Page 182 of At First Catch

Local identity.

As if community is a branding issue.

As if Walter’s folding chair and Mrs. Henderson’s threats over dock lights and kids fishing off the slips can be preserved inside a bullet point.

The thought makes my jaw tighten. Richard notices. Men like him make money by noticing pressure points.

“The reality,” he continues, “is that emotional attachment won’t protect you from another major storm season.”

The words land like a fist beneath my ribs, and I hate him for saying it. He isn’t wrong. Passion doesn’t drive pilings into the bay. It doesn’t reinforce bulkheads. It doesn’t keep the water out. But I refuse to believe the only way to save this place is to hand it over to people who’ll strip away everything worth saving.

Richard folds his hands.

“Three years ago, we acquired a marina outside Wilmington.”

I don’t answer.

“Same situation.”

He slides a photograph across the table: new docks, restaurants, full slips.

“Locals hated us at first.”

He shrugs.

“Now they’re booking weddings there.”

His gaze holds mine.

“Sometimes preserving something means changing it enough to survive.”

The storm outside slams harder against the windows, rattling the glass in its frame.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Hadley.

I know it without looking. That’s how deep she is in me now. My body recognizes her before my brain catches up.

“How many local businesses are still there?”

Richard hesitates.

“Some.”

“How many?”

Now we’re getting somewhere. Richard isn’t evil. He’s simply measuring success differently.

I pull the phone out beneath the table.

Hadley

Still at dinner?

I type back with one hand.

Me