He picked up the business card.Oceanside Development and Acquisition.A phone number.An email address.
He tore it in half.Then tore the halves into smaller pieces.He would have tossed them into the wind, but he didn’t litter.He shoved them into his pocket.
TheMary Catherinerocked gently in the tide.He climbed aboard and sat on the bench near the helm.His father used to sit here in the evenings, going over the day’s catch, mending nets, planning the next morning’s run.
Those evenings were gone.The catches were smaller, and the regulations tighter.The profit margins were so thin you could see through them.
Maybe Morton was right.Maybe this was all dying.
He pulled out his phone.Two missed calls from his mother and a text from his sister asking if he’d picked up supplies for the restaurant.Nothing from the bank, which meant his loan extension request was still pending.
He scrolled through his email.Most of it was automated newsletters and spam.An email from Marty Fuller at the bookstore, forwarding an article about heritage tourism.One message from Mayor West thanking the committee for their work today, especially Cassidy Wren for her suggestions.
The mayor had dropped by this afternoon and assured him that Cassidy was just here for advising.He was still the head of the committee.He made the final decisions.
Cassidy Wren.She’d sat there at the meeting with her neat folder, her color-coded tabs, and her corporate confidence.Talked about demographics, marketing funnels—whatever those were—and social media engagement, like the festival was just another product to sell.
Cassidy was exactly like Morton.Maybe she dressed it up in prettier language, called it revitalization instead of development, and used words like authentic and heritage.But at the end of the day, she wanted the same thing Morton wanted.
She wanted to turn Starlight Shores into something shiny and new that looked good in photographs.Something that brought in tourists who’d take their selfies, eat their overpriced fish tacos, and leave without ever understanding what this place actually was.
She saw the festival as a marketing opportunity and the working waterfront as a quaint aesthetic choice.She didn’t see the people or the families.The generations of men and women who’d built their lives on these docks.
He stood and checked the fuel gauge.He needed to take the boat out tomorrow.Early.Before the heat set in.
His phone buzzed.Another text from his mother.Did you talk to the bank?
He typed back.Still waiting.
The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon.Golden light spread across the water.This was usually his favorite time of day.The time when everything felt possible, like the next morning’s catch might be the one that changed everything.
But today it just felt heavy.
He looked back toward town.He could see the lighthouse in the distance.Heron Cottage would be beside it, where Cassidy Wren was probably sitting right now, working on her next presentation about how to fix everything that wasn’t broken.
Or maybe everything was broken.Maybe he just couldn’t see it yet.
Morton’s offer sat in his mind like a splinter, painful and persistent.
He checked the boat one last time and headed back down the dock.He had to get to the restaurant.The dinner shift had started an hour ago, and they were down a server.His mother would cover, like she always did, but she shouldn’t have to.
None of them should have to work this hard just to keep what was already theirs.
