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I breathe in the scent of the home—a faint musky smell of old, dated furniture and window drapings combined with the lingering smoky scent of a woodstove recently snuffed out. As I move, the wood panels beneath my feet creak and moan as though tired from years of supporting the burden. I run my hand over the soft, worn fabric of an armchair that holds the fisherman’s scent. I picture him seated there in the dim light of the fireplace, alone, and my chest aches.
There are photos on the wall in frames of mismatched shapes and sizes. Black-and-white photos, then sepia, then color—generations of family. All smiling. All hiding all sorts of secrets that families cannot escape. I stare at the image of the fisherman’s wife with her pale skin and light blue eyes, her blond hair and thin, frail-looking frame. She’s hauntingly beautiful with sorrow reflecting in her expression that not even the thin-lipped smile can fool. She had everything, yet she was sad here in the Alaskan wilderness with only the fisherman’s love to try to save her.
Frailty can’t survive here.
In the kitchen, bread sits on a cutting board on the counter along with a sharp-edged knife. Old coffee still sits in the pot and dishes are in the sink. The fisherman eats the same sandwich and drinks the same coffee every day. I open the lid and dip my finger into the dark liquid, grimacing at the strong, bitter taste on my tongue.
Maybe I’ll like the sandwich.
I move down the hall toward his bedroom. The quilt on the bed looks homemade—and unrumpled—as though no one has slept there for a long time. The closet door is open and I see the clothes hanging inside—both his and hers. A vanity is still covered with bottles of colorful liquid and a silver hairbrush, the past perfectly preserved.
His life is lonely. I can feel it within the walls. I can hear it whispering in the items that hold a thin layer of dust. Abandoned and forgotten...like the fisherman’s heart.
I shouldn’t be here, but I’ve made the decision and now I have to see it through.
Hearing the front door open, my heart races and a flurry of odd sensations rush through me. Fear, anxiety, apprehension—I’ve never felt these things before. I’m not sure what to do with my pounding heart and trembling knees.
What will he do when he sees me? What will he say?
I step out of the bedroom as he appears in the hallway. His expression is empty for a long moment, then gradually becomes expectant, as though he’s not surprised to see me standing in his home. He knew he’d see me there someday.
A real person. A real woman. Not a sea serpent. A thing of many legends. Not a mythical being he’s only imagined.
I am standing there, in front of him, and I’m the one frozen in fear.”
Rachel looked up from the pages in absolute awe. “You know what this means, right?”
Carly hid a grin. “Sealena has no problem breaking and entering?”
Rachel released an exasperated sigh. “It means Sealena is on land in the third book! She’s using her thirty-day pass to be with the fisherman!”
“Wow,” Carly said, trying to sound suitably surprised and intrigued.
“I can’t believe the third book is going to be the last. What am I going to do with myself once this series is over?” Rachel said dramatically.
Carly laughed. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’ve actually signed the petition going around.”
Carly’s smile faded. “What petition?”
“For the author to write more books in the series.”
More books? She frowned. “It’s a trilogy. It was always meant to be a trilogy.”
“Well, maybe Y.C. Salwert shouldn’t have written such an engaging series,” Rachel said. She glanced at her watch. “Oops. I gotta go. I’ve left Callan to do the decorating. I was supposed to be out grabbing the cake,” she said with a laugh. “I’ll see you at the party?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you soon,” Carly said distractedly as Rachel left the store.
More books. The fans wanted more books.
Right now, Carly had her own issues. She had to somehow get into town, pick up the gift from the post office, get it wrapped and get to the docks before the birthday party. The boat was leaving at noon and it was already after ten.
She bit her lip and tapped her fingers along the counter. Then, without further hesitation, she texted Sebastian:
Could I ask a huge favor?
The tourism office was in the same building as the post office. If he was there and could pick up the package for her, it would save her a lot of time and she might just make it. It wouldn’t be wrapped in the Sealena-themed birthday wrapping she’d intended, but she’d bring along a bow to stick on the shipping box. It was what was inside that mattered to Darcy anyway, right?
