2. Occupational Hazard
Chapter two
Occupational Hazard
Jack
Imake it halfway across my yard before I realize I'm still thinking about Claire Monroe.
That's irritating.
I don't think about Claire Monroe.
Especially not after she shuts a door in my face because I ask a perfectly reasonable question about selling her property.
Or because she somehow turns a conversation about real estate into one about refrigerators.
I unlock my front door.
"Don't," I mutter.
Dusty lifts his head from the living room rug and looks at me with the same judgmental expression he reserves for squirrels that make poor life choices.
"Not you."
His tail thumps against the floor once.
Not a wag.
More like a statement.
I shut the door a little harder than necessary and head for the kitchen.
If she's selling, then fine.
It's her house.
She can do whatever she wants with it.
But the least she could've done was answer a simple question instead of acting like I was interrogating her.
I stop in front of the coffee maker.
It's probably too late in the day for another cup.
Then again, my options are either caffeine or lying awake until sunrise thinking about property lines... and people who have absolutely no business taking up space in my head.
People like Claire Monroe.
With her dark wavy hair.
And those brown eyes that somehow manage to look amused and annoyed at the same time.
I sigh.
Coffee it is.
The machine has barely started brewing when my phone buzzes.
Harris: Working on some storm prep. Care to join?
I frown at the screen.
Storm prep isn't until next week.
It's always next week.
Me: You're ruining my schedule. I have you penciled in for next week.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Harris: Do you even own a pencil?
I snort.
Fair point.
I can't remember the last time I used an actual Number Two pencil.
Me: Fair enough. Anyone else there?
Harris: Just me and Eli. See you soon!
I shake my head.
Me: Presumptuous.
After a second, I add:
Me: But sure.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the gravel lot by the docks.
Dusty sits in the passenger seat like he owns the place, his tail thumping against the seat as if storm prep is his favorite hobby.
I kill the engine, grab my gloves from the center console, and point at him.
"Stay."
Dusty blinks at me.
I decide that's agreement.
The wind hits me the second I step out of the truck. Salt air. Choppy water. Gray clouds gathering on the horizon.
Feels like home.
I tug my hoodie a little tighter as I cross the lot toward the storm board shed. Harris is standing outside with a tablet in his hands, squinting at the screen like it's personally offended him.
Either that, or he's still refusing to admit he needs reading glasses.
Could go either way.
"What are we working on?" I ask.
Harris looks up with a grin.
"The usual. Checking lines, taking inventory, fixing hazards everyone else has been pretending not to notice."
"I refuse to fix any hazards at the Monroe house."
The words are out before I realize I've actually said them.
Harris tilts his head.
"Who said anything about the Monroe house?"
I sigh.
"Forget it."
I pull on my gloves and grab the nearest coil of rope, hoping physical labor can drag this conversation in a different direction.
"It's not important."
"It wasn't," Harris says, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Before you brought it up. Now I'm interested."
I give the rope an unnecessary tug.
"She's back."
"Just her?"
"Yeah."
The single word should end the conversation.
Instead, it somehow feels like the beginning of one.
Harris gets that look he always gets when he's trying to solve a complicated problem.
"Is she here to sell the beach house?"
I pull the rope taut and glare at him.
"How could you possibly know that?"
He chuckles.
"I'll take that as a yes."
He taps something on the tablet before jerking his chin toward the nearest slip.
"Come on. Let's start with the lines before the tide shifts."
I fall into step beside him.
"Who told you she was selling?"
"Evie mentioned there'd been some kind of tragedy in the family," Harris says, scanning the cleats and pilings like he can identify structural problems by glaring at them hard enough. "Maybe that set something in motion."
I crouch beside the first cleat and give the dock line a practiced yank.
Solid.
Unlike my patience.
Evie has lived in Tidehaven longer than anyone can remember, and she treats gossip like a public service.
She prefers calling it local news that never makes the news.
No one really argues with her.
Mostly because she's seventy, fearless, and shows up with enough homemade baked goods to make people overlook the fact that about half her stories are only loosely connected to reality.
Claire's been back for all of... what?
A few hours?
There's no way Evie actually knows anything.
"Hey, Jack!"
I look up as Eli heads toward us with a fresh coil of rope over one shoulder and his beat-up canvas tool bag swinging from the other.
"Good of you to join us!"
I shrug.
"Didn't have much else going on. Besides, who doesn't enjoy a little storm prep?"
Harris snorts.
"What he means is it was either this or sit at home perfecting his permanent scowl because his neighbor came back."
Eli's face brightens.
"Claire Monroe? Cool!"
"She's here to sell the beach house," I say.
"So... not cool."
His smile fades into confusion.
"I mean... it's sad she's selling such a great place. But what's the problem?"
"Jack's stressing himself out because he doesn't know what kind of sale it is," Harris answers for me.
I tighten my grip on the rope and give it a harder tug than necessary.
"I asked."
"And?"
"She cut me off."
I pause.
"Then she asked me to move her refrigerator."
The words sound just as ridiculous out loud the second time.
I shake my head.
"What kind of person does that?"
Eli blinks.
"...Someone who needs help moving a refrigerator?"
I stare at him.
Harris points at Eli with a gloved finger.
"He's got a point."
I don't appreciate how quickly they're taking sides.
"Did you help?" Harris asks.
"She slammed the door in my face."
Both of them burst out laughing.
I scowl.
I need better friends.
As if on cue, Dusty lets out a single bark from inside my truck.
I slowly turn toward the windshield.
"Traitor."
Dusty immediately lies back down.
At least one of us has the decency to look guilty.
"What's the deal with you and that family anyway?" Eli asks, setting his tool bag on the ground and unclipping the metal latches. "You've never really said."
"Don't get him started," Harris groans. "Please."
I let out a slow breath.
"Short version?"
Eli nods.
"My family had plans for some land years ago."
"And the Monroes got in the way?" Eli guesses.
"Something like that."
"You make it sound like Claire personally showed up with a shovel."
I open my mouth.
Then close it again.
Because...
No.
She didn't.
"I'm going to check the rest of the dock lines."
I walk away before either of them can ask another question.
The nearest fishing boat rocks gently against the pilings.
I crouch beside the cleat, running the line through my hands before retying the knot.
Cleaner.
Tighter.
It didn't actually need fixing.
Neither did the knot.
I just need something to do besides explain decades of family history to someone who still thinks everyone in Tidehaven gets along.
The truth is...
Logically, I know none of it is Claire's fault.
She didn't make the decisions.
She didn't start the feud.
She just happened to be born a Monroe.
Unfortunately, in my family, that's always been enough.
We spend the next couple of hours working through the storm prep checklist.
Check the dock lines.
Replace a frayed rope.
Stack storm boards.
Inspect cleats.
Repeat.
By the time Harris finally calls for a break, Eli's cheeks are bright red from the wind, and Harris's coffee has long since gone cold.
We duck behind the storage shed where it's mostly sheltered from the breeze.
Harris opens a small cooler.
Water.
Chips.
Then enough candy to stock a convenience store.
"Classic," I mutter.
"What?" he asks.
"You pack for storm prep like you're hosting Halloween."
He grins without an ounce of shame.
Sugar is apparently one of the major food groups in Harris's world.
"So..." Eli says around a mouthful of chips.
I already don't like where this is headed.
"Did Claire say how long she's staying?"
Of course.
I come here to stop thinking about Claire Monroe...
...and somehow end up talking about Claire Monroe anyway.
"No."
I shrug.
"She didn't say much of anything."
"Maybe you should've helped with the refrigerator," Harris says, waggling his eyebrows. "Might've led to an actual conversation."
I grunt.
He's not wrong.
Which is irritating.
Claire Monroe is like a splinter.
Small.
Annoying.
Impossible to ignore once she's there.
"I'm sure I'll run into her again," I say, pushing away from the shed and pulling my gloves back on. "Or you could ask Evie. She somehow knew Claire was coming back before Claire knew she was coming back."
"Maybe Evie's got a Monroe crystal ball."
Harris laughs.
"I'll look into that. Save you from having to talk to your own neighbor."
I glance over at Eli.
He's trying—and failing—not to laugh.
I shake my head.
"Anyway," I say, nodding toward the docks, "I can't stay much longer. I promised Dusty we'd take a walk on the beach after this."
"Dogs before storm prep," Harris says, stuffing the leftover candy back into the cooler. "I see where your priorities are."
"Storm prep wasn't supposed to happen until next week."
I give one of the dock lines a final testing tug.
"A beach walk was already penciled into my schedule."
Harris smirks.
"With the pencil you don't own?"
"Semantics."
He pulls out his phone.
"Next week, then?"
"I'm good," Eli says, slinging the rope back over his shoulder. "If you need me sooner, just call."
Harris taps a note into his calendar.
"In that case, I'll save the rest of these gummy bears for next week."
"Please do."
I nod solemnly.
"I can't bear storm prep without your completely reasonable amount of candy."
Harris makes a satisfied little noise and bumps my shoulder with his elbow.
"You know these gummy bears are emotional support gummy bears."
The corner of my mouth twitches.
"Honestly, between you, Evie, and her baked goods, this entire town is going to end up with diabetes."
Harris grins.
"Worth it."
"Nah," Eli says. "I'm pretty sure the salt water cancels out the sugar. We're safe."
I shake my head.
"That isn't how nutrition works."
Harris snorts.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
Harris gives Eli a triumphant high five anyway.
"Unbelievable."
I decide that's my cue to leave.
I say goodbye and head back to my truck.
The second I open the driver's door, Dusty is sitting at attention, his tail thumping against the seat like he's been waiting for his shift to start.
"About time," I tell him.
His tail speeds up.
I climb in, start the truck, and take the long way home.
The road hugs the shoreline, winding past the dunes with the ocean stretching out beside it.
Normally that's enough.
Salt air.
A familiar drive.
A dog that never asks questions.
Usually that's all it takes to clear my head.
Today...
Not so much.
As I round the bend near the Monroe property, my gaze drifts toward the beach access before I can stop it.
The stairs catch my attention immediately.
They're leaning.
Not enough for most people to notice, but enough for me.
One railing post is starting to give, and the sand beneath the stairs has washed away more than it should have. Another good storm, and someone could get hurt.
I ease off the gas without thinking.
It's an occupational hazard. Contractors notice things that other people don't.
I study the stairs for another second, mentally making a list.
Replace the post.
Reinforce the railing.
Check the footing.
Add a brace before the next storm turns a small problem into a dangerous one.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
Not my house.
Not my problem.
I press the accelerator and force my eyes back to the road.
The stairs disappear in my rearview mirror.
They should stay there.
Instead, they follow me all the way home.
Not just the stairs.
Claire Monroe.
I let out a quiet groan.
I have a feeling this isn't the last time I'm going to end up on her porch.