19. Vivienne
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vivienne
After dinner, we clear the table together. It’s a coordinated dance where everyone has a role. I try to help, reaching for plates, but Iris pulls me back with a swift hand on my arm.
“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice conspiratorial. “They have a system. If you try to join, you’ll just throw them off.”
She’s right. Wesley washes, his hands moving efficiently through sudsy water.
Hayes dries with a dish towel that’s seen better days.
Beckett puts away everything, opening cabinets without looking, knowing exactly where everything goes.
Patrick supervises while also packing up leftovers into mismatched Tupperware containers, his running commentary a mix of instructions and good-hearted teasing.
Callum floats between stations, helping wherever he’s needed — grabbing a dish from Wesley, handing Hayes a pot that needs extra drying, reaching the high shelf Beckett can’t quite get to.
It’s mesmerizing to watch. The ease of it and the way they move around each other in the small kitchen without colliding and without needing to communicate. A wordless language built over decades of dinners just like this one.
“You’re an only child, right?” Iris asks, watching me watch them.
I blink, pulled from my thoughts, and nod slowly.
“You’re watching them like you’ve never seen siblings interact before.” She smiles, understanding in her eyes. “I’m an only child too. It’s a lot, isn’t it? The way they just … exist together.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out wonderstruck. “It’s fascinating, really.”
I’ve never had that. I’ve never had people who know my rhythms and can predict my movements.
Someone who has a place set aside for me in their choreography.
My parents love me — I know they do — but we’re polite with each other.
They never even asked why I stopped cooking.
Or what happened with Callum. They never push.
We’ve never had this kind of easy, messy, beautiful clutter.
We sit back down on the couch, and I realize I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in days. Maybe weeks. The knot between my shoulder blades has loosened. My teeth aren’t clenched. I’m not running through worst-case scenarios or exit strategies.
Maybe I’m more relaxed than I’ve been since I walked into Neap & Spring and saw Callum for the first time in five years and felt my entire carefully constructed world tilt sideways.
“Alright!” Patrick’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Highs and lows! Living room, everyone!”
“Oh God,” Iris mutters beside me. “Here we go.”
“What’s highs and lows?” I ask, my stomach already tightening with dread.
She looks at me in surprise. “Cal didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
But everyone’s already moving to the living room, claiming seats like they know exactly where to go.
Beckett sprawls in the armchair, long limbs everywhere.
Hayes takes the other end of the couch from where Iris and I are sitting.
Wesley leans against the wall, arms crossed, still holding a dish towel.
Patrick settles into what’s clearly his chair — a worn leather recliner near the fireplace, the leather cracked in places and molded to his shape.
Callum sits down next to me on the couch close enough that our thighs touch, electric even through denim and leggings.
“Okay,” I whisper, leaning toward him slightly. “What is this?”
“Family tradition.” His voice is low enough that only I can hear. “Everyone shares their highs and lows from the week. The best thing and the worst thing.”
“Everyone?”
He pauses, and I can see him choosing his words. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but —”
“House rules,” Patrick announces, clearly having overheard despite Callum’s attempt at discretion.
“If you’re at a family dinner, you participate.
” His eyes are kind when they land on me, crinkling at the corners.
“But you can keep it simple if you want, Vivienne. We’re not trying to interrogate you. ”
“Just mildly investigate,” Beckett adds with a grin that’s all mischief.
“Ignore him,” Hayes responds flatly. “We all do.”
Patrick settles back in his chair, getting comfortable. “Wesley, why don’t you start us off?”
Wesley pushes off from the wall, the movement so slow and casual, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. His eyes go somewhere distant.
“High” — he looks at his dad, and there’s pride shining in his eyes — “we pulled in the best catch we’ve had all season on Wednesday. The hold was completely full. We had to ice everything twice to keep it fresh, and we sold out before noon.”
“Heck yeah,” Patrick says, his face lighting up. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Market price was up too,” Wesley adds, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “So we actually made decent money for once. Enough to cover the repairs that have been piling up and still have some left over.”
“About time,” Callum mutters, and there’s affection in it.
“Low …” Wesley’s whole demeanor shifts. His shoulders tighten, drawing up toward his ears. His body sets like he’s bracing himself for impact. He’s quiet for a beat, and the silence starts to feel tense.
The room waits. No one pushes.
“Old John Castellano died,” Wesley says finally.
The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.
I have no idea who John Castellano is, but clearly everyone else does.
Patrick’s face falls, lines appearing around his mouth that weren’t there a second ago.
Callum sits up straighter beside me, our thighs no longer touching.
Even Beckett loses his grin, his expression going serious in a way I haven’t seen all night.
“Oh no,” Patrick whispers. “When?”
“Last week. Heart attack.” Wesley’s voice is controlled and carefully neutral, but he looks like he’s working very hard to keep it that way. “The funeral is on Friday.”
“Damn,” Hayes breathes out. “That’s — damn.”
“He left the fishing business to his daughters,” Wesley continues, and there’s frustration creeping into his tone now, slipping through his calm cracks. “Sloane and Blair.”
“I didn’t even know John had daughters,” Beckett says quizzically, sitting forward slightly.
“Neither did most people. They weren’t around much.
I guess they lived with their mom most of their lives or something.
” Wesley picks at the label on his beer bottle, his thumb nail working under the edge.
A nervous habit he probably doesn’t know he has.
“Sloane’s been living up in Portland. She came down to sort everything out and handle the transition.
But it sounds like she might just take over. ”
“That’s a lot to take on,” I say, and everyone turns to look at me.
It’s the first time I’ve contributed to the conversation, and I feel the shift of attention like a physical weight. But I’ve seen this before — family businesses handed down to people who aren’t ready or don’t want it but feel obligated.
It rarely ends well.
“Running a fishing operation when I assume she didn’t grow up in it,” I continue, meeting Wesley’s eyes even though I wish I could sink into the couch away from his prying gaze. “The learning curve alone would be —”
“Steep,” Wesley says, and his tone is laced with relief, maybe, that someone understands.
Or maybe it’s frustration that understanding doesn’t fix the problem.
“She doesn’t know what she’s doing. And it’s affecting my operation because our routes overlap and she’s making decisions without understanding how the tides work out here or where the fish even are.
” His mouth presses into a thin line. “I tried to explain it to her, but she basically told me to fuck off.”
“Wesley,” Patrick huffs.
“You were probably condescending about it,” Beckett says mildly, like he’s commenting on the weather.
Wesley’s head swivels toward him. “I was not condescending.”
“You have a condescending voice, Wes. It’s involuntary.”
“I do not have a —”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Wesley opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he’s decided not to say.
Patrick nods slowly, like he’s processing all of this and filing it away. “Well, that all makes sense. So, what’s the actual problem?”
“Neither of them knows the first thing about fishing!” Wesley’s frustration is bleeding through now, his voice rising slightly.
“Sloane has a nose ring,” Wesley says, and he’s trying to make it sound like a neutral piece of information but failing completely.
“And tattoos. A lot of them. Full sleeves. No offence, Cal. And she just showed up at the docks last Monday with a binder full of — I don’t even know what.
Talking about ‘optimizing operations’ and ‘reviewing partnerships.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers, the gesture sharp and frustrated.
“She was a damn tattoo artist or something. How can she possibly know any of that!? And she’s getting in everyone’s way, asking questions about things she doesn’t understand, making decisions about boats and routes and equipment purchases and —” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair in a motion so similar to Callum’s, making it stand up. “It’s a mess.”
“She’s grieving,” Patrick says gently.
“I know that.” Wesley’s voice is defensive, then he takes a breath and forces it softer.
“I know. And I feel for her, I do. Losing a parent is —” He glances at Patrick, nervousness crossing his face.
“But she’s also making my job impossible.
Half the harbor is confused about whose orders to follow.
She tried to tell me I was using the wrong nets last week.
Me. I’ve been fishing these waters my whole life. ”
“What’d you say?” Beckett leans forward with interest.
“What could I say? Her dad just died. I can’t exactly tell her to back off or mind her own business.” Wesley sounds exhausted, the fight draining out of him. “So I’m just … I’m trying to work around her and find ways to avoid conflict. But something’s got to give.”