Page 4 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
“Listen, mister?—”
“Name’s Rone Archer.”
“Mr. Archer.” Isobel kept her chin high. “I got your message. Next time, tell me to my face instead of hanging ornaments to warn me off.”
There was one organization on this beach island that played games. His body tensed. “What ornament?”
She disappeared up the outside stairs. Hinges squealed, a brief shuffle, then she reappeared, breath quick, a red ball swinging from her fingers on a thin ribbon. She pressed it into his palm.
Rone turned it and read the message, and in that moment, he knew one thing—this boat needed to be sunk and forgotten along with whatever Shade was involved in because Rone would never play hero again.
CHAPTER TWO
Isobel’s shirtclung between her shoulder blades; every surface onFamily Firstfelt tacky with salt and old air. She’d spent the night stretched on a blanket on the salon floor, sweating, swatting no-see-ums that seeped through the old-fashioned keyhole of the wooden doors, and cursing the dead A/C. If she could at least open a window, she’d be cool with the brisk breeze outside. The boat still held last night’s misery like a fever. Every time she’d closed her eyes, the name on the stern mocked her and threatened bad dreams.
Family First.Funny. Her father had christened the lie in gold leaf, then cruised straight out of their lives.
Two slips over, the man who’d warned her off without lifting a finger to help—Rone—had slept just fine, she bet. She could picture him and that German shepherd tucked into the shadows of his deck, watching, judging. He’d said a lot with that bluntnoand the way his dog glued itself to his knee. Whole speeches in silence. And that name he’d tossed out like it was nothing.
Shade.
He’d said it like everyone knew it. Like she should’ve, too.
She hadn’t asked. She’d been too furious, too stubborn, too… whatever she always was when a man tried to steer her choices. After he’d walked away, she’d returned the ornament to the pilot house where it dangled from the helm, tapping with each wave that tilted the boat from non-lawful boaters in the no-wake zone, pretending the sound didn’t crawl under her skin. He’d denied leaving it. She didn’t believe him. Men like Rone liked control. Warnings were control with a bow on top.
By morning, anger had given her enough stamina to push through the grime. She scrubbed the galley until the counter under her elbows wasn’t sticky anymore and cleared the sofa of the blanket and spare parts so there was a place to sit that didn’t smell like damp cloth and secrets.
Before she went ashore, she made herself walk the deck again—checking lines like Rone’s barked orders had somehow become rules she was willing to follow. Starboard cleats, good. Fenders, good. The port bow line… she re-tied it herself, slow and neat this time, and tugged hard until the knot didn’t slip. She stood back, hands on hips, daring the boat to try anything. It rocked, sulky, and settled.
She headed up, and a man with a phone earpiece that looked like the ones the pilots wore stepped out from the Marina office. “Hey there, sailor!” the man called, leaning on the doorframe with a grin that could sell bait to a vegetarian. “Heard you bought Shade’s old boat. That’s either real brave or real foolish—haven’t decided which yet. What’s the plan? Headed out to find buried treasure or just running from your in-laws?”
Isobel slowed, trying to decide if he was serious. “Neither. Just… fixing her up.”
“Ah, a fixer! You and half the folks in this marina.” He wiped his hands on a rag that had definitely seen better days. He wasn’t tall or short. Kind of a nondescript type visually, butthe Hawaiian shirt tucked into his belted shorts and his smile made him memorable. “Name’s Al. I run this joint, more or less. Also provide free local wisdom, unsolicited advice, and the occasional fish fry—usually in that order.”
She smiled despite herself. “Good to know.”
“Yeah, we got a whole lotta history around here. There’s a lighthouse down the coast that’s haunted by an ex–weatherman, a diner that still sells pie like it’s a food group, and a bait shop that might double as a black-market art gallery. Don’t quote me on that last one.”
“I… won’t,” she said, blinking. “You get a lot of tourists?”
“Only the brave ones. Or the lost ones. You’ll fit right in.” He winked, then nodded toward the docks. “That your man out there wrestling with the toolbox?”
She followed his gaze to Rone, who was half under the hull. “Not my guy.”
“Too bad, Rone’s handy. And tall. Two rare qualities these days. Don’t let him near the wiring, though—he’s got the look of a man who thinks he can fix everything with duct tape.” Al lifted his chin as if he could stretch another six inches to Rone’s eye-level.
Isobel laughed, surprised. “You might not be wrong.”
“I’m never wrong,” Al said cheerfully. “Except when I am. Which is, you know, daily.” He waved and ducked back into the office, allowing Isobel to continue on her grocery run up the hill to a squat building with sun-faded posters of oranges taped to the glass. The walk felt longer than it should in the midmorning glare. Asphalt shimmered; palmettos clicked in the breeze like a thousand fingernails. Halfway up, she got that prickly feeling between her shoulders, the one that saysyou’re not alone.
She turned once. Nothing but cars and heat mirage and a cyclist pedaling through it like a ghost. She told herself it was the lack of sleep and kept moving.
Inside, the store air smelled like lemon cleaner and old produce. She kept the cart small—bottled water, coffee, eggs, bread, a rotisserie chicken, because cooking in the Florida heat that had made an appearance yesterday afternoon and clung tight to everything felt like punishment. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t have power working yet.
She added a cheap fan—determined to figure out how to get that hooked up outside at least—and a coil of deet bracelets at the register. Her father had always claimed he could live off coffee and crackers on the water. She refused to adopt even one of his habits if she could help it.
The feeling of someone watching trailed her out of the store. Eyes. Or the idea of them. She scanned the lot harder on the way back. Still nothing but a gull riding a thermal and a boy with a fishing rod dragging the tip across the asphalt like chalk.
