Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Al greeted her the moment Isobel stepped into the front office, his voice a mix of gravel and good humor. “Enjoying the boat? She’s a fine vessel, if you don’t mind her moods. Kinda like my ex-wife—pretty, but temperamental.”
“I guess. Haven’t really settled in yet. Can I get the mailing address? I had an accident with my suitcase, and I need clothes.”
“Heard about that.”
“You did?”
“People talk ‘round here. They gossip faster than an old ladies’ knitting circle.” He slid a paper across the counter.
He handed her a pen. “You can borrow my broken pen.”
She thought to ask why she’d want a broken one but then saw it was a pen with a bend in it for some salesy reason. For the first time since arriving, a small laugh escaped her.
Al’s eyes brightened at the sound. “See? Already improving the atmosphere in here.”
She shook her head, smiling faintly as she wrote down the information Al gave. The simple kindness, the easy humor—it was such a brief, ordinary thing, but she savored it like a sip of water after too long in the heat.
After Al dictated the address and she had it written down, he came around the counter. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. You should meet our resident statue down on the dock.”
“Statue?”
“Big fella. Broods for a living. Moves every once in a while to prove he’s not made of stone.”
They stepped outside, the warm air wrapping around her like damp cloth. Down by the main dock stood Rone—arms crossed, shoulders tight, his gaze somewhere far beyond the waterline.
Al tilted his head toward him. “See? Told you. He’s got that ‘I wrestle my demons before breakfast’ look. Classic case.”
Isobel smothered a smile. “You’re terrible.”
“Only on weekdays.” He tipped his cap. “Welcome to the marina. Holler if you need anything—or just want someone to entertain you.”
When she reached her boat again, Rone was already there, leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting.
“What were you doing?” he asked, his tone casual, but his eyes sharp.
“Al was helping me with something,” she said, setting her papers down.
Rone’s mouth tightened. “First thing to know around here—don’t trust anyone. Especially someone who’s overly friendly.”
She arched a brow. “Funny, he told me to watch out for cranky men who think too much of themselves. What do you want?”
He gave her a look—half warning, half reluctant amusement—but said nothing. “Told you I’d help.”
The sun slid lower, spilling gold and rose across the rippling water.
The boat creaked softly against the dock as the humid air thickened, holding the day’s heat captive.
Sweat gathered at her temples, but she didn’t mind.
She could tough out the sticky air—it didn’t mean anything.
Not danger. Not memory. Just Florida being Florida.
Rone stood on the dock like part of it, arms folded, Echo parked at his heel with that too-smart squint. “You should go to a hotel,” he said, voice steady as the tide. “One night. Two. I’ll work on Family First after hours. Get you to listing shape.”
Isobel stared past him at the little box of a motel sign glowing up the road and tasted humiliation in the back of her throat.
Leave the boat because a stranger told you to.
Her father… Shade, would’ve laughed until his shoulders shook.
If he was still the man she remembered from all those years ago.
A man who once schooled a local boater on the merits of proper waste disposal.
“No. I’m not leaving.” She crossed her own arms, shielding herself from his shocked and somewhat defeated expression. “Funny how you keep insisting I leave my boat, though.”
“Not that again. If you don’t trust me, trust Echo.”
The dog lifted his nose and blinked like an angel at her. “Not fair bringing his cuteness into it.”
If she didn’t know better, she’d think the dog smiled at her.
“Besides the dog, I couldn’t have untied your lines. I have an alibi. Was working on Hollywood’s boat.”
She chuckled. “Does everyone have a Dock name?”
He didn’t nibble at her question. All business, as she was quickly discovering, was his defense mechanism. No personal info given, just orders. “He’s in slip C6, go ask him.”
“Fine. For now, though. I’m staying.”
Rone didn’t flinch. “Storm season’s mean, dock rumors are worse, and someone’s already been on your deck. If you won’t go for you, go for the fact that A/C is a luxury you don’t have yet and sleeping with your windows open when someone’s already threatened you wouldn’t be the wisest move.”
“I’ll get the A/C on.” She forced her gaze to the shore-power pedestal. She’d gotten the sequence wrong twice; had to be something with the inverter inside, or a breaker. She’d get it right a third time. “I’m not paying for a hotel.”
“I’ll pay.”
Echo groaned and plopped down as if this conversation bored him.
But Rone’s offer wasn’t lost on her. She didn’t have the money to stay anywhere but on this boat, but it would be easier to stay in a hotel at night and work on the boat in the morning and evening.
It would be safer, too. “I’m not taking charity. ”
“I didn’t offer charity.” He tipped his chin at the hotel sign. “A loan. You pay me back when you sell the boat.”
Echo, dramatic as an actor, slid a look up at him—side-eye that somehow carried the weight of a bank ledger. Even Isobel read it. She almost smiled before she caught herself.
“Your dog just called you a liar,” she said.
“He called me optimistic.” The barest twitch of his mouth. “Loan stands.”
“No.” The word came out softer, more personal. It surprised her. “I’m staying. I’ve stayed through worse.”
Worse was a couch in a one-bedroom over a laundromat in Atlanta when the dryers ran all night, and the man she was meeting for coffee left her with the bill and a sermon about women who “lead men on.” Worse was at the age of ten, the first time she’d asked her mother about the day her father had left, hearing “You wouldn’t understand” like that was an answer.
They always had a pleasant but somewhat forced relationship. She loved her mother and knew she loved her back, but there had been a secret too big to accept that had put a wedge between them. Her one regret was not fixing it before her mother passed.
Rone studied her. It should have made her bristle. Instead, something in her ribs unclenched. He could have pushed harder. He didn’t.
“Then we make it tolerable,” he said, like he was accepting orders on a job. “Power first. A/C. Then we see if she’ll turn over.”
He stepped onto the deck, and she followed, the boat’s subtle shift greeting them like a breath held and released. Echo hopped aboard as if he paid slip fees.
Rone pointed. “It helps if the pedestal works. Been broken since last hurricane.”
She beat him to the pedestal because she needed to.
Breaker down. She unplugged the cable, walked to the next pedestal and twisted it into place until the teeth bit and the collar locked.
Up again. She went inside to the circuit board and checked that it was set to shore power, then ran back to the pedestal and flipped the switch.
Nothing. She went back inside and saw that the breaker had popped, so she flipped it.
She waited, breath pinned. Inside the cabin, a low hum woke like a heartbeat.
Rone appeared a few feet from her with resigned approval. “Good. Now flip your A/C breaker.”
She did, and the fan coughed stale non-air-conditioned air a few times before settling into something that skimmed damp off her skin.
Not cool, not yet. But not hot. A ridiculous swell of pride rose under her sternum.
She looked at him before she could help it.
He didn’t gloat. He disappeared outside, then returned.
“We’ve got flow.” Like the ocean had agreed to play nice.
“Need to clean strainers tomorrow. I did them a week ago.”
“You did them?”
“Yeah, don’t like to see a boat fall apart. Just kept up the basics. Didn’t fix anything. Felt like I owed it to Shade.”
Something told her that he was holding back information about her father, but she didn’t push. She’d be more likely to get information out of Echo than Rone. Except for the accusatory comments about him as part of his plan to make her leave.
Rone pulled back old, torn oriental looking rugs.
Had there been a woman on board who’d attempted to decorate at some point?
Two small doors with handles were exposed in the wood.
She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t even found the engine room before now.
A part of her was thankful Rone was here, but she’d never confess that to him.
He opened one door and hopped down. Isobel slid down with less grace, unsure where to place her foot, and she swallowed a sudden squeeze of claustrophobia.
Diesel hung thick; metal ticked as it cooled by her side.
Rone hit the blower switch with a knuckle and set his watch.
“We don’t breathe fumes we don’t have to. ”
“Bossy,” she said, because it made her feel less like a child trailing her father through a third-grade field trip to the marina.
“Alive.” He pointed for her to climb out, and he followed behind. “Four minutes. Got flashlights?”
She walked back to the port guest cabin where a mound of tools sat on the desk. She pulled one out and handed it to Rone.
Echo sprawled outside the door, chin over paws, watching with the bored patience of a pro sitting out the less entertaining parts of a job until somebody said his name.
Sweat slid down her spine. Despite the working A/C, it would take a while to cool off the entire boat. She dragged her forearm across her brow and spotted a small, rectangular shadow tucked behind a large hammer on the shelf.