Page 20 of At First Catch

The hotel rises in the photograph like something from another era, all white siding, broad porches, and dark shutters facing the water. The marina is full in the picture, boats packed into slips, flags snapping in the wind, people gathered on the dock with sun hats and fishing rods. It looks alive. Busy. Loved.

Every spring the marina hosted the town’s Blessing of the Fleet. Charter captains decorated their boats with flags. Families crowded the docks before sunrise. Kids waved from shoulders while the priest walked the pier offering a blessing over every vessel before the season began.

Mom never missed it. Neither did Dad.

Looking at the photograph now, I realize I’d never questioned why. It wasn’t really about boats. It was the day summer officially began.

Now the hotel is gone. The marina remains, wounded but waiting.

I think of Nolan standing in the middle of it.

This place deserves better than what it’s gotten.

He hadn’t said those words to me today, but I could see them in the way he looked at everything. Earlier today, he’d crouched beside a warped dock board instead of walking past it. Ran one hand across the weathered wood. Studied it for nearly a minute. Not like a man calculating what it would cost to replace. Like a man trying to figure out whether it deserved saving.

My heart had no business reacting to that. It did anyway.

I return to my desk and open my email before I can mull over Nolan and bones in the same mental sentence for too long.

Mistake.

My inbox is a crime scene.

Summer kickoff planning updates. Vendor approvals. Two complaints about parking near the boardwalk. A very dramatic message from someone named Trish who believes the town should host a mermaid parade but has “concerns about shell bra authenticity.” Three separate emails from council members asking whether the marina purchase affects waterfront access.

And one from Diane, sent twelve minutes ago despite the fact that she sits twenty feet away.

Subject: Sweetspire Marina Meeting

I look up.

Diane is watching me over her reading glasses.

“You emailed me from across the room?”

“I wanted a paper trail.”

“For what?”

“For assigning you as tourism liaison to the marina project.”

I stare.

She smiles.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Diane.”

“Hadley.”

“I’m already handling summer kickoff, downtown vendor mapping, the lighthouse author weekend, and the farmers’ market expansion.”

“You’re also the best person for the marina.”

“That feels like flattery deployed as a weapon.”