Page 100 of Neap & Spring

“About time,” Callum mutters, and there’s affection in it.

“Low …” Wesley’s whole demeanor shifts. His shoulders tighten, drawing up toward his ears. His body sets like he’s bracing himself for impact. He’s quiet for a beat, and the silence starts to feel tense.

The room waits. No one pushes.

“Old John Castellano died,” Wesley says finally.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

I have no idea who John Castellano is, but clearly everyone else does. Patrick’s face falls, lines appearing around his mouth that weren’t there a second ago. Callum sits up straighter beside me, our thighs no longer touching. Even Beckett loses his grin, his expression going serious in a way I haven’t seen all night.

“Oh no,” Patrick whispers. “When?”

“Last week. Heart attack.” Wesley’s voice is controlled and carefully neutral, but he looks like he’s working very hard to keep it that way. “The funeral is on Friday.”

“Damn,” Hayes breathes out. “That’s — damn.”

“He left the fishing business to his daughters,” Wesley continues, and there’s frustration creeping into his tone now, slipping through his calm cracks. “Sloane and Blair.”

“I didn’t even know John had daughters,” Beckett says quizzically, sitting forward slightly.

“Neither did most people. They weren’t around much. I guess they lived with their mom most of their lives or something.” Wesley picks at the label on his beer bottle, his thumb nail working under the edge. A nervous habit he probably doesn’t know he has. “Sloane’s been living up in Portland. She came down to sort everything out and handle the transition. But it sounds like she might just take over.”

“That’s a lot to take on,” I say, and everyone turns to look at me.

It’s the first time I’ve contributed to the conversation, and I feel the shift of attention like a physical weight. But I’ve seen this before — family businesses handed down to people who aren’t ready or don’t want it but feel obligated.

It rarely ends well.

“Running a fishing operation when I assume she didn’t grow up in it,” I continue, meeting Wesley’s eyes even though I wish I could sink into the couch away from his prying gaze. “The learning curve alone would be —”

“Steep,” Wesley says, and his tone is laced with relief, maybe, that someone understands. Or maybe it’s frustration that understanding doesn’t fix the problem. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. And it’s affecting my operation because our routes overlap and she’s making decisions without understanding how the tides work out here or where the fish even are.” His mouth presses into a thin line. “I tried to explain it to her, but she basically told me to fuck off.”

“Wesley,” Patrick huffs.

“You were probably condescending about it,” Beckett says mildly, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Wesley’s head swivels toward him. “I was not condescending.”

“You have a condescending voice, Wes. It’s involuntary.”

“I do not have a —”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Wesley opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he’s decided not to say.

Patrick nods slowly, like he’s processing all of this and filing it away. “Well, that all makes sense. So, what’s the actual problem?”

“Neither of them knows the first thing about fishing!” Wesley’s frustration is bleeding through now, his voice rising slightly. “Sloane has a nose ring,” Wesley says, and he’s trying to make it sound like a neutral piece of information but failing completely. “And tattoos. A lot of them. Full sleeves. No offence, Cal. And she just showed up at the docks last Monday with a binder full of — I don’t even know what. Talking about ‘optimizing operations’ and ‘reviewing partnerships.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers, the gesture sharp and frustrated. “She was a damn tattoo artist or something. How can she possibly know any of that!? And she’s getting in everyone’s way, asking questions about things she doesn’t understand, making decisions about boats and routes and equipment purchases and —” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair in a motion so similar to Callum’s, making it stand up. “It’s a mess.”

“She’s grieving,” Patrick says gently.

“I know that.” Wesley’s voice is defensive, then he takes a breath and forces it softer. “I know. And I feel for her, I do. Losing a parent is —” He glances at Patrick, nervousness crossing his face. “But she’s also making my job impossible. Half the harbor is confused about whose orders to follow. She tried to tell me I was using the wrong nets last week. Me. I’ve been fishing these waters my whole life.”

“What’d you say?” Beckett leans forward with interest.

“What could I say? Her dad just died. I can’t exactly tell her to back off or mind her own business.” Wesley sounds exhausted, the fight draining out of him. “So I’m just … I’m trying to work around her and find ways to avoid conflict. But something’s got to give.”