Page 5 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

Because despite how much I want this expedition to work—despite how perfect the timing is and how rare the opportunity—I’m still not thrilled that the anonymous investor funding this thing insisted I partner with one Cruz Devlin.

Yes,thatCruz Devlin. Underwater cowboy. Salvage diver. Reality TV bro with a tan too perfect to be trusted and a smile that looks like it comes with its own sound effect. He’s like if Indiana Jones had a YouTube channel and an energy drink sponsorship.

And apparently, I don’t get to do any of this—no access to the archives, the dive permits, the equipment—unless I agree to play nicely with Mr. Shipwrecks-and-Spray-Tans.

Whoever's writing the checks for this little adventure made that part crystal clear: no Cruz, no funding.

Awesome.

I park near the marina, grab my suitcase, and wheel it down a dock that creaks like it’s telling secrets. Boats bob lazily in the water like they’ve all had a few too many. Somewhere, a gull shrieks and I immediately feel judged.

This isn’t just a research trip. It’s a gamble. A big one. I’m here to find out what really happened toLa Reina de Oro, the legendary Spanish ship that allegedly sank off this very coast. There are whispers of lost gold, secret alliances, smuggled relics. It’s exactly the kind of story historians dream about when we’re buried in dusty archives and mediocre coffee.

And if I can dig up something real, something true—maybe I can help this town in the process. Maybe I prove something. Maybe I finally get published in a journal that doesn’t require a login from 1997.

But what I don’t need? A smug, shirtless distraction with a reality show and a hero complex.

My rental is on the bottom floor of the renovated lighthouse that houses the local archive. It’s nothing short of stunning—rich hardwood floors, a sleek open-concept kitchen with butcher block counters, a spa-style bathroom with actual jets in the tub, and sheets so soft I briefly wonder if they’re illegal. There’s lightning-fast internet, a stocked coffee bar, and mood lighting that actually improves my mood. It’s the kind of place that says, 'We might be a small town, but we know how to impress a girl with standards.' I drop my bag, mentally thank the mysterious investor for splurging, and grab my notebook. Time to explore. I take my sunglasses and head out for a walk.

The streets of Pelican Point aren’t quite polished, but they’re trying. I can feel it in the fresh coats of paint, the new signage, the hopeful buzz of music leaking from a wine bar on the corner. There’s scaffolding on two buildings—one mid-restoration, one clearly stalled. A metaphor, maybe.

I pass a cafe with whitewashed shutters and a bookstore that smells like roasted coffee beans and ink. Then I see it—a boutique tucked into a renovated storefront, the name etched in soft script above the window: Coastal Couture. Inside, mannequins stand tall in gauzy, elegant dresses that sway slightly from the breeze sneaking through the open door.

Wedding gowns, I realize. Or close cousins. Cream, blush, pale sea-foam green. Expensive-looking. Hopeful-looking.

A couple stands just inside, the woman holding a dress against her chest while her partner nods like they’d say yes to anything that made her smile like that. My chest twinges unexpectedly.

I keep walking.

Down the block, someone’s repainting a sign by hand. A girl in a linen apron waves at me with a brush, and I nod back.

This town is trying. Trying to be new again. Trying to remember who it was. I get it.

I slow as I reach the boardwalk, the scent of salt stronger here, more real. Somewhere out there under all that blue, a Spanish galleon waits to be found—or not. Either way, the story’s mine now. As I round the corner, another aroma fills my nostrils—vanilla, sugar, butter.

Seaside Sweets not only looks the part of a gourmet bakery, it smells like one. My stomach grumbles and reminds me I haven’t eaten since this morning—the miniscule bag of peanuts they gave me on the plane doesn’t count. I push open the door and a bell chimes from overhead. Two women look up and smile.

The flyer in my rental unit listed several places to eat or get food. "Is this the place I’ve heard about—the bakery boasting the most amazing coffee and pastries in town?" I ask enthusiastically.

The two women exchange a glance before responding in unison, "Yes."

Laughing, I say, "Well then, I must be in the right place. I’m Crystal Evans. I just arrived here in Pelican Point."

"Welcome," the woman behind the counter says warmly, reaching for a menu. "I’m Julie, and this is Emma. What brings you to town?"

I give her my most vibrant smile as I explain, "I’m here on assignment. I work as a historian and a marine archaeologist. I’m researching a legendary sunken ship off the coast. It’s said to be brimming with gold and jewels wrapped in a mystery." I glance at the menu and then hand it back. “Can I get a cup of coffee to go and a chocolate chip muffin?”

Emma whistles appreciatively, her eyes lighting up. "That sounds straight out of a novel."

"Or a movie," Julie adds with a chuckle as she gets my order ready.

I grin. "Hopefully not the kind where everyone dies a horrible death.”

Emma checks the time. "Crap. I’ve got court in thirty minutes. Love you. Be good." She wraps Julie in a quick, heartfelt hug before hurrying toward the door. It’s obvious the two are close.

I glance at my phone. "I’ve got a meeting with the historical society, but I’ll definitely be back. This place? My new favorite already." I hand her some cash and drop the change into the tip jar on the counter.

"Thanks, Crystal. We’ll be here and welcome to Pelican Point. You’re gonna love it."

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