The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  Meg took that in. Suzanne really did know her well—maybe better than she’d thought. But she was still barking up the wrong tree. “I have enough complications, which are currently sailing around Lake Huron on the Emily Ann.”

  Suzanne screwed up her mouth. “I’ve always meant to ask—who is that floozy, Emily Ann, anyway? Uncommitted or not, I say you put your foot down and demand that boat be renamed the Megan Marie.”

  “I don’t actually know,” Meg confessed, scrunching up her nose.

  Suzanne blinked. “And you’ve never asked?”

  Meg shook her head. “At first I guess I wanted to be aloof about it, not act like I cared. And then later I realized maybe I didn’t want to know. In case it’s some great lost love I can never compete with.”

  “I’d have asked anyway. In fact, next time I see Zack, I might ask. And then recommend that name change.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Meg warned. “And besides, it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat, so I would never even suggest it.”

  But Suzanne’s eyes had fixed on something across the deck, clearly more interesting than Zack’s fishing boat and leaving her to appear truly astonished.

  “What?” Meg asked.

  Suzanne lowered her voice. “Tall drink of water at eleven o’clock.”

  Meg let her brow knit, thinking aloud. “If I’m calculating correctly, eleven o’clock would be behind me.”

  “Then be sly when you look.”

  Meg sighed. “Sly might be outside my skill set.”

  Her friend just shrugged. “Then this is good practice.”

  Meg turned her head, pretending to peer beyond the tall drink of water toward the masts jutting upward into the sky from the harbor. Tall drink indeed. He was dark haired and wide shouldered with a muscular build, and classically handsome. “Wow,” Meg whispered, turning back to face across the table.

  “I take back what I said about not having enough attractive guys on this island. He’s attractive enough to make up for ten men who aren’t.”

  Just then, Dahlia happened past after having just seated him, and Suzanne reached out to grab her wrist. “Who’s the human Ken doll?” she asked, voice low.

  Dahlia chuckled in reply. “That’s Beck Grainger, owner of Grainger Construction and Development and stately new island resident.” She glanced back at him. And reading Suzanne’s obvious interest asked, “Shall I introduce you?”

  “Oh—no,” Suzanne said, drawing back slightly. “I mean, sometime—when it will seem more natural.”

  “He’s new,” Dahlia said. “That makes it natural.” And with that and a conspiratorial nod, she was off to his table, hauling the poor man up by the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt.

  Meg and Suzanne barely had a chance to exchange glances before Dahlia had dragged him to their table. “Beck Grainger, this is Megan Sloan, who owns the Summerbrook Inn up the way and dates my nephew, Zack, and Suzanne Quinlan, the owner of Petal Pushers, the lovely little flower shop and nursery you may have noticed across the street.”

  When Suzanne didn’t speak right up, Meg said, “Pleased to meet you,” and held out her hand.

  He shook it. “Likewise.” He was a man-of-few-words type, like Zack—she could tell that already.

  He then reached for Suzanne’s hand, too, which she gave him, but she didn’t quite meet his eyes. And her nod came off as distant and even shorter than his.

  So he surprised Meg by saying, “Hope to see you both around—and maybe I’ll stop by your shop sometime soon.” Gaze intent, he directed the last part toward Suzanne.

  Who just quietly said, “Great,” and looked back down.

  Once Beck Grainger was gone and they were alone again, Meg leaned over and said, “What was that?”

  “What was what?” Her friend tried to sound innocent.

  “The man said something nice to you—like maybe even expressed interest in you—and you were barely more than rude.”

  Suzanne met her gaze, then gave yet another shrug. “I felt weird, nervous. He was too handsome. And I’m too emotionally crippled.” Then she shook her head. “But it’s fine.”

  Now it was Meg casting the disappointed look. “So you really aren’t interested in maybe getting to know him? A little? In case he might want to ask you out or something.”

  Her friend appeared only a tiny bit sad, and frightfully at ease about the situation, as she said, “Not really. All in all, I’d rather pick out a new bicycle than pick out a new man.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MAJORITY OF lake whitefish in the Great Lakes were gone, along with a once-thriving commercial fishing industry. And perhaps surprisingly, it wasn’t about pollution or an oil spill or any other contaminate getting dumped in the water—it was about invasive species.

  Overfishing during much of the twentieth century might not have helped the situation, but the real culprits were the zebra and quagga mussels, which consumed the plankton most Great Lakes fish fed on.

  The upshot? A decimated ecosystem, resulting in a decimated and now highly regulated industry. And over time, the whitefish had finally started feeding on the mussels themselves—nature had a way of adapting and correcting itself—but the intense regulations made it hard for a fisherman to earn a living these days. There weren’t even many of them left. But Zack Sheppard was nothing if not stubborn.

  A brisk north wind cut right through him as he stood on the deck, sorting the catch from a trap net, releasing anything that wasn’t a whitefish—as well as the ones that were too small—back into the water alive. The rest were tossed on ice and kept belowdecks in plastic bins until he docked at the end of the day, where he’d negotiate with a wholesaler ready to take the fish off his hands.

  He didn’t feel the frigid winds much anymore. Again, nature had given birth to creatures who adapted. When he’d climbed aboard his first trawler at sixteen, he’d thought his skin would freeze solid. Now, if anything, the cold only made him feel alive.

  And all around him...peace. Not another boat, or human, or any land—for at least twenty miles in any direction. Sometimes sorting the fish—or any other aspect of his work—was like a trance for him, or what he guessed some people would call meditation. He did it without thinking—he watched his hands now, and the fish that passed through them. The only sound was the occasional call of a passing bird and the ripple of water against the hull as the Emily Ann floated, anchored, while he emptied the net. That and the plop, plop, plop as he returned small fish to the great lake.

  He wasn’t a religious man. He believed in the here and now. And such moments were about as close as Zack got to praying. Lake Huron was his church.

  Only...there was a little sin in his heart today. Not that he believed in sin. But something felt a little wrong. Had yesterday, too. Damn it.

  He didn’t let himself think much about Meg when he was out here working. She was that nice, soft place to go back to when he was through—when he’d had enough solitude, when his own company began to feel stale. But she’d stayed on his mind after leaving this time.

  Five years. May fifteenth, five years ago, Dahlia had dragged him up to her in the Pink Pelican, him grousing at his aunt the whole time—until he saw the woman she’d been so insistent he meet, and then he’d shut up. And thought: Okay, maybe I’m interested. She’d been wearing blue, his favorite color. Because of the sky. And though he wasn’t much of a talker, he’d already been drinking some that night and had found her easy to be with. She’d had the nicest smile of any woman he’d ever met.

  He’d known good and well it was their damn anniversary when he walked out that door.

  The problem with anniversaries being—they meant something. They marked something. They celebrated something. And he just hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it. He hadn’t wanted to be forced to think about what they were or where they were going
or any of that shit. Just like when sorting fish, he was a one-day-at-a-time guy, an appreciating-the-moment guy. And he knew Meg wanted him to be more than that. But he just wasn’t.

  So taking off had seemed like the simplest thing to do—for both of them. Just removed any big question marks from the day.

  Only he hadn’t expected it to leave him feeling like shit.

  Swallowing back his regret, he tried to refocus on what he was doing. Trouble with not having to think when you did your job was that it didn’t always provide a distraction when you needed one. At sixteen, it had taken every ounce of concentration and fortitude he’d had to work on a fishing rig. But once more the thought struck him that nature made you adapt over time.

  An hour later, the sun began to sink and Zack hauled up the anchor, started the motor, and sailed for Port Loyal. It was his home base of choice for the moment. Most fishing boats docked in one place permanently, but Zack had built a network of ports along the Eastern Michigan and Canadian coasts where he could always get a slip, connect with a wholesaler he knew there, and bargain for fresh ice the next morning.

  A vague melancholy always settled into his bones as he turned for shore, though. Even when he wanted to go, even when he decided he’d had enough fishing for a while and wanted to head back to Meg. It was an old habit. Since his teenage years, the water had been his freedom, his escape. Nothing bad could happen when he was on the water. Nothing bad ever had.

  And so even now, as the Emily Ann cut through the vast, dark waters, leaving a soft wake behind her on a brisk but bright day, that slight sense of being sorry to leave dropped over him like a blanket.

  It would fade; it always did—life necessitated that, made it happen naturally enough. But it was always there, under the surface, making him wonder sometimes if he’d been born in the wrong time or place, if he just wasn’t meant to exist in a world that required mingling with society. He knew Meg didn’t understand that about him—most people didn’t get that about him. Most people just didn’t get that we aren’t all wired exactly the same way.

  The sun dipped toward the western horizon by the time he reached Port Loyal, a small, simple fishing town that had fallen into economic decline over the past ten years. A series of gray dilapidated docks, most of them unoccupied these days, lined the shore—above them, gray equally dilapidated buildings. A fluttering flock of gulls and the glow of dusk softened the landscape as he maneuvered into the slip he rented by the night from a paunchy old man with an unlit cigar always chomped between his teeth.

  The few other fishing boats that called Port Loyal home were already in for the evening, and the dock bustled with life, as it did for a brief period every morning and night. The scent of fish filled the air, though Zack was surprised he even noticed the smell anymore.

  After he left the boat, walking the planked dock, a scrawny kid of about twenty in a sock cap approached him. “Looking for work,” he said. “Used to help my dad on his boat, but we’re out of business. You need any help, mister?”

  A lot of loss shone in the kid’s face. And there had been times when Zack could use a hand—times in the past, better times, when he’d hired on another guy or two for a week here or there. But besides the fact that he valued his time alone on the water, those days had vanished, along with the fish. “Can’t afford it,” he said to the boy. “You know how it is.”

  The kid pressed his lips together, flattened them out. Nodded. Trying not to let one more disappointment show. “Yep,” he said.

  And part of Zack wanted to give the kid some advice, tell him to go somewhere new, learn something, go to school of some kind, build a better life than you could fishing the Great Lakes these days. But it wasn’t advice he’d have taken as a young man. And everyone had to travel his own road. So he just said, “Wish ya luck,” and walked on.

  What the Port Loyal Bar and Grill lacked in originality it made up for with cheap prices and decent food. It was one of the weathered gray buildings that stood near the docks, and Zack had eaten many a meal here over the years. He thought some fish and chips sounded good as he walked in the door, then found himself sidling up to the bar—first things first, he needed a beer.

  A bartender he didn’t know had just delivered it in a tall glass when a waitress he knew very well appeared at his side. Tonya was apple-cheeked and petite, sweet and a little too hungry for life. One more person who should’ve gotten the hell out of here a long time ago.

  “Why, Zack Sheppard—aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

  As sweet, and even cute, as she was, she hadn’t crossed his mind since the last time he’d seen her, and he had no idea how long ago that was. “How’s it going, Tonya?”

  She flashed him a flirtatious grin. “Better now.” Then she leaned in close, close enough that he could smell her musky perfume, close enough to rub her breasts against his arm.

  He’d passed the night with her on more than one occasion. Another good thing about freedom and having no ties.

  Now she rose on her tiptoes, whispered in his ear. “If you’re here for dinner, I could get off early.” Then she drew back slightly, licked her heart-shaped lips. “Dessert at my place?”

  Zack wondered for the first time why she wasn’t married, why she wasn’t making some guy’s night as “dessert” every evening, why a slight air of desperation lurked underneath her seductive confidence. But then he understood. She’d been waiting for someone better. Someone better than she could get in Port Loyal. And he still hadn’t come along. And life had probably gotten pretty disappointing for her by now.

  Because she wasn’t free at heart like him. She was more like Meg. She wanted more from her relationships than they were giving her.

  And though he didn’t like hurting her feelings—hell, he didn’t like hurting anyone’s feelings; he just seemed to do it a lot—he said, “Thanks, hon, but I’m beat—few long days on the water—and I’m gonna have a quiet night.” He ended it with a wink. To assure her it was nothing personal. And it wasn’t. But he’d lied—he wasn’t overly tired.

  “I’ll be here ’til ten if you change your mind and wanna buy a girl a drink,” she said, looking undaunted. He supposed a string of seasoned sailors toughened a gal up over the years.

  “Maybe I will,” he said.

  But he was pretty sure he wouldn’t.

  And as she walked away, round tray in hand to collect empties from abandoned tables, he found himself pulling out his cell phone. And typing in a text: What’s up, Maggie May?

  He’d drunk half his beer, chatting on and off with the bartender about the weather, when her reply made the phone buzz on the bar. Not much. Had lunch with Suzanne today. How’s the water?

  He was pretty sure Suzanne didn’t like him. But she was Meg’s friend, so he always kept that to himself. And he’d never seen life as a popularity contest. He typed back: Good. Brought in a decent haul today.

  Good, she answered.

  He thought about what else to say. Most men would be more suave, or maybe just plain...considerate. He could say he missed her. He could say he loved her. Both were true. But he usually thought it was better to just keep that to himself, rather than build up expectations he wasn’t ready to fulfill. The two of them were good the way they were, like he always told her.

  Except maybe for that damn anniversary. Guilt niggled at him again as he spotted the wholesaler he dealt with entering the restaurant. Zack raised his hand in a wave and they talked business as he finished his beer and paid. Twenty minutes later the two worked together to transfer Zack’s fish into a freezer truck the guy had pulled up to the dock, and they shook hands, agreeing to meet tomorrow night—same as tonight, same as last night. And on it would go until he decided to head to a different area, a different port town. Probably within another couple of days.

  Most nights he slept on the boat. He didn’t need much, liked things simple that way. But firs
t he’d have to find dinner, and suddenly the fish and chips didn’t seem like the wisest idea. He liked Tonya’s company well enough—and even as much as he enjoyed his solitude, a little supper conversation wouldn’t be bad—but he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea.

  So he walked to a Subway sandwich shop instead, thankful that it provided a whole different sort of solitude than the water. No one talked to him while he tried to eat—no one propositioned him and made him think about the reasons he’d turned Tonya down.

  Unfortunately, though, he kept thinking about that anniversary anyway.

  Wishing he’d waited a day to go now. Just one more day. Meg was a good woman and she deserved a good man. And he thought he was a good man, mostly—he just didn’t always let it show.

  He texted her again. You take care and have a good night, Maggie May.

  It was an hour later, as darkness fell over the docks and he turned out the light over the cot in the Emily Ann’s wheelhouse, that he realized she’d never replied.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Seth came walking up the road the next morning, emerging from the fog like a magician, Meg had prioritized tasks, and knew where she wanted him to begin. She felt organized about getting the inn into selling shape—if indeed that was the route she ended up taking.

  “Mornin’, darlin’,” he said with that cool smile of his.

  “Good morning,” she greeted him, stepping out onto the front porch, her cable-knit sweater wrapped warm around her to ward off the chill.

  That was when she noticed, realized, that he never wore a jacket or anything with sleeves—today the T-shirt was gray with some sort of insignia on it in navy, and like the others she’d seen him in, it fit well. “Don’t you ever get cold?” she asked.

  “Guess I’m just a hot-blooded animal,” he told her, grin still in place. “And guess I thought it’d be warmer by this time of year.”

  “A lot of places maybe,” she told him. “But not on Summer Island just yet.”