They go to her. Mitch tucks into her side. Olson stands apart, chin up.
Lottie looks at Justin. “How much was in the cooler?”
He tells her. She doesn't flinch.
“I'll pay for it,” she says.
“You're right you will.”
“I just said I would. You don't need to confirm it.”
Justin's eyes narrow. He's not used to a person matching his energy without raising their voice.
“Your kids were on my dock unsupervised.”
“They were supervised. They moved faster than I expected.”
“They used my dock cart as a skateboard.” His voice is tight. Controlled. “I've got a restaurant waiting on a delivery that's currently feeding the fish.”
Lottie doesn't blink. “So net some more.”
The silence could shatter glass.
Justin stares at Lottie. Lottie stares back. She's standing the way she stands at parent-teacher conferences—spine straight, voice level, refusing to crumble because a man is angry. She has weathered worse. The quiet, corrosive kind that leaves the room instead of filling it. At least Justin is here. At least his anger is hot and present and aimed directly at the problem. That's more than Ryan ever gave her.
My throat tightens watching her. She has no idea how strong she is. She thinks she's barely holding it together, but she's standing on a dock in a town she drove to yesterday, facing down an angry shrimper twice her size, and she hasn't blinked.
“I said I'd pay for it. The boys will apologize, and they will mean it. And if you need extra hands this afternoon, I'll send them down to clean your gear. They caused it. They can fix it.”
Behind the boathouse, Harold's voice carries across the morning air with perfect clarity.
“Two sons and they're both useless with women. I should've had daughters.”
Justin turns toward his father's voice with an expression that could strip varnish. Lottie uses the moment to steer the twins back toward the houseboat, one hand on each boy's shoulder, unhurried—she's won and doesn't need to gloat.
She passes me on the dock.
“Don't,” she says.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You didn't have to.” She glances back toward the dock. “Go to your shoot. I need coffee and possibly a new identity.”
I glance back at Justin—crouched at the dock edge with a net, fishing his product out one scoop at a time. His neck is red. His jaw is doing the Spencer thing. He's muttering about dock carts and liability, but he's also—and I might be imagining this—glancing toward the houseboat where a redhead just walked away from him without flinching.
Oh no,I think.Not another one.
Harold appears at my elbow. “Interesting morning.”
“Your son's shrimp is in the water.”
“Both my sons are.” His face is lit with strategic delight. “Metaphorically speaking.I built that marina with my bare hands and a bad attitude. Paul got the attitude. Justin got the hands. Neither one got my charm, which is a tragedy.”
The family session runs long—atoddler who won't sit still and a golden retriever who keeps photobombing with driftwood. The light is good, though. The toddler gives me a genuine laugh right as the sun hits his face, and I catch it—mouth open, eyes crinkled, pure joy. That's the shot.
This is the part of my job I love. Seeing people. Making them visible.
The irony has never been lost on me.
