Page 2 of The Marine's Homecoming

"Your father didn't have a plan for this. I don't think he believed he'd ever need one."

That sounds right. Dad always assumed tomorrow was coming. He ran the marina the same way he ran his life—deferred everything, patched what he couldn't ignore, let the rest rot quietly out of sight. It's probably why he ignored whatever signs his body had given him about a heart condition that led to that massive heart attack.

I could be angry about it, and maybe I will be later, but right now I'm just tired.

I sign what Dennis needs me to sign. Power of attorney transfers, estate acknowledgments, a half-dozen forms thatmake Dad's problems mine. Dennis watches me work through the stack and doesn't say a word, though I can tell he wants to.

When I'm finished, he stacks all the papers back into his briefcase and stands, putting his soggy hat back on his head.

"Your dad's retainer is paid up for the next six months, son. I'll be here to continue to do my job for you, and as long as you pay up like he did, I'll be your legal counsel in all matters." Dennis still looks a bit glum, but who wouldn't?

I rise and extend my hand to him, sucking a breath of air into my lungs, and nod at him. "I'm sure Dad would be grateful for that, Mr. Hargrove. I'll definitely call you if I need anything."

"Take care of yourself." He tips his hat and walks to the door, though when he walks out, the latch doesn't quite catch.

I wait for a second, thinking he might come back to shut it properly, but he doesn't. A gust of wind off the water pushes it open farther, letting the soggy January chill creep into the warm office, so I limp around the desk, massaging my aching leg. Another gust pushes it open farther just as I stop with doorknob in hand to shut it, and I see a sight I'm not prepared for.

Hannah Brooks drifts past the open office door with a few well-bundled women, chatting about a party of some sort. I stand out of sight, with the door not quite shut, and see the back of her thick windbreaker. In large pink letters on black polyester, I read the wordsBrooks Party Boats and Tours. My mind doesn't quite make the connection until I see Hannah open the door to one of the pier offices just three spots down from Dad's office and escort the women inside.

"Oh, Christ," I grumble, ducking back from the door after closing it.

I fumble through the paperwork on the desk left behind by the lawyer to find the ledger he showed me, and sure enough, there at the top, listed among the names of businesses Dad's leasing dock space to, is the nameBrooks Party Boats and Tours.

I slump into the chair and let my head loll back against the head rest.

The one woman in this town who hates me more than anything else is now a renter on my property, and I'm not going to be able to avoid talking to her.

This should be interesting.

2

HANNAH

The festival budget has ballooned out to the point I'm not sure my tiny bit of capital is going to cut it, and even with my parents' donations toward the cause, I'd still be tens of thousands of dollars short. I sit hunched over my desk poring over line after line of expenses feeling frustrated with how this is turning out.

When I first got approval, I told my fellow council members that this festival would be free for the public. Now I'm worried that with Frank gone, even if his son—whose name I loathe to even think about—agrees to host it, I'll have to charge admission just to make ends meet. It's not a good place to be in and I'm not one to give up. So this stress level I'm sitting under will just continue until someone dumps a load of money in my lap or the heavens open and shower down cold, hard cash.

A knock comes at my door, and I pop my head up just as Gary Sullivan struts through the door. He swipes off his fisherman's cap and nods at me as he walks over and takes a seat at my desk before he speaks. "Somebody's sailboat drifted overnight," he says, leaning back in the chair and curling his cap in his meatypaws. "It's sitting right across our slip. I had to tieThe Mariahoff on the far side of the pier just to get her out of the way."

"Whose boat?" I ask, scowling as I look past him out the front window of the small party boat office. When I first started this business, my office was physically on a boat. But that changed a few years back when business picked up and Frank offered to let me use one of the vacant shanties here on the pier. I promised to fix it up, and I have, and Frank took it off my rent, which only helped the business thrive more.

But the piers are another story entirely. Nothing I can do about them.

"No idea. It's off one of the other docks." He shrugs. "Mooring probably gave out. Half the hardware on that side of the marina is rotting anyway. I put my thumb through one last fall when I did that fishing charter for Frank."

It's frustrating to know how rundown this place is getting while the general public still filters in and out of here. But I know Frank was struggling with his health for a while now. I wasn't surprised to hear Walt found him collapsed on his office floor from a heart attack, and even less surprised to hear that he'd died from it. Nor does it shock me that his reprobate son is back to take care of his final expenses.

I hope whoever they sell this place to can fix it up and let me have the festival Frank and I agreed upon. If not, I'm not sure where to even host it. Bandon isn't exactly crawling with festival grounds, which is why the town has never hosted anything so large.

"I'll get it sorted before the coastal run tomorrow," I tell him. "Can you ask around the other docks, see whose boat it is?" Myeyes fall back to the rows of numbers, which are starting to feel more and more unreachable. And if a free-floater rams one of my boats and there are fixes needed, my savings will be eaten up in that. No way I'll be able to afford the festival at all. As it is, I may need to scale it down.

"Already left a message," Gary says, and he puts his cap back on and adjusts it. But he doesn't get up and walk to the door, which makes me curious what else he might need to talk to me about. He has that juicy-gossip look on his face that makes my chest feel tight. I already know what he's going to say and I don't want to hear it.

"Frank Maddox's son is back," he says.

"I know that too," I grumble as I drop my eyes back to the papers. But this time, I'm not looking at them. I'm trying hard not to let my anger come out. "His father just died. Of course he came back." I've been angry about this for way too long. I just don't know how to shake it. Luke has every right to come home and deal with Frank's final expenses. And I have no desire to talk to him while he's here.

He can do his job and get on about his life, and this town won't be affected one bit.