"What kind of boat?" Dale asked.
"Small one. Old. She didn't make it," Jack said.
"Hmm." Another grunt, this one slightly different in pitch. Possibly sympathetic. Possibly judgmental. Hard to tell with Dale. "Happens."
And that was apparently all Dale had to offer, because he returned his attention to the cleat, dismissing them with the continued silence of a man who'd said everything he intended to say.
"Was that a conversation?" Jack asked as they walked away.
"By Dale's standards, that was practically a TED Talk. He likes you."
"How can you tell?"
"He asked a follow-up question."
They were almost to Maeve's when a voice rang out from across the street.
"Clara! Oh my God, CLARA!"
Sarah Kwan was half-jogging toward them, hair escaping its clip in three different directions, canvas tote bag bouncing against her hip. The tote read "I TEACH. WHAT'S YOUR SUPERPOWER?" in block letters.
"Hey, Sarah?—"
"Is this the boat guy?" Sarah's eyes went wide, bouncing between Clara and Jack like she was watching a tennis match. "Mrs. Conley just texted the group chat. She said you rescued a—and I quote—'tall,handsome stranger with lovely manners.' Are you tall? You're tall. Hi, I'm Sarah."
"Jack." He shook her hand, looking amused. "Group chat?"
Clara closed her eyes. "There's a group chat."
"Oh, there's absolutely a group chat," Sarah confirmed without a shred of shame. She stage-whispered to Jack, "Clara pretends she doesn't know about it but she's been screenshotted into evidence multiple times."
"We need to go," Clara said firmly. "Inn. Room. That's the mission."
"Right, yes, go, absolutely." Sarah was already reaching for her phone. "I'll just—I'm not going to text anyone. I'm just checking the weather."
"Sarah."
"The weather, Clara! God!" Sarah grinned, backing away with her phone already in hand. "Nice to meet you, Jack! Welcome to Beacon's End! You're going to love it here!"
Jack watched her retreat. "She's going to text someone immediately, isn't she?"
"She was texting before shefinished the sentence."
The Rusty Anchor occupied prime corner real estate, windows overlooking the water. Everyone just called it Maeve's. Clara pushed through the door, Jack close behind.
The interior was warm and dim, smelling of coffee and old wood. Maeve O'Connell stood behind the bar, polishing glasses like each one personally offended her. She was sixty if she was a day, with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing.
Maeve was the unspoken matriarch of the town and she didn't apologize for that power.
Those eyes locked onto Clara and Jack. Maeve set down her glass. Her expression didn't change—she wasn't the type to perform surprise—but something sharpened behind her gaze.
"Clara Hawkins. In town. On a non-supply day." Her attention shifted to Jack. Stayed there. "And she's brought a man. Well."
That single "well" carried the weight of an entire interrogation.
"Don't start," Clara warned. "Mrs. Conley has already accosted us and I'd bet my last dollar that my mother is currently receiving a detailed briefing via text, so I really don't need thecommentary."
Maeve's mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dream of it." She turned to Jack. "Maeve O'Connell. I run this place and, on occasion, this town."
