“Teamwork, Scout. You found it, and I found you.”
“I wasn’t lost, Frankie. I wasforgotten.” She pointed to the front of the skiff. She wasn’t about to let him near the controls.As they approached the tourist boat, Scout caught the curious stares of passengers leaning over the railing. She grabbed the rope the operator tossed her way and secured the skiff to a boat cleat with a sharp, practiced tug.
The skipper raised an eyebrow. “What took you so long?”
“Just tying up a loose end,” Scout said.
Frankie snorted. “I’ll say.”
She spun to face him, her tone dropping to a no-nonsense whisper. “Not one word about that envelope,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Or I’ll put you on latrine duty for the rest of the summer.”
Frankie’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you can do that?”
Scout arched an eyebrow, adding just a flicker of a smirk. “Try me.” Her bluff seemed to work, but as she stepped onto the tourist boat, her thoughts remained on the envelope’s contents. An odd feeling flickered through her—like the first ripple of a tide about to turn, a quiet pull whispering that something big was on its way.
Chase Fletcher stood on the pier, watching boats come in and out of the harbor, wondering how things had gotten to this point. He was the owner and publisher of theBar Harbor Gazette, a newspaper that had been in his family for six generations. It had survived the Great Depression, two world wars, and more economic downturns than he could count. But under his brief watch, it was dying.
The morning’s meeting with the bank manager had ended quickly, with a firm no. No loan extension. No lifeline. No room for negotiation. Chase should’ve gone back to the office, but he couldn’t bring himself to face his staff just yet. They were like family. But without that extension, all options were gone. The thought of telling his staff they were out of a job made him sick to his stomach.
His dad had always said it was easier to hear God’s still small voice near the water. Chase had hoped that would be true today. So after leaving the bank, he had wandered down to the waterfront, trying to clear his head. It wasn’t working. His nerves were a mess, jittery, as if he’d overdosed on caffeine. He needed time to think, to pray, to figure out how to salvage everything. His mind swirled with the options suggested by the bank manager: chapter 7 bankruptcy—liquidate everything and walk away. Or chapter 13—buy some time to reorganize, though that might only delay the inevitable. What he really wanted was a break. Something to keep the paper alive. A reason to keep fighting.
He silently offered up the questions to the Lord, asking for guidance.
And then it happened.
The sound of voices caught his attention. He glanced up and spotted Ranger Scout Johnson stepping off the Baker Island tour boat and onto the pier. Chase smiled faintly. Scout was easy to recognize, even from here. He’d met her at church a couple of months ago, when she’d first arrived in Bar Harbor. He’d asked her out for coffee on that very first Sunday, and they’d gone out several times since. Or, had tried to. Seemed like he’d had to cancel about half their dates because of work. But he liked her. A lot. If he weren’t drowning in deadlines and the endless crisis at the paper, he’d make more of a consistent effort to get to know her.
He picked up his pace, intending to catch up with her, but something in her body language made him hesitate. Scout had stopped at the end of the pier, leaning in toward a young guy dressed like a ranger-in-training. Her voice was too low to make out, but the teen’s was sharp and excited, his words carrying on the breeze. “But, Scout ... it’s a shipwreck ... with gold ... we’ll be rich!”
Scout’s sharp response followed immediately: “Hush your mouth.”
Chase froze mid-step. Shipwreck? Gold?
His reporter instincts flared to life. He pivoted, ducking behind a row of stacked lobster traps. Through the nets, he watched them. Scout had one hand awkwardly pressed against her jacket, as if she was hiding something inside. Her expression was guarded, tense.
She held a secret.
Chase’s heart kicked into overdrive. He’d been praying for a sign, for something—anything—that might save the newspaper. A shipwreck, buried treasure, a story begging to be told. Mainerslovedthis kind of thing. If he could get the scoop, it might be the lifeline his newspaper desperately needed.
He peeked around the lobster traps again. Scout was heading up the road now, walking briskly, clearly on a mission. The kid was trying to keep up.
This could be it—the break he needed. Ranger Scout Johnson might hold the key to a story that could save everything.
He fumbled for his phone, quickly typing out a text message to his editor:
Following a lead ona story. Won’t be back in the office fora while.
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, Chase looked skyward and mouthed a quiet thank-you.
To:[email protected] Subject:Dad,You Won’t Believe This
Dad,
Only a minute to spare. Long story short,onBaker Island today Ihappened upon a curious old envelope.Inside was a newspaper clipping about an1852shipwreck and ...(brace yourself)... a handwritten confession of sabotage from the lighthousekeeper. Here’s even more of a shocker:The keeperrecovered gold coins from the shipwreck and hid them allover the park,leaving cryptic clues to the caches’ whereabouts.
Wow,Dad. This is right up your alley! Or,betteryet,right on your ocean floor.
Gotta go. About totell the chief. Stay tuned for what happens next.
