Page 10 of At First Catch

“Fish fry at the restaurant. Kids running up and down the docks. Half the town pretending they weren’t there just for Old Bill’s peach cobbler.”

He chuckles.

“Nobody ever fooled anybody. So I heard you’re fixing the place up.”

“That’s the plan.”

Walter looks out toward the docks for a moment. “Good.”

He says it so simply that it takes me a second to realize he isn’t talking about lumber or permits.

He’s talking about me. Like he already assumes I belong here.

I step out of the truck and take a slower look around while Walter talks about tide damage, tourists, and which docks need replacing first. The marina spreads out in front of us in weathered shades of gray and blue. The old restaurant building near the shoreline still bears scars from the hurricane—boarded windows, warped siding, sections of the roof patched temporarily rather than properly repaired.

Beyond it, Back Bay stretches endlessly toward the horizon, sunlight dancing across the water while fishing boats drift farther out near the inlet.

It’s beautiful here. Salt has bleached the railings silver. Wind has carved grooves into the pilings. Nothing about this place pretends it hasn’t been through something.

Maybe that’s why it makes sense to me.

I understand this place instinctively. Maybe that should concern me, too.

“Old Bill tried preservation grants after the hurricane. Too much paperwork. Too many deadlines. Eventually he just gave up.”

Preservation grants.

I’d already spent part of last night reading through state historic funding programs until my eyes crossed. Most required matching funds I didn’t have yet or timelines that wouldn’t keep the marina afloat this season.

Still...I made a mental note to dig deeper.

With a solid pat on my shoulder, the older man leaves that little nugget to fester in my mind, along with the rest of the projects I need to get the marina into some sort of working order.

Walter eventually heads toward the bait shop after warning me about three separate town council members and one aggressively territorial pelican named Linda.

Apparently, Linda steals sandwiches. Good to know.

“She stole half my BLT last summer.”

“Half?”

Walter nods gravely.

“Very polite bird.”

I look toward the docks.

“Should I budget for gull protection?”

“Just don’t eat outside.”

“That feels like Linda wins.”

I practically drag my feet down the main dock once he leaves, boots creaking against weathered boards while gulls cry overhead. Water laps softly against the pilings beneath me, carrying the scent of brine and marsh grass through the air.

The marina feels older out here.

Quieter.