Chapter 24 #2
The ship was named for his mother. Unlike their other state-of-the-art vessels, this one held a special place in the heart of Hideaway Harbor. His father had donated it to the Locke Reserve after its last operational voyage nearly two decades ago. The town liked to bring it out for special events.
They kept a plaque at the Reserve where the boat usually stood on display to honor their family’s history and keep their mother’s memory alive. Every word of that plaque was burned into his memory from countless visits during his youth.
‘Named for Sable Hawthorne—fierce, graceful, and the heart of the Hawthorne family—this vessel carried three generations of fishermen before retiring into local legend. Now restored and preserved by Hideaway Harbor’s Locke Trust & Locke Reserve, The Sable Rose only sails for ceremonial journeys.
In her lifetime, Sable never set foot on a boat, but this one still carries her name. ’
Boats didn’t remind him of his mother, but they became his escape after she disappeared from his life.
His world had shifted so dramatically after her passing that home didn’t carry the same warmth anymore.
He traveled to the opposite ends of the earth in search of any place that did.
It took him years to realize the love he was searching for was always waiting for him at home.
Glancing at Wren just as her scarf flapped from her collar and whipped in the wind, she smiled, and the wake inside of him settled to a peaceful calm. She was his home, his North Star, his guiding light through any storm.
His breath came out in clouds as he yelled, “Warm enough?”
Nodding, she tried to project confidence, but it would get much colder once they left the dock.
He secured the rigging and readied the ship for her and the others to board. “Almost ready.”
The sea churned out the kind of cold that bit through denim and flannel, and clawed into muscle. The kind of cold that reminded a man he lived and breathed, but also had a way of making him wish he didn’t.
Preferring these little vanity excursions over the long trips he used to take with the fishery, Greyson reflected on those icy winters, long gone and hardly missed, but it was nice to stretch his sea legs every once in a while.
The Sable Rose rocked in its slip, tethered like a patient ghost to her berth. Scrubbed down, polished, and adorned with strands of pine garland and red buoys for her ceremonial voyage. Which reminded him…
Shading his eyes from the setting sun, Greyson scanned the vacant marina. “Where the fuck is Ralph?”
There was no sign of the flaming redhead anywhere along the docks.
Hauling himself back onto the decking with practiced ease, he hugged Wren to offer some shelter from the wind. “Soon as they get here, we can go.”
“I’m fine, Grey. I’ve lived in this weather all my life. Go do what you need to do.”
He kissed her nose, tasting the salt spray already misting her skin, and climbed back on the ship.
Every move came as second nature. His hands traveled on instinct, checking lines, flipping levers, testing the throttle.
Salt and diesel lived in his blood. He could handle a fishing boat in a blizzard with his eyes shut.
But today, he had a co-captain, so he took extra care to make sure nothing went wrong.
“Greyson,” Mayor Locke yelled, his stuffed belly bouncing as he jogged down the dock plank in his red velvet suit. Staggering to a stop when he reached their slip, he shaded his eyes to identify the additional passenger. “Wren? Well, this is a surprise.”
Wren’s rosy cheeks darkened as she waved. “Hi, Mayor Locke.”
Climbing the plank to board, the mayor grinned. “It’s not often we get a female to join us. My wife wouldn’t dare go out in this weather.”
Smiling, she followed the mayor aboard. “I’m honored.”
“Take my hand.” Greyson guided her onto the ship with possessive care. “It’s warmest in the sun.”
The mayor pulled at his snow white beard to keep it from whipping into his face and held out a large thermos. “Erica sent me with some mulled cider to keep us warm. Have some.”
“I thought you were more of a milk and cookies sort of guy,” Wren teased, eyeing his Santa suit.
“Cookies are fine, but I prefer my thermos with a bit of rum—especially for a cold day at sea.” Looking around the marina, he frowned.
“Where the hell is Ralph? If he’s not here in the next ten, Larry the Lobstah’s going to be hauling himself into Hideaway Harbor on a dinghy.
I have a reputation to uphold,” the mayor said, adjusting his wide, black leather belt. “Santa’s always on time.”
Wren eyed his protruding belly. “That pillow must be warm.”
“It definitely helps.”
Checking a few more dials, Greyson continued to search the marina for their red-headed lobster. Leave it to Ralph to miss his one big commitment this holiday. “Come on, Ralph,” he muttered under his breath.
Pointing to the parking lot, Wren announced, “I see him.”
Ralph struggled through another day of his small-town life, teetering like a drunken sailor as he jumped into the lobster suit and stumbled between the parked cars. When he situated the top-heavy headpiece, he nearly fell off the edge of the dock.
“Should someone help him?” Concern scrunched Wren’s nose.
“Put the mask on after you get on the boat,” Mayor Locke yelled, but his words got swallowed by the wind.
“What a dumbass,” Greyson mumbled, deciding it was better not to watch.
Waddling down to the slip, Ralph nearly bit it on the last plank.
His massive lobster costume dragged with every awkward step.
The oversized claws—cheap foam wrapped in painted duct tape—hung limp at his sides as he struggled to carry the gigantic headpiece.
One antenna had collapsed from the skirmish on the shore.
“Sorry, I’m late. My mom needed help finding her big winter coat.” Common knowledge held that Ralph lived with his mother, and likely always would.
“About time.” Greyson brought the radio crackling to life, more than ready to get this show on the road. He didn’t wait for a response as he clicked the receiver on. “Silver Spoon, this is Anchor One, are you there?”
Wren grinned and came to stand by his side where the action was. “Silver Spoon?”
“Soren.”
“Ah. And Logan is…?”
“Tadpole.”
She snorted and shook her head. “Cute. He must love that.”
“Baby of the family doesn’t get to choose.”
“What’s your dad’s code name?”
“Big Fish.”
“And your mom?”
“My mom hated boats.”
“Of course, she did.”
The radio crackled. “This is Silver Spoon to Anchor One. Wharf is filling up. I’ll alert you when the harbor’s full.”
“We’re leaving the docks now.” Greyson set the receiver aside to man the wheel.
The motor reverberated with age as the scent of diesel fumes overpowered the briny sea air. Moving quickly, he unhitched the last of the ship’s ties.
“Can someone give me a tail tuck?” Ralph barked, spinning in circles, then tripping over the thermos bag.
“Watch the rum!” Santa yelled, grabbing the thermos before thinking to save Ralph.
“Careful,” Greyson warned. “Or Larry the Lobstah’s going to remember what it’s like at the bottom of the sea. Everybody good to go?”
“As good as a lobstah can be—to the harbor!” Ralph called, pointing his claw into the air. It immediately drooped and clunked him on the head.
“Larry the Lobstah’s having a hard time keeping it up,” Wren murmured close to Greyson’s ear.
He chuckled. “I don’t have that problem.”
“No, you definitely don’t.”
Already counting down the hours until he could have her again, Greyson steered them toward open waters.
It was a proud day for New Englanders, one where harbor accents came out in full force.
Hideaway’s heritage was a blend of Nordic and colonial settlers.
Somehow, that added up to Santa Claus sailing into the harbor with a giant red-headed crustacean to light a tower of lobster traps designed to resemble a Christmas tree.
Weird, but one of many weird traditions Hideaway Harbor loved and honored, and one of the few that the Hawthornes actually participated in.
First, his father had captained the Sable Rose.
Now, it was Greyson’s turn. One day, he’d pass the torch to Soren, and then Logan would have it last. The thought suddenly occurred to Greyson that that might not happen if the company got divested.
But that wasn’t his problem, so he pushed the thought away.
Except this time it came back with boomerang force.
Maybe it was his problem.
He glanced at Wren. Maybe, even if it wasn’t, he might have a solution.
No, he wasn’t going to pollute a good thing with his father’s toxic thinking.
Once out of the marina and turned around, his gaze drifted back to Wren.
Standing near the stern, bundled in coat and ski overalls, her mirrored sunglasses reflected the sun as she smiled and laughed with the mayor over something he said.
Her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and her hair whipped like golden kite tails from the knitted hat she wore.
Holding the beanie in place by the fur pompom on top, she looked sexy as sin all bundled up at sea.
The mayor pushed the thermos on her again, and this time Wren took a sip. “Whoo!” she hollered, coughing into her gloved fist. No doubt the mayor spiked the mulled cider with a heavy hand of rum to keep himself warm.
Locke laughed. “That’ll put a little hair on your chest.”
“I hope not.” Sputtering and laughing, Wren shook her head. “You better be careful with that. Too much, and Santa could wind up run over by a reindeer like Grandma.”
Clapping a gloved hand to his head, the mayor perked up. “That reminds me. Ralph, did you bring the music?”
“I’ve got it on my phone.” Reaching into the red lobster costume, he fumbled with the claws. As soon as the phone came into view, it went hurling through the air. Lunging forward, Wren caught it in the nick of time.
“Thanks, Wren.”