Chapter 13
LUCY
Fancy’s Haven is perfect. The little houseboat rocks gently in her slip with the tide as I hop aboard.
She’s not much, but she’s mine for now thanks to the grumpy old man renting her to me.
Her green, pink, and blue paint is vibrant where most of the other boats have yellowed from years of ocean spray, and the sticker lettering of her name beneath the painted mountain skyline remains pristine while the monikers on neighboring hulls peel and fade around her.
My landlord—or boatlord, I guess—lives alone in an oceanfront stilt bungalow at the edge of the marsh where I’ve taken a few polar plunges in the tidal pools.
I don’t think he used Fancy’s Haven much before me, and judging by the pennies he charges for rent, he doesn’t need the money.
Especially when he’s got another boat he actually uses for shrimping in the waterway.
Still, the care he takes with this place is obvious.
Fancy means something to him.
My chest tightens like it always does at that thought, but I try not to dwell on it. Emotions are a no-go for me if I can help it.
Instead, I focus on using the dock’s low lamplight to unlock the deadbolt I installed. Before opening the door, I peer through the porthole window. My dim nightlight above the counter reveals nothing but the tiny kitchenette, so I slip inside quickly and shut the night out behind me.
Then I lock the doorknob, deadbolt, chain, and extra latch. All installed by yours truly, thank you very much.
Buying a new lock is one of the first things I do whenever I settle somewhere new.
At this point, I can probably burglar-proof a door in ten minutes flat.
Unless someone decides to kick it in first. Whenever that happens, I’m S.O.L.
, but my go-bag and the weapon hidden inside are always packed and ready in case I need to leave fast.
I tug the curtain closed over the window above the door and press the remote mounted next to the doorjamb.
The lights flicker on overhead while the heater clicks alive with a low rumble beneath my feet before settling into a steady hum.
It’ll take a while to warm up, so I keep my hoodie on as I move through the cramped space, toeing off my ballet flats beside the entrance and dropping my bag in the kitchenette outside the bedroom.
Well… “bedroom” is generous.
The room consists of a wall-to-wall mattress you have to crawl onto from the doorway. Built-in drawers line the bottom of the wall while shelves are stacked in rows all the way to the ceiling, with most of them overflowing now thanks to my boatlord.
When I first moved in, I unpacked exactly one frivolous possession: my battered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland with its cracked spine and dog-eared corners.
It sat alone on the shelves for about two days before my boatlord apparently took personal offense at the sight.
Since then, he’s dropped off stacks of poetry, fairy tales, mysteries, and romance novels.
Honestly, he’s gone a little overboard—pardon the pun—but it warms my heart, and I have to admit, it was really nice to go from an empty reminder of everything I’ve lost to Belle’s library.
All in all, the houseboat’s cabin includes the helm, and a galley with one stove eye, a microwave, and a pull-down table with two chairs that fold into the wall. Then there’s a bathroom closet where the shower, toilet, and sink are all crammed into one stall. And the mattress-bedroom-library combo.
Like I said, Fancy’s Haven is perfect.
I settle into my nightly routine, plugging in the cherry-and-rose candle warmer, setting the tea kettle on the stove, and trading my hoodie, sweats, and headband for fuzzy socks, a sky-blue sleep shirt, and a messy bun piled on top of my head.
I should shower because a baby wipe bath does not always cut it.
But I’m exhausted. Performing wears me out enough on its own, but combined with Hatter, Frog, and my impromptu meeting with Castle?
Yeah. There’s no way I’m voluntarily enduring lukewarm water when all I want is hot tea and the newest romance I’m pretty sure my boatlord thought was a innocent little read thanks to the cartoon cover.
The porthole above the bed creaks while I’m washing my face in the sink-shower combo, and I glance out through the bathroom door just in time to find my best friend on Wander Isle shoving his face against the window.
“Oh good, you’re here,” I say. “I was about to make tea and read before bed. Want to join?”
After squeezing his rotund body through the opening, Chessy lands on the mattress with a dramatic thud, then glares back up at the porthole like it’s the window’s fault he feasted on leftover fish carcasses and crab legs all day.
Then, apparently deeming the clueless, inanimate object suitably chastised, he turns toward me and lets out a deeply judgmental yowl.
I roll my eyes.
“I’m not in the mood for the ’tude tonight, Chessy.” I leave the stall, shutting the bathroom door behind me, then plant my hands on my hips. “You know it’s too cold to leave the window open when you can literally open it yourself. What? Do you want me to get hypothermia?”
He yowls again.
“I don’t care that technically it’s not that cold. I swear, I never got this much sass from Dinah.” The words leave easily enough, but I feel their absence just like I do hers.
I miss my girl.
But taking her wasn’t an option, I wanted her as far away from me as possible after what happened last time—
The bloody image flashes through my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut as bile climbs my throat.
Four paws softly hit the floor, and a warm fluff ball winds around my legs. The low purr vibrates against my calves, grounding me back in the present.
“Thanks, Chess,” I murmur through my still-tight throat, scratching behind the gray-striped cat’s scruffy, nicked ear and welcoming the rumble that fills the tiny boat.
“See? There’s my nice boy. You can’t stay mad at me forever, can you?
Especially when I have these…” I sing-song, pulling a packet of treats from the cabinet.
The second the bag crinkles, his ears perk, and as I pour out a few morsels, he yowls his appreciation—barely different from his offended yowls—and leaps onto the counter with surprising grace for a tomcat built like a bowling ball.
As far as I can tell, Chessy belongs to the docks more than anyone.
Judging by his size, he probably eats better than I do, which means I’m definitely spoiling him with the treats.
But I don’t care. He greeted me the very first night I moved into Fancy’s Haven, and he’s kept me company every day since.
The cat equivalent of cookies feels like the least I can offer in return to my attentive neighbor.
I partially close the porthole to keep the wind out, but leave it cracked enough for Chessy to slap it open if he wants to leave.
By the time I turn around, he’s inhaled the treats and jumps past me from the counter through the bedroom door and straight to the bed in one lazy bound.
Then he circles the navy quilt once. Twice.
And finally collapses directly in the middle like a furry twenty-pound anchor.
Despite the argument we’re about to have, I laugh softly and glance toward the tea kettle to check for steam, knowing I won’t find any. Fancy’s Haven may be in good shape, but she’s still an old girl, and the stove eye takes forever to heat up.
“A watched pot never boils,” I murmur before clicking my tongue at the cat. “Scootch over.”
Chessy growls his usual objection, and his tail shoots straight in the air like an exclamation point, as if he’s shouting, “You better not test me, human!”
I ignore him and crawl onto the mattress anyway, taking up exactly as much room as I please. The second I tug the quilt higher, his claws sink into the fabric while he hisses dramatically, not moving an inch.
I tsk.
“Don’t give me that. It’s your own fault for hogging the bed, mister. You know I’m getting in here regardless, and yet we do this same song and dance every night.” I shove lightly at his side. “How am I supposed to read us to sleep if you won’t let me onto the bed, hm?”
His growl deepens, but then, apparently deciding being passive aggressive is the better strategy, he stands and deliberately flops across the romance novel waiting on my pillow. Typical Chessy, he glares up at me with an expectant scowl.
“You don’t want me to read this one?” I groan. “But I like this one. He was just about to eat her p—”
I slap a hand over my mouth.
“Pasta,” I finish quickly. “He was about to eat her pasta.”
Chessy’s eyes narrow with deep suspicion, though he doesn’t know the extent my books might scandalize him. I always kick him out during those chapters.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Does that mean you want one of my stories instead?”
He blinks slowly before lowering his head onto his paws.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I settle beneath the quilt, sinking deeper into the pillow as the water softly rocks the boat.
“Now then…” I murmur toward the moon faintly gleaming through the porthole. “Where did we leave off?”
Chessy’s tail swishes in a final sassy flick in my direction.
“Ah, yes,” I chuckle. “There once was a girl who wasn’t afraid of anything…”