Fresh Catch
Page 1
Fresh Catch
Kate Canterbary
Vesper Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Kate Canterbary
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner's trademark(s).
Editing provided by Julia Ganis of Julia Edits.
Proofreading provided by Marla Esposito of Proofing Style.
Cover design provided by Anna Crosswell of Cover Couture.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Preface
1. Adrift
2. Old Salt
3. Back and Fill
4. Spindrift
5. Red-to-Red
6. Arc of Visibility
7. Slack Tide
8. Between Water and Wind
9. Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range
10. Full and By
11. Watching
12. Harden Up
13. Harden In
14. Above Board
15. Tacking
16. Snarl
17. Keel
18. Sextant
19. Heeling
20. Swinging the Lamp
21. All Night In
22. Outward Bound
23. Rogue Wave
24. Cut and Run
Epilogue
Just one more thing…
Acknowledgments
Before Girl
Also By Kate Canterbary
About Kate
Preface
I want you to know
one thing
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
from "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda
For Nick and Erin,
the ones who started it all.
1
Adrift
adj. Floating without being either moored or steered.
Cole
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I yelled, pounding my fist against the sonar system's housing. It was the only tool I knew to be functional, but now the screen was black. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
This was bad. I was officially in the shit, and more shit than my usual.
Abandoning the boat's failing navigation system, I stormed into the captain's quarters for my laptop and tools. It was dark in there, darker than at the helm, and it heightened my senses. The summer air was thick and close, and sweat was rolling down my back. My belly was rumbling with hunger and my eyes were bleary from straining to spot rocks and land through the heavy veil of night.
I wanted air conditioning, whiskey, sushi, and a good night's sleep. In that order.
"Un-fucking-likely," I murmured as I returned to the boat's control center.
The screen indicated I was minutes away from reaching my destination at Newburyport Harbor, but the sea and shore were dark. Too dark to be anywhere near a port city.
If not for the lighthouse shining in the distance, I would think I was miles from shore.
"If this is what I get for investing in start-ups," I muttered, "then start-ups can go fuck themselves."
I snorted at that notion and set to unscrewing the control panel. If it weren't for start-up investors, I wouldn't have been the youngest billionaire in history. But founding an all-things-internet company and making it a household name wasn't as golden and glossy as the media made it seem.
According to the company's public statements, I was on sabbatical. It was a good cover story, and my spokeswoman managed to weave in some cozy anecdotes about my childhood love of sailing to make it feel even more authentic. It was handy that I did love sailing. Or, I had loved it, back when my summers were spent helping my uncle build custom boats in Morro Bay. But that was a lifetime ago.
The truth was that my board of directors had ejected me from the CEO's seat after my latest initiative fell below Silicon Valley's expectations. Project DaVinci was supposed to turn the industry upside down. Instead of doing that, it was a gigantic flop that yielded nothing worthy of my company's name.
All told, the billions spent on that endeavor were nowhere near as painful as the landslide of bad press.
This was the first time I'd ever taken a true vacation, one without a whiff of work, since founding the company in my apartment three blocks from Harvard University's Cambridge, Massachusetts campus. I wasn't one for lavish holidays or extreme adventures. I was like all the other Red Bull-addled programmers who found it easier to admire smartly constructed code than the natural world.
I hated this PR-inspired bullshit walkabout. If it wasn't for my desire to keep my stock prices from plummeting, I would've thrown a bigger fit when the board stripped me of my control and saddled me with a lame title. Chief Innovations Officer was a long, hard fall from CEO.
I was known for that—fit-throwing. I wasn't especially proud of it, and I'd worked my ass off to get my temper under control in the early years of my success, but it still followed me. Any glimmer of impatience was filed under my storied tyrannical management style known widely as Scream, Fire, and Throw. There had been tell-all books written by people who didn't care about violating nondisclosure agreements. The ass-lickers called it a new, disruptive style of leadership. The haters petitioned Amnesty International to add me to their watch lists.
Over the years, I'd changed. But that didn't rewrite my history. For an environment that evolved by the nanosecond, the half-life of bad behavior was eternity.
I'd matured from the slouchy geek who'd changed the way people spent their time on the internet. I was still arrogant and more condescending than necessary, but now I kept all of that close to my bespoke vests. My chief of staff, Neera Malik, beat some corporate manners into me and helped me recognize the negative impact of my punk-ass attitude on investors, stock prices, and the Valley's mercurial moods.
I'd never realized how much my behavior mattered. I'd always thought my work could—and should—speak for itself. But I'd learned the hard way that how I handled things mattered mightily. I didn't have to like it. I didn't have to agree. But I did have to deal with it if I intended to stay in this business.
And for all that work, I was lost and alone on the North Atlantic. The money, the connections, the pseudo-fame, the illusion of power…none of it could help me now. I was the only one who could help me. I was on my own here.
The nav system was on the fritz, the electrical panel was shooting sparks, and in trying to find the flashlight, I walked straight into the stainless steel server tower.
It had been almost twenty years since I'd sailed. Now, with blood running down my face in the dark, I was failing at this, too.
And then the pirates arrived.
2
Old Salt
n. Someone who has sailed for man
y years. An experienced mariner.
Owen
There was a sailing vessel in my cove.
I was reading on the porch, alone save for the Japanese beetles watching me from the other side of the screen. Contentment came in the form of drinking my beer and settling into some Whitman until I noticed a light at the mouth of the cove. I gave it a long, weary stare before setting my book down.
With annoyance growing heavy on my shoulders, I pushed to my feet. This area was remote, far outside the typical routes of the luxury yachters and sport fishermen. The only visitors in these parts were locals, and they didn't come calling at this hour of the night.
That left only two options for this vessel. It was either off course or trespassing.
Now, I didn't own the water, but all the solid ground ringing the shore belonged to me. Regardless of whether this sailor had lost his way or was looking for a quiet spot to drop anchor for the night, he'd be going through me first.
I offered my old rocking chair a baleful stare before marching out of the porch. The beetles scattered as the screen door banged shut behind me. I thundered down the narrow wooden staircase that connected my home and the adjoining lighthouse to the dock. An aging skiff was moored there, opposite an equally old lobster boat.
Before casting off, I squinted over water. The intruder was drifting closer, and making no obvious attempt at turning back or signaling for aid. These waters were protected. Endangered species lived in and around the rocky coast, and vessels with that size and hull structure would leave a wake big enough to disrupt those fragile colonies. Not that I cared about the boat, but it was also in danger. If it came much closer, it was liable to run aground and that was even worse news for the conservation zone.
Time to show this sailor the way back to open water.
"It's too damn late for this shit," I groused as I turned over the skiff's motor. I could count the hours until a new day started and I was hoisting lobster traps and ferrying the day's catch to the fish markets up and down the seacoast. But this was my cove, and mine alone. I'd see to its preservation, as I had for nearly two decades, even if that left me tired and cranky tomorrow.
I was tired and cranky most mornings. I blamed my temperament on the backbreaking work of being a lobsterman who was doing everything in his power to survive, but there was more. Life on the ocean wasn't easy, and as the years passed, I was more and more convinced I was destined for a solitary existence.
And that made sense. I didn't like most people and hated sharing a bed. My philosophy was simple: get in, get your business done, get out. No need to complicate matters. No reason to go hog wild with those online dating schemes. Putting my information out there, on the internet, didn't sit well with me. It seemed like a big black hole of bank accounts and sexual preferences, and I didn't want to get sucked into that garbage.
No, I preferred the order and structure of my life without any of that. People, dating, the so-called digital age—I didn't need it, not when it was easy enough to dedicate one night every now and then to random hookups outside this small town.
In, out, over.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I grumbled when I noticed the trespassing boat's lights flicker off. That wasn't a good sign for anyone.
I circled the vessel twice, the skiff's motor puttering as I slowed. It was more than enough notice for the crew, and any seaman who knew his shit would've acknowledged my presence by now. None of this felt right.
With a huff, I tossed my buoys overboard and climbed onto the trespasser's deck. I called out to the captain, hoping for a quick chat about shoreline species conservation and directions to the nearest marina.
Instead, I found myself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
"Welcome to Talbott's Cove," I said. "Now, lower the firearm, Captain."
"I know maritime laws, and I know I did not invite you aboard," a hard voice said. It was hard, but there was a quiver behind it.
In one deft movement, I had the gun in hand and ammunition tumbling to the deck. "No," I said, "you did not. However, you're drifting northwest and minutes away from running aground. If that wasn't enough, you're in an ecological preserve that's only open to small crafts. You're looking at a ten-thousand-dollar fine, and on top of that, you've fucked up my night."
I hadn't gotten a good look at the shotgun-wielding captain. It was too dark in the cloudy moonlight to see more than shapes, and the man was sheltered by the mast's shadows. But now, as he stepped forward, his eyes wide with fear, I realized a few important things.
To start off, he was injured. His forehead was split with an ugly gash, his preppy polo shirt soaked with blood, and his hands were shaking.
Next, he was strong; stronger than I'd expected for a man who let his weapon make introductions. His chest and shoulders were broad, his biceps strained against his sleeves, and his thighs were thick and powerful. His hair was light, somewhere between blond and brown, though his eyes were dark. I'd place him in his early thirties, but no more than ten years younger than my thirty-nine.
Last, I was immediately attracted to him. I couldn't articulate why I found this man pulse-quickeningly sexy, and I didn't want to dwell on that reaction either.
"You need to get out of this cove," I said. He almost recoiled at the vicious snap in my words. That was one of my many problems. I was a mean sonofabitch when I wanted to be.
The captain waved at the boat. "Power's out," he said with a pathetic shrug, "and that controls everything. Motherboard on the navigation system is fried. And…" He turned his face to the night sky. "Not enough wind to catch the sails."
I stared out at the calm sea. "What about the crew? They can't bust out some duct tape and get things back in order?"
He shook his head. "No crew," he replied. "It's just me."
Well, that made no fucking sense. A boat like this, a captain dressed like that, these were the conditions for an unreasonably large crew. The one percent didn't sail solo.
"Fine. I'll radio the Coast Guard. They'll tow you to Portland," I said, my eyes drawn to the tight white polo again. He was fit as fuck, but it was the manicured, thoughtful kind of fit. It wasn't the product of hard labor but of discipline and, most likely, a lot of money. I couldn't decide how I felt about that. Forcing my attention from his chest, I sneered at his shiny new Sperrys. "Or Bar Harbor. That's probably more your speed."
"Is that where I am?" he asked. "Maine?"
He yanked a bandana from his back pocket and pressed it to his forehead. A swell of warmth moved through me, and I itched to snatch the fabric away and care for this man myself. That was another one of my problems: for all my curmudgeonly ways, I gave a shit. I didn't know how to turn off my feelings or shutter my concern. It was always there, waiting for someone to smother. Someone to drive away with my endless desire to dote.
"You're thirty miles north of Bar Harbor," I said. "So, yes. Maine."
"Bar Harbor is the opposite of my speed." The captain chuckled, but his words spoke nothing of humor or levity. "Is there anything closer? Look, I know I'm a pain in your ass right now and I admire your loyalty to the mollusks and plovers. Honestly, I do. But you can't even imagine the ration of shit I'll get if I wander back to civilization like this." He gestured to his injured face, and then the deck. "Not tonight. Just, I…please. There has to be another way."
I couldn't help myself. "I can tow you to the town harbor."
The captain's body sagged in relief. "Thank you. Seriously. I'm a fan of conservation, and if I could've prevented it, I never would have drifted into this cove." He lifted the bandana and palpated his forehead, frowning when his fingers came away bloody. He folded the fabric in on itself before returning it to the contusion. "Any chance I'll find a grocery store open at this hour? Motel?"
I glanced at my watch, the hands glowing in the inky night. Sure, I could wake up the young couple who ran the village's one and only inn, but…No. They had a new baby. They had enough on their hands without me banging on their door. Th
ere was no need for that.
"Unlikely," I said. I rasped out an impatient breath. There was no way this would end well. Not for me, not for my cove, not for my cock. "I have…some extra room. It's not much but you're welcome to it," I said. "Though you should know I keep my firearms under lock and key. I'll expect the same of you."
"Yes. Yes, of course," he replied. "I can't believe you'd do that for me. Thank you."
I waved away his comments. "It's nothing," I said. I meant it. I wasn't one for houseguests but I wasn't one for turning away folks in need either. "Just—just don't be irresponsible on the water. You're not the only one you're putting at risk, you know."
He shook his head slowly, his fingers still pressed to the injury. "I know. I'm an idiot. That's probably obvious by now," he said softly, almost to himself. "My systems failed, and I was lost and confused."
"Lost and confused is one way to put it," I said under my breath.
"I've never pulled a gun on anyone before. That's gotta count for something, right?"
"Not as much as you'd think," I replied.