacationing at Fire Island instead of Provincetown. I should have flown straight into Hyannis instead of Boston, but then I would have missed out on the chance to visit the big costume store on Mass Ave that carried custom Geralt wigs.
My friend Conor and I had won a bet against his husband, and the prize had been Wells dressing as the Witcher at an upcoming gaming convention. Hopefully the stressful detour would be well worth it when Conor saw the facial scar makeup and the Witcher’s medallion the young woman at the checkout counter had added to my haul.
I drew in a deep breath and let it out as I noticed, thankfully, mine was the only car taking the turnoff for McBride. It took me a minute to wonder how there could be any seaside village on the Cape not completely packed for the early summer weekend. There should have been tourists streaming into McBride in droves, considering it was perfectly positioned on one of the nicest points on the south coast of the Cape with views in all directions. But as I pulled into the tiny town just as afternoon turned to evening, I noticed it was almost like stepping back in time. There was a red general store at the corner of the main street and the cross street that led to the public beach. A small grocery store named Bedwicks had hand-printed signs in the windows advertising cheap cuts of meat, but it was clearly already buttoned up for the night.
Even the ice cream shop, that would have had a line around the corner this time of night in any other coastal town, only had one family inside from what I could see through the plate glass window. The small redbrick library still took a prominent spot on the main drag which indicated more expensive tourist shops hadn’t come in yet and forced it to a more remote location.
The town had potential, though. I could see that right off the bat. I’d been sent there by my largest client to negotiate the purchase of an old motel that sat out on the tip of a peninsula jutting into Gannet Bay. The minute I drove past it, I understood exactly why it had caught my client’s eye. Despite his oftentimes overbearing nature, Dick Sr. was savvy about real estate investment potential, and he’d latched onto this particular coastal property as the next site of a luxury resort. From the looks of it, he was about to strike gold.
Because of its location, the land itself had had an unobstructed 180-degree view of the bay, the surface of which currently glimmered with an explosion of color from the setting sun. It was breathtaking. So much so that I found myself pulling to the side of the road and letting the light wash over me and warm me. Instantly I felt my shoulders relaxing, the tension of the drive and the traffic easing out of me.
Then my eyes shifted to the motel itself, and I almost wanted to laugh. From the look of things, it had slid past disrepair and into derelict sometime in the 1980s. During my drive out here I’d been a little worried about the negotiations for this place—it had been in the same family for eighty years and had recently transferred to the next generation after the grandparents passed away several months ago. From experience I knew estate battles could turn ugly, old family tensions surfacing and throwing emotional wrenches into already settled deals.
The last thing I wanted to do was find myself in the middle of a family battle, not because I shied away from confrontation, but because it wasn’t my place to trespass into someone else’s private life like that. It felt intrusive and wrong. I’d had enough of my own family drama growing up to know that outside appearances rarely told the whole truth.
From the outside, the dismal state of the Sea Sprite Inn might make it look like easy pickings, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was going to be easy to strike a deal. I thought about this as I made my way back toward the little town, following my GPS to the address of the Airbnb my assistant had booked for me.
I pulled my rental car into the gravel lot of a small bar topped with a driftwood sign that said By the Way. I snorted since the building was located on the corner of Main Way and By Lane. It was like something out of a Hallmark movie except much, much shabbier.
A set of weathered wooden steps bolted along the side wall of the building led up to a small porch where another small sign hung that read On the Way. I glanced again at the itinerary my assistant had printed up, confirming that was the name of the apartment she’d rented for me.
At least it seemed the folks in the town had a sense of humor, I thought to myself as I grabbed my bag from the trunk and made my way up to the apartment. It was nice inside, clean and minimal with wide windows that looked out over the town. I stood for a moment, trying to decide what my next move should be. I’d gotten a good sense of the town itself from driving around, but I was still curious about the people who lived here. I figured the best place for that would probably be the bar downstairs.
Plus, I was craving a Mai Tai.
Even though it had been several months since the breakup, I still heard Richard’s voice in my ear. Maybe you should get a vodka soda instead. Those Mai Tai’s are going to cost you another hour in the gym tomorrow.
I gritted my teeth, trying to force my ex’s voice out of my head as I made my way outside and back down the stairs. Fuck it. I was getting a Mai Tai, I decided, in part because Richard wasn’t here—wasn’t even in my life anymore—which meant I could do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted was a Mai Tai. I was on the Cape for god’s sake. And what the hell did I care if I was carrying a few extra pounds of weight around my middle these days? Some people starved themselves through a breakup, and others spent too much time at Zabar’s. It was fine. Even though I was here for work, I still hoped to sneak a little time on the beach to at least put some color back into my skin from a long, cold winter.
I reached the gravel lot and circled around to the front of the bar. The place was very old Cape Cod. Weathered boards from the exterior gave way to a similarly weather-beaten look inside. Old painted wooden buoys hung from rough hemp rope on the walls, neon beer signs dotted the front windows, framed black-and-white photos of fishing boats and proud fishermen holding record catches held place of pride behind the bar, and a few of the barstools had old wooden ship wheels as their backs as if that had been a theme of the place at one point.
The bar was crowded—more so than I’d expected from how sleepy the town had appeared on the drive in. But it was a Friday night, and maybe this place was the only nightlife option in town. There was an open stool at the far end, and I slid into it, wedging myself between the wall and a pack of older men in matching softball shirts laughing and giving each other hell about a game they’d played earlier that evening.