Chapter 2
MUIR
The town looks exactly the same.
Four years away and Harmony Glen has simply continued being itself. Same painted storefronts, same hand-lettered signs, same hanging baskets of petunias that the business association puts up every June and debates removing every October.
The lake flashes between the buildings as I come down the main road, silver-blue and enormous. The lake looks the same too.
Of course it does. I’m the one who changed.
I find a parking space on Lakeview Avenue, cut the engine, and sit with my forearms on the wheel.
The drive in took the better part of two days, which is probably more time than I should have had alone with my own thoughts.
I used most of it going over the things I planned to say and the things I planned not to.
Reminding myself why I’m here and what I’m not expecting.
I’m here to make amends. To be better. To see the lake and the town and the people I left and do the work of facing that honestly.
I’m not here to walk back into Cora San Pedro’s life and expect anything. That door is almost certainly closed. Closed doors deserve to stay closed. I made my peace with that somewhere over the Atlantic.
You’re here to be better. Not to win anything. Just to be better.
Except she won’t answer. Three emails over the past month, each one more carefully worded than the last. Two voicemails left on a number I wasn’t even sure was still hers. Text messages that were probably undelivered because I’ve been blocked.
Or worse: read and deliberately ignored.
I told myself it was fine, that silence was an answer in itself, that I had no right to expect her attention after four years of absence.
But I needed to see her. Needed to know if the silence was protection or indifference, needed to understand why she wouldn’t even let me apologize.
That’s part of why I’m here. Not just to be better in some abstract sense, but to stand in front of her and say the things she won’t let me say from a distance.
I’m still telling myself this is a reasonable plan as I run errands for the day. The Green Glen Cabins are a nice place to stay for a bit, but I’m in need of supplies. I push open the door of the Mack’s Snack Pack.
It’s one of those cheerfully ramshackle general supply stores that stocks everything from fishing tackle to rosemary sprigs to whatever specific size of carabiner you need at eight o’clock on a Tuesday.
A woman behind the counter glances up as I enter, nods, and goes back to scrolling through something on their phone.
I take a basket from the stack by the door.
The store is quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator unit and the occasional creak of floorboards as I move through the aisles. I gather what I need methodically.
I already picked up some essential food stuff at the market like eggs, bread, fruit, and coffee (the good kind). Some basics for the short-let cottage I’ve arranged on the south end of town yet still walking distance to the lake.
A decent knife for kitchen use, since the rental listing specified “fully equipped” in the same spirit that rental listings always use words like “cozy” and “charming.”
I’m meandering the aisles, enjoying the quiet when someone pops in.
“Hey!” says a cheerful voice. “Is Gabe around? He wasn’t in the hardware store next door, so I figured.”
The cashier looks up. “You tracked him down. Stockroom with Mack. Want me to grab him?”
“Nah, I’ll wait. Just picking up cat food.
” There’s the sound of someone moving through the aisles with the confidence of a regular.
She reappears with a variety of cat food stacked in her arms. “Oh my god, did you hear about Cora and Rex? I just ran into Mr. Calloway on their way to Rusty’s for dinner. ”
I go very still.
“From The Snack Hut?” the cashier asks.
“Yes! They’re together. Like, together together. Romantically.” The woman sounds delighted. Genuinely, enthusiastically delighted. “I mean, we all knew they were best friends, right? Everyone knew that. But apparently it’s official now and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I’m holding a box of galvanized screws, and re-reading the information label as if I’m committing the size and weight load to memory.
“Wait, really?” The cashier sounds interested now. “I thought they were just business partners. BFFs.”
“They are. But also they’re dating. Have been for a few months, I guess?
Cora’s this amazing sirena who now runs eco-tours, and Rex is this were-shark guy who’s, like, genuinely the nicest person you’ll ever meet.
Huge guy, total sweetheart. I think they knew each other from like The Philippines or Hawai’i—one of the places where she’s lived.
They’ve been officially working together for about a year—ever since Cora launched the eco-tours—and officially a couple for the last few months and apparently everyone saw it coming except them. ”
The information lands in stages.
First: the words themselves, which I hear clearly.
Second: the meaning, which I understand immediately.
Third: the small stubborn point of light I’d been carrying somewhere below my sternum for the last two days of driving, which extinguishes so completely I can feel the exact shape of where it used to be.
“That’s adorable,” the cashier says.
“Right? And Cora deserves it. She works so hard. It’s nice to see her happy.”
I put the box of screws in my basket along with a few air freshener plug ins. These are the choices of a normal person. I am fine.
(I am not fine.)
I move through the rest of my shopping on autopilot. Grab a few more things I probably don’t need. The woman (named Maggie, based on how a vulpine greets her as he emerges from the stockroom and kisses her hello) is still chatting near the front.
I take my time. Let them finish their conversation. Let the vulpine walk out with Maggie as they chat about tonight’s bonifre.
When I finally bring my basket to the counter, the cashier gives me a friendly nod.
“Find everything okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
They ring up my items with efficient professionalism. I pay. My hands are steady as I count out the bills. They bag everything and wish me a good stay in Harmony Glen.
“Thanks,” I say.
Outside, the evening is settling in, the light going golden and long. I load my bags into the trunk and stand for a moment with my hand on the roof, just breathing.
She has Rex.
Not just as a business partner or BFF. As someone she’s with. Someone she’s chosen. Someone who came back into her life and stayed.
The door closes. Locks. Seals itself shut.
I slide into the driver's seat and let myself sit.
I take my phone and pull up the browser, searching for the Snack Hut.
The website loads—cheerful, simple, with photos of the lake and paddleboards. San Pedro Eco-Tours, it says. Cora San Pedro and Rex Navarro, proprietors.
There's a tab for the Snack Hut as well—her seasonal cafe that hosts bonfires and community events through the summer. The eco-tours launched about a year ago, expanding what she already loved doing: being on the water, protecting it, sharing it with others.
I scroll down to the news section and there it is: a Help Wanted notice, bright and official.
Seeking experienced water guide for summer season. Diving certification required. Interested applicants welcome to stop by the marina and speak with Rex about the position.
I stare at it for a long moment.
She won’t answer my calls. Won’t respond to my emails. But she needs staff. And I need a way to be near her that isn’t showing up at her door like some kind of desperate ghost from her past.
A legitimate reason to be at the dock every day. A professional context that gives me the chance to prove I’m different now, that I can be trusted to show up and stay.
It’s not creepy if it’s a job, I tell myself. It’s just work.
The Snack Hut is just down the street, and I walk because I need the air and because I’ve been sitting more than walking for two days.
The evening is settling in, the lake going from bright to pewter, and I can smell it from here.
That freshwater smell that has followed me around for four years in the way that places you love do, attaching itself to other lakes and rivers and even to the sea itself and always arriving insufficient, always arriving not quite right.
This is the smell of right. Even now, even with everything, the lake smells exactly like coming home.
The lakeside is a cheerful sprawl of weathered docks and equipment sheds and a bait and tackle shop called Monster Catch, which I find inexplicably charming.
There’s a large paint-colored glashtyn behind the counter visible through the shop window.
Finnbar Clague, according to the sign. He appears to be having a detailed disagreement with a fishing lure about something, which makes me feel immediately that I could grow to like this place again.
“Hey! You interested in the position?”
I turn.
The guy is enormous. Like, genuinely takes up space without even trying. Broad across the shoulders, dark-haired, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of build that suggests a lifetime of sustained physical activity rather than gym membership.
The guy is enormous. Like, genuinely takes up space without even trying.
Broad across the shoulders with dark brown skin and dark eyes that hold that subtle were-shark quality—a just-there sharpness, like water in shallow sunlight.
He moves with a preternatural fluidity, the kind of physical grace that marks him unmistakably as a shifter, each gesture fluid in a way that humans rarely achieve.
But there's nothing guarded about him. He's grinning like I'm already his new favorite person.
“Maybe,” I say carefully. “Depends on what you’re looking for.”
“Someone who knows their way around the water. Diving experience, ideally. We’re expanding our operation this summer—adding dive packages, underwater photography tours, that kind of thing.
” He gestures broadly at the lake like it’s a personal gift he’s offering me.
“I’m Rex, by the way. I run San Pedro Eco-Tours with my partner. ”
Partner. The word lands with a specific weight, but his face shows nothing but friendly openness.
“So what’s your experience?” Rex asks. “You dive?”
“I do. Been doing marine work off the west coast of Scotland for the past few years. Research dives, equipment maintenance, some commercial salvage.”
His eyes light up. “Scotland! Man, the water there must be incredible. Cold as hell, right? I’ve always wanted to dive the North Atlantic. What’s the visibility like?”
And just like that, we’re talking about water. He asks about currents and temperature gradients and the difference between freshwater and saltwater diving with the genuine enthusiasm of someone who could talk about this subject for hours.
There’s no pretense, no careful assessment. Just a guy who loves the water talking to another guy who loves the water. This is someone who cares deeply about the ecosystem, who clearly understands why Cora started all this.
“The lake here is completely different,” he’s saying, gesturing out at the darkening water.
“Warmer, obviously. Visibility’s pretty great in summer, maybe twenty to thirty feet on a good day.
We’ve got some really cool underwater formations on the north end, and the ecosystem is wild. Tourists lose their minds.”
“Sounds amazing,” I say, and mean it.
“It really is.” He rocks back on his heels, still grinning.
“So listen, we’re definitely hiring. Cora—my partner—she’s out running errands right now, getting ready for the bonfire tonight.
But if you’re serious about the job, come by tomorrow morning.
Eight o’clock. We can work out all the details with her then.
She handles all that official stuff. I mostly just make sure nobody drowns and talk about fish. ”
I blink. “You’re offering me the job?”
“I mean, pending Cora’s approval and the boring paperwork stuff.
But yeah, basically.” He shrugs like this is completely normal.
“You clearly know what you’re doing, you love the water, and honestly?
We’re kind of desperate. The summer season’s barely started, and we’re booked through July.
We’ve been running ourselves ragged. You’d be doing us a huge favor. ”
The ease of it is almost surreal. No careful questions about why I’m here or what I want. No sense that he knows anything about my history with Cora. Just a friendly guy offering work to someone who seems qualified.
“I’m interested,” I say.
“Awesome!” He claps me on the shoulder with enough force that I take a half-step forward.
“Seriously, this is great. Cora’s going to be so relieved.
She’s been saying we need help for weeks.
” He glances at his watch. “I should actually get going—promised I’d help set up for the bonfire.
But yeah, tomorrow morning. Eight sharp.
You’ll meet Cora then and we can get you sorted. ”
“Sounds good.”
“Perfect. Oh, and bring your certifications if you have them handy. Cora’s a stickler for documentation.” He’s already walking backward down the dock, still grinning. “See you tomorrow, bro!”
He disappears around the equipment shed, and I’m left standing at the marina with a job I didn’t expect to get and a situation I’m not entirely sure how to feel about.
Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. I’ll walk onto Cora San Pedro’s dock as her new hire, and she’ll have no idea I’m coming.
The thought sits uneasily. This isn’t how I wanted to see her again—ambushing her at work, inserting myself into her operation without warning.
But she wouldn’t answer my calls. Wouldn’t respond to my emails.
And now I have a legitimate reason to be here, a professional context that isn’t just me showing up and demanding her attention.
It’s not ideal. But it’s something.
The lake laps at the pilings. Somewhere across the water, I can just barely hear music starting up. Someone with a guitar, a crowd of voices, the beginning of what sounds like a bonfire.
I stand on the boardwalk for a long time, watching the last light leave the water.
Tomorrow I’ll see her. Tomorrow I’ll find out if the silence was protection or indifference, if there’s any chance she’ll let me explain, or if I’ve already lost the right to try.
She has Rex. She’s happy and settled, and she has someone good who stays.
But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving again.