Epilogue
Margot had been a resident of Harbor’s Hope for eleven days and half her life was still in cardboard.
Three boxes sat unopened beside the small kitchen table in her apartment over Front Street. One was labeled OFFICE, one said WINTER CLOTHES, and one said MISC, which meant things she had no idea what to do with yet.
A framed photo of her parents leaned against the wall.
Her printer sat on the floor.
Her coffee maker was on the counter, plugged in and functional, because she had priorities.
She stood barefoot in the middle of the room at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning, tablet in hand, wearing the same black pants she had worn yesterday. The box with her other work pants had vanished.
Not vanished. Misplaced. There was a difference.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
Evan: Dock shed. Bring your tablet and the binders Lacey put together.
Margot looked at the stack on the chair.
Halloween crowd flow.
Vendor lists.
Ghost tour scripts.
Masquerade dinner seating.
Fire marshal notes.
Temporary lighting.
Most of it had been scanned. Most.
She texted back: Which binder?
Three dots appeared.
Evan: I see the problem.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
That was happening more lately. Smiling at her phone like a woman in a shampoo commercial, except with worse hair and packing tape stuck to her elbow.
She peeled off the tape, grabbed the Halloween crowd-flow binder, tucked her tablet under one arm, and headed down the narrow stairs to Front Street.
The town was still waking up. The bakery lights were on. A delivery truck idled outside the market. Across the street, Lacey Morgan stood on a stepladder hanging a chalkboard sign for a private birthday brunch.
Lacey spotted her. “You look like the boxes are winning.”
“They have numbers.”
“Boxes always have numbers. That’s how they lure you in.”
Margot crossed the street. “Do you have the ghost tour vendor list?”
“I emailed it last night.”
“At eleven-forty.”
“Ben and I were arguing about whether fog machines belong near extension cords.”
“They don’t.”
“That’s what I said.” Lacey climbed down and wiped chalk dust on her jeans. “Cass is meeting you at ten about the lantern route. She has opinions.”
“Cass always has opinions.”
“Good ones, usually.” Lacey glanced toward the marina. “You going to see Evan?”
“He requested a binder.”
“A romantic man.”
“He also made coffee.”
“Then marry him immediately.”
Margot pointed the binder at her. “You are worse than Jolene.”
“Nobody is worse than Jolene. Jolene is a category.”
From the bakery doorway, Lou called, “I heard that.”
Lacey waved without guilt.
Margot kept walking.
By the time she reached the marina, the sun had cleared the rooftops and turned the water silver. Dock lines creaked. A gull complained from the roof of the fuel office. The air smelled like salt, coffee, and the first cool morning that hinted summer had finally packed its bags.
Evan was outside the dock shed, replacing a cleat.
Of course he was.
He looked up when she came down the boardwalk. His hair was damp at the ends, and his sleeves were pushed to his forearms. There was a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“You requested a binder,” she said.
“I did.”
“Do you need the binder, or was that your way of making sure I didn’t bring all six?”
His mouth moved. “Both.”
She stopped beside him and looked at the cleat. “Is this the same one?”
“Different one.”
“How many cleats does this marina have?”
“Enough.”
“That is not a number.”
“It’s a marina number.”
She set the binder on the dock box. “That answer would not survive a budget meeting.”
“I avoid budget meetings.”
“I noticed.”
He stood, wiped his hands on a rag, and opened the shed door. “Coffee’s inside.”
Margot stepped in and stopped.
The dock shed had changed.
Not much. Evan did not change things dramatically. The tools still hung on the pegboard. The camp stove still sat on the workbench. The tide chart was still taped to the wall beside a calendar that was finally on the correct month.
But there was a second hook by the door.
Her rain jacket hung there.
Below it sat a pair of boots in her size. Not new. Practical. Navy rubber, with the price tag still tucked inside one boot because Evan could install a bilge pump blindfolded but apparently could not remove evidence of shopping.
On the shelf above the camp stove were two mugs.
His old chipped one.
And a second mug, white with blue lettering.
MARGOT’S.
She stared at it.
Evan came in behind her and shut the door.
“I can take it back if it’s too much.”
She turned. “You bought me a mug.”
“Technically, Jolene bought it. I asked where a person could get a mug with a name on it. She said the gift shop. Then she said if I came back with one that said Beach Babe, she would throw me off Dock Two.”
“Sound advice.”
“I thought so.”
She looked at the mug again. Her name sat there in blue letters, ordinary and impossible.
She had her own key to his apartment. Her office lease was signed. Her boxes were upstairs over Front Street. Her mail had started arriving with Harbor’s Hope printed beneath her name.
This was the thing that undid her. A mug on a shelf.
He shifted his weight. “I know you have your place. And the office. I’m not trying to crowd you.”
“I know.”
“I just thought, mornings get early around here. And you keep leaving coffee in paper cups on my workbench.”
“One time.”
“Four times.”
“I was under deadline.”
“You’re always under deadline.”
She looked at him. “That sounded dangerously close to criticism.”
“It was observation.”
“You hide a lot behind that word.”
“Works for me.”
She reached for the mug and ran her thumb over her name. Margot’s. Not guest. Not visitor.
Not temporary event contractor who could pack her car in twenty minutes if the floor dropped out from under her.
Hers.
“You got the apostrophe right,” she said.
“I checked.”
“Twice?”
“Three times.”
She laughed.
He studied her. “You okay?”
“Yes.” She put the mug back with care. “No. Maybe.”
“That covers the options.”
“I moved here.”
“I noticed the boxes.”
“I signed the lease. I changed my mailing address. I have a parking permit, Evan. A parking permit.” She turned toward him. “So why do I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to tell me there’s been a mistake?”
He leaned against the workbench, giving her room the way he always did.
The shed held its morning quiet around them. Water against pilings. A boat engine turning over somewhere down the row. The faint drip of coffee into the pot.
“I felt that way after the Coast Guard,” he said. “When I came back here. Everybody treated me like I belonged because I’d grown up close enough. Ray put me to work. Jolene left food at my door. The marina needed fixing. All of that should’ve made it simple.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.” He looked at the shelf with the mugs. “Belonging took longer than arrival.”
She tucked the tablet against her chest. There it was.
She had arrived. She had not caught up with herself yet.
Outside, footsteps sounded on the dock.
“Morning,” Cass called through the door. “Please tell me one of you has the crowd-flow map, because Harker says the ghost tour route creates a blind spot near the south gate. I need to prove him wrong with documentation.”
Margot turned fast, grateful for the interruption and annoyed by it. “I have the binder.”
Cass opened the door and stepped in, hair clipped up, phone in her hand. A faint scar showed near her hairline, pale against her skin.
She saw the mugs. Then she glanced at Evan. Then Margot.
“Oh.” Cass smiled. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Margot said.
“Yes,” Evan said at the same time.
Cass’s smile grew.
Margot picked up the binder. “The map?”
“Right.” Cass came in. “The south gate is fine. Harker thinks every shadow is a criminal opportunity.”
“He’s a detective,” Evan said.
“He can detect somewhere else.”
Margot opened the binder to the lantern route. “What exactly did he say?”
“That the tour pauses too long near the old bait house, the lighting is bad, and guests in costume are harder to identify.” Cass made a face. “Which is annoying, because he’s right.”
Margot looked at the map. “We can shift the pause to the chapel steps.”
“That changes the ghost story.”
“Can the ghost walk?”
Cass rubbed the screen on her phone. “The ghost can be flexible.”
Evan looked at the route. “Put a volunteer at the south gate anyway. Somebody local. Ray would do it if you give him a chair and tell him he’s in charge of that stop.”
“Ray loves being in charge of things,” Cass said.
“That, he does.” Margot chuckled.
Cass laughed.
For ten minutes, they worked the route. Lantern placement. Gate coverage. Masquerade dinner flow. Lacey’s smaller vendor pop-up on Front Street feeding guests toward the resort lawn before the first ghost tour.
It clicked together. Not perfectly. Nothing did. But well enough.
Cass closed her note app and pocketed her phone. “I’ll tell Harker we made his requested adjustment.”
“Say it exactly like that,” Margot said. “It will bother him more.”
Cass’s grin was quick. “You’re learning the town.”
“I have excellent teachers.”
Cass left with the revised map.
The shed went quiet again.
Margot looked at the mug.
Evan followed her gaze. “Still too much?”
“No.” She set the binder down and reached for his hand. “It’s exactly enough.”
His fingers closed around hers.
She stepped closer and kissed him once, soft and brief.
When she drew back, he was smiling. The real one.
“You know,” she said, “I still have three boxes upstairs.”
“I own a dolly.”
“Of course you do.”
“And a label maker.”
Her heart did something ridiculous. “Evan Cole, are you flirting with me through practical equipment?”
“Is it working?”
“Unfortunately.”
He picked up her mug and poured coffee into it, leaving room for cream because he had learned that about her.
She took it from him and looked at her name again.
Outside, Harbor’s Hope kept waking. The bakery door opened. A boat bumped gently against its slip. Somewhere up the hill, the chapel bell rang seven times.
Margot had a meeting at eight. A contractor at nine. Cass at ten. A dozen Harbor Lights Hauntfest details waiting to misbehave.
But for one minute, she stood in the dock shed with her name on a mug and Evan’s hand at the small of her back. The boxes could wait.
She had arrived eleven days ago.
Belonging could start small.
A key.
A hook.
A second mug.
Continue Your Stay in Harbor’s Hope
Before Margot arrived. Before Christmas in July at Harbor’s Hope. Before Harbor’s Hope became home...