“I can get my own food,” I tell Daniel, who sometimes takes his managerial duties a step too far. The line between mother and personal assistance is apparently very, very thin.
“Make sure you do, kid.”
The map app dings, covering up my huff of denial. Daniel, fifteen years my senior, seems to think every one of those years is a nail in his coffin. Rarely does an opportunity pass where he doesn’t warn me of the horrors awaiting me on the other side of thirty. He’ll probably start discussing headstone options with me soon.
“I’d better go,” I tell him, following the GPS instructions and pulling onto the exit ramp, passing under the sign for Siren’s Point.
I listen with only half an ear to Daniel’s goodbyes, carefullylowering my speed and looking for my turn. None of this looks familiar. My skin itches, and I feel restless. It’s been a long day, and even though flying private is a hell of a lot better than the alternative, it’s still a day spent in recycled air, a day spent talking to people, smiling, and having too much free time to sit in silence with my thoughts. Now, nearing the three-quarter mark of my drive, I’m losing the buzz I borrowed from the energy drinks and am once more slipping below the water.
The amount of attention I have to pay the GPS has my ribs tightening in my chest, suddenly too narrow for the organs they’re meant to protect. My breathing feels restricted, and even knowing that it’s simply anxiety doesn’t help to make it easier.
The gas station that used to live on this corner is gone, replaced by a sleek new alternative. An apartment block sits where a park used to stretch into the distance. None of the houses look right—paint colors different, and porches I remember as sagging suddenly sitting straight. There are still miles to go before I reach Siren’s Point. Miles of reminders of the fact that leaving doesn’t mean home will stay the same and wait for you to return. It has to change, too.
When I finally reach the weathered old Welcome to Siren’s Point sign, I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat. The painted siren—which Shiloh and I named Wanda for whatever reason—is unchanged. Her tail is still blue, hair still black, and smile still falling short of sultry and landing closer to creepy. Her eyes follow me as I pass the sign, driving toward everything I left behind.
Chapter Two
SHILOH
My eyes open to a dark, silent room. The sheer white curtains over the window move slightly, pushed by the breeze slipping through the crack I left in the window. I’d been feeling warm yesterday evening—hence leaving the window open overnight—which was great for a night of sleep, cozied up in bed. Now, the air in the room feels almost frigid; I’m surprised I can’t see my breath.
To my left, my phone lights up as the alarm rings. Turning over, I tap it off and confirm that yes, the air on the bare skin of my arm is frigid. It won’t get any warmer lying here, though, nor will the work do itself if I stay in bed all day. Holding the phone over my head, I check the weather. We had a mild winter, and that seems to be carrying over into spring. Cold today, but not windy. Tossing the covers back, I sit up and reach for the clothesI leave folded on the end of the bed each night.
Years and years of following the same schedule have awarded me with the ease of being able to get ready in the complete dark. Every night before I go to bed, I lay out my clothes for the next morning, stacked up in the reverse order of how I’d put them on. I dress in silence, listening to the quiet whoosh of the ocean through the open window.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I stop next to the window and slide it closed. It sticks a bit, the frame warped by years of abuse from the elements—salt crusted and twisted by the wind and moisture. The ocean is nothing more than a black expanse trailing into the distance, only pale moonlight reflecting off the surface and sparkling with the motion of the water.
The wooden stairs creak under my weight as I leave the bedroom and head down to the kitchen. Here, I click on a low light as I fix myself some coffee. Popping two breakfast sandwiches in the toaster oven, I take a seat at the island and sip my coffee while I wait.
I love this time of day. Love feeling as though I’m the only one awake—the night calm and cool, the nocturnal creatures abandoning their hunting and scurrying back to their nests. Of course, I’m not the only one awake. The 3:00 a.m. alarm doesn’t sound only for me, not on Siren’s Point.
The toaster oven dings softly as I drink down the last of my coffee. My morning routine is so unchanged at this point, I’ve perfected it down to the second. I lift my jacket off the hook by the door, slipping it on and tugging the hood of my sweater up. Pouring a second cup of coffee into a stainless steel tumbler,I wrap up one sandwich in a paper towel and tuck it into my jacket pocket. Keeping the other in my hand, I step out my front door and into the early morning air.
The breeze pulls at my clothes as I climb into my truck, breakfast sandwich held between my teeth and the second warm in my pocket. The drive to the harbor is quiet, the arc of my headlights cutting through the otherwise perfect dark. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I use the other to eat. Preferring silence to artificial noise, I leave the radio off. Not like there’s a good chance of it working even if I wanted to listen to music, but since I don’t, I’m not too bothered by the lack of choice. I love the silence, love hearing the low rumble of the engine and the wheels crunching over the gravel drive.
I’ve finished my breakfast and am draining the last dregs of coffee when I pull into the harbor. The gentle lapping of water against the wood greets me as I walk down the pier to my slip. TheDrifterrocks gently, ropes creaking as they keep her tethered to the pier cleats. Stepping down onto the platform, I click on a lamp to illuminate the space under the standing shelter. I’ve barely got my oilers on before a shadow catches my eye at the end of the pier, the shape slowly forming into Oliver as he passes under one of the few lamps lighting the decking.
“Morning,” I grunt as he joins me on theDrifter.
“Morning.” He holds up a cooler. “I was busy last night; didn’t have time to make anything special. Lobster rolls and the rest of that trail mix.”
I nod in thanks, watching as he stows the cooler and reaches for his own oilers. Oliver is my most recent hire, and I’m stillfiguring out the best way to work with him. Nils and I had worked this boat together with my father as he slowly eased into retirement and have long since passed the point where we feel the need to fill empty silences with words or bump into each other trying to do the same task. But health concerns had provided the final push my dad needed to haul his last lobster trap and retire for good, leaving me scrambling to fill a position last minute during a time of year that could either make or break a fishing business.
I’d hired Oliver the moment I could, and while my interview process had been more of an audition than anything, I’d lucked out in the man. At first look, I’d questioned whether he’d be a good fit as a sternman, but right from day one, he’s worked hard and never complained. He also has a talent for cooking, and a month into his tenure on my crew, he’d shyly broached the subject of bringing lunch for me and Nils.
“I always make extra for myself,” he’d said, and looked so pleased when I’d agreed. Eleven months on, and he’s not yet missed a day. I worry that I’ve grown lazy under the attention; that one day, he’ll leave, and I’ll have to go back to the boring, sad lunches I used to bring onto the boat.
Nils, my other sternman, is the last to arrive, like usual. He’s not late, but on time, where Oliver and I prefer to come early. Oliver murmurs a soft greeting to him, which Nils answers with a silent nod. Business as usual on theDrifter.
April may not be our busiest season, but it’s right on the cusp, and I prefer to get a solid head start on the high season. We fall into our usual steady rhythm, shedding layers as the sunchases away the chill of the morning and our bodies warm from exertion. Oliver has started up on his usual singing, his voice a pleasant accompaniment to the cry of the gulls overhead. Nils, who is quieter than even me, stands sentinel at Oliver’s side as we set the traps, five to each buoy line.
It’s not a bad day on the water, the winds low and the sea relatively calm. It’s nice to be out after a long winter repairing traps in the workshop and doing boat maintenance. Most lobster fishermen I know enjoy the offseason, enjoy having months to spend with their families outside of the long workdays we have during the season. I miss this, though, when January rolls around. Ilikemy job.I like spending the day on the water, listening to the waves slap against the hull alongside Oliver humming, even like the fish and brine smell that overpowers the boat from the bait. During the low season, I find myself missing this.
Although—as I’m often forced to confront once I’m home—it’s probably not the fishing itself that I miss, but the company. Nils and Oliver might be employees in the technical sense of the word, but when you spend upward of eight hours a day together on a vessel forty-five feet in length, you can’t help but become close. Maybe they’re not my friends, but we’re friendly. Friendly enough that I miss it when I go home at the end of the day, when my house feels cavernous and empty without another body providing a presence.
We’re nearing the eight-hour mark by the time half of our total traps are set. I call it a day, watching the final trap slip below the waves, Oliver agreeing happily and asking for any requestswe might have for boat lunch tomorrow, when we’ll set the rest of the traps. Nils, who very rarely offers a suggestion, grunts a careful request for tuna sandwiches. Oliver beams before looking over to me for confirmation. I shrug in agreement, hands on the controls as I pilot the boat. It doesn’t matter to me what we eat on the boat, as long as it’s quick and has enough calories to get us through the day. Everything Oliver brings is better than I could do myself, anyhow.
The snap of the flags greets us as we pull slowly into our slip at the pier. The breeze has picked up to more of a wind, the water slapping forcefully against the pylons. When I cut the engine, I can immediately hear soft music playing across the harbor, carried over on the wind, accompanied by the burr of an electric drill as someone works on their boat. As we do out on the water, the three of us automatically start the tasks that need to be completed after we dock to prepare for tomorrow.
