Chapter 5
The afternoon sun beat down on the dock as Bryan stepped out of the harbormaster’s office and onto the weathered planks.
He’d spent the last two hours listening to Rod Harris from the Coast Guard station explain catch limits, new regulations, and environmental impact studies that might shut down three more fishing routes by next season.
Might as well have been listening to a eulogy.
Bryan walked toward his boat, the Mary Catherine, named after his grandmother.
The thirty-foot commercial vessel had belonged to his father before him.
Before that, his grandfather. Three generations of Lucas men had hauled nets from this deck.
Now both his father and grandfather were gone, and it was just him.
He checked the mooring lines out of habit. Everything was secure. If only the rest of his life had the same guarantee.
“Bryan Lucas?”
The voice came from behind him. Smooth. Professional. The kind of voice that belonged in an office building, not on a working dock.
He turned. A man in a pressed white shirt and khakis stood at the edge of the pier. No tie, but he might as well have been wearing one. Everything about him screamed money and mainland.
“That’s me.”
The man extended his hand as he approached. “George Morton. I’m with Oceanside Development. Do you have a few minutes?”
Bryan shook his hand because that’s what you did, even when every instinct said to walk away. “Depends what you’re selling.”
Morton smiled. It was the kind of smile that probably worked on investors and city councils. “I’m not selling anything. I’m here to make an offer.”
“On what?”
“Your dock rights.” Morton pulled a folder from under his arm. “And your restaurant space. We’re in the process of acquiring waterfront properties along this section of the harbor for commercial revitalization. Businesses like high-end retail, boutique restaurants, and a resort component.”
“The Sandpiper has been in our family for years.”
“Of course.” Morton’s smile didn’t waver. “And it’s a charming establishment. Very authentic. But we’re talking about something that would bring significant revenue to this community. It would bring jobs, tourism, and real economic growth.”
Real. As if what he did every day wasn’t real work. Fishing. Working in the restaurant.
“My family’s been fishing these waters since before you were born. Before your company existed.”
“I understand the emotional attachment.” Morton opened the folder. “That’s why we’re prepared to make a very fair offer for your cooperation.”
He turned the folder so Bryan could see the number written on the top page.
Bryan looked at it. Looked at Morton. Looked back at the number.
It was insulting. “That’s what you think my livelihood is worth?”
“It’s a starting point for negotiation. The truth is, Mr. Lucas, the fishing industry is dying. You know it. I know it. This harbor can either evolve or become obsolete.”
Bryan’s hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to throw Morton off the dock and watch him splash into the water in that pressed white shirt.
But that wasn’t how things worked anymore. You couldn’t just punch problems in the face and watch them sink.
“I’m not selling,” Bryan said.
“I understand you need time to consider.” Morton pulled a business card from his pocket.
“But I should mention that we’re acquiring multiple properties in this area.
With or without your cooperation, this waterfront is going to change.
The only question is whether you’re part of that change or fighting against it. ”
He held out the card.
Bryan didn’t take it.
Morton set it on the dock railing. “Think it over. We’ll be in touch.” He walked away. His shoes made clean, precise sounds on the planks, like he was already measuring the space for whatever sterile replacement he had planned.
He picked up the business card. Oceanside Development and Acquisition. A phone number. An email address.
He tore it in half. Then tore the halves into smaller pieces. He would have tossed them into the wind, but he didn’t litter. He shoved them into his pocket.
The Mary Catherine rocked gently in the tide. He climbed aboard and sat on the bench near the helm. His father used to sit here in the evenings, going over the day’s catch, mending nets, planning the next morning’s run.
Those evenings were gone. The catches were smaller, and the regulations tighter. The profit margins were so thin you could see through them.
Maybe Morton was right. Maybe this was all dying.
He pulled out his phone. Two missed calls from his mother and a text from his sister asking if he’d picked up supplies for the restaurant. Nothing from the bank, which meant his loan extension request was still pending.
He scrolled through his email. Most of it was automated newsletters and spam. An email from Marty Fuller at the bookstore, forwarding an article about heritage tourism. One message from Mayor West thanking the committee for their work today, especially Cassidy Wren for her suggestions.
The mayor had dropped by this afternoon and assured him that Cassidy was just here for advising. He was still the head of the committee. He made the final decisions.
Cassidy Wren. She’d sat there at the meeting with her neat folder, her color-coded tabs, and her corporate confidence. Talked about demographics, marketing funnels—whatever those were—and social media engagement, like the festival was just another product to sell.
Cassidy was exactly like Morton. Maybe she dressed it up in prettier language, called it revitalization instead of development, and used words like authentic and heritage. But at the end of the day, she wanted the same thing Morton wanted.
She wanted to turn Starlight Shores into something shiny and new that looked good in photographs. Something that brought in tourists who’d take their selfies, eat their overpriced fish tacos, and leave without ever understanding what this place actually was.
She saw the festival as a marketing opportunity and the working waterfront as a quaint aesthetic choice. She didn’t see the people or the families. The generations of men and women who’d built their lives on these docks.
He stood and checked the fuel gauge. He needed to take the boat out tomorrow. Early. Before the heat set in.
His phone buzzed. Another text from his mother. Did you talk to the bank?
He typed back. Still waiting.
The sun was starting its descent toward the horizon. Golden light spread across the water. This was usually his favorite time of day. The time when everything felt possible, like the next morning’s catch might be the one that changed everything.
But today it just felt heavy.
He looked back toward town. He could see the lighthouse in the distance. Heron Cottage would be beside it, where Cassidy Wren was probably sitting right now, working on her next presentation about how to fix everything that wasn’t broken.
Or maybe everything was broken. Maybe he just couldn’t see it yet.
Morton’s offer sat in his mind like a splinter, painful and persistent.
He checked the boat one last time and headed back down the dock. He had to get to the restaurant. The dinner shift had started an hour ago, and they were down a server. His mother would cover, like she always did, but she shouldn’t have to.
None of them should have to work this hard just to keep what was already theirs.