Chapter Seventeen
LOGAN
Shielding his eyes from the sun, Logan scanned the marina for the Jolly Regina . Spotting the weather-beaten pocket trawler wedged between two svelte sailboats, he made his way down the pier, propelled by an intense urge he couldn’t shake since his conversation with Carla earlier that morning.
A gruff-looking fisherman in grungy oilskins descended the gangway carrying two large coolers.
“Good haul today?” Logan asked, meeting him at the bottom of the gangway.
An indiscernible grunt served as a reply.
This wasn’t going to be easy. “Garth, right? Garth Henderson?”
The man eyed him warily beneath his wide-brimmed boonie hat.
Based on the behemoth’s impressive girth and massive, scarred hands, Logan didn’t want to get on his bad side.
He had a feeling a tussle with Garth Henderson would rival wrestling a grizzly bear—a grizzly bear who smelled like diesel fuel and dead fish.
Tread carefully . “I hear you knew Sam Bailey.”
Without a word, Garth set the coolers down, then turned, prepared to head back up the gangway for another load.
Despite the man’s surly, antisocial reputation, Logan couldn’t let him walk away without answers.
From the moment he’d told Carla to move forward with the expedited death certificate, an overpowering need consumed him—a need to learn more about the man he’d just propelled toward an official declaration of death. “I’m Logan Mathews, Max’s foster dad.”
Max’s name stopped Garth’s enormous rubber boots midstride. “You’re taking care of Sam’s kid?” He slowly swiveled back around.
“With my fiancée, Abby. We love Max like he’s our own.
I’m not trying to stir up trouble. I’m sure you were questioned during Sam’s initial disappearance.
I just want to—” Logan paused, struggling to verbalize his complicated string of emotions.
Expelling a heavy breath, he confessed, “I just want to know more about Max’s father.
I want to know what kind of man he was. He’ll always be a part of Max, and I want to honor that, to help keep his memory alive.
” His chest tightened as his jumbled thoughts gained some clarity.
He couldn’t bring Max’s father back from the grave, but he could do everything in his power to respect and preserve his role in Max’s life.
Garth studied him a moment, his swarthy features softening beneath a bristly beard that covered most of his face. “Talk to Iris.”
“Iris?”
“Iris Hodge.” With a single name, Garth concluded their conversation and plodded back up the gangway.
“Wait. Was she a friend of Sam’s? Girlfriend?” To his recollection, neither Max nor Carla had mentioned her before. At least, not by name.
Over his shoulder, Garth barked, “Landlady,” and disappeared aboard his dilapidated boat.
Logan remained motionless, processing the information.
Carla had mentioned they’d lived in a rental of some kind during their brief stay in Blessings Bay, but she hadn’t been more specific than that.
And he doubted she could legally pass along the woman’s information anyway. But he needed to find her.
Pulling out his cell, he dialed the one person in town most likely to know Iris Hodge—his notoriously nosy neighbor, Verna.
His hunch paid off, and several minutes later, Logan found himself standing outside a quaint Cape Cod–style cottage on the outskirts of town.
Four-feet-tall zinnias in vibrant pinks, purples, and reds lined a quintessential white picket fence.
Impressed by the swath of colorful cosmos, salvia, and coneflowers, he made a mental note to ask Iris for gardening tips if he got the chance.
He knocked on the cheerful blue door.
A white-haired woman in her golden years—late eighties, maybe?—greeted him wearing a smudged gardening smock. “Hello?”
“Iris?”
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Sam Bailey.”
“Sam?” Her voice softened, a note of warmth in her whisper.
“Sam and his son, Max, used to live here with you?”
“Yes. Briefly. In my guesthouse out back. Best tenants I ever had.” Her pale silvery eyes clouded, as if the memories were bittersweet. “What is it you’d like to know?”
Logan sensed the woman cared for both Sam and Max. And, unlike Garth, she seemed willing to talk. Impulsively, he asked, “May I trouble you for a glass of water?”
Iris countered his request with a pitcher of sweet tea and homemade shortbread cookies that she served in a back garden even more lush and vibrant than the one out front. While she freely shared stories about Max and Sam, Logan listened with interest, surveying his surroundings.
Max had played in this garden. He’d probably climbed that maple tree and fed the mottled koi fish lazily circling the small pond.
The guesthouse, with its cutesy pink gingham curtains and overflowing window boxes, looked more like a granny’s hobby shed than a home for a burly fisherman and his young son, but what it lacked in space and masculinity, it made up for in coziness. He could see Max being happy here.
“I miss Max’s laughter and the sounds of his rowdy play,” Iris admitted, her gaze sweeping the serene garden. “It’s too quiet now.”
“What about your new tenants?”
“I never had the heart to replace Max and Sam. Not after what happened.” Her gaze fell to her iced tea.
“Such a tragedy.” She swiped a finger through the beads of condensation on the glass.
“I suppose I’ll have to find new tenants soon.
I’m on a fixed income. But it’s hard to imagine anyone else living there.
” A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
“That must sound silly, since they were only here for a few months.”
“Not really. Max makes an impression on your heart pretty quickly.”
Meeting his gaze, she smiled as if they shared a special secret.
“He does, doesn’t he? You know,” she said softly, glancing down at her iced tea again.
“After what happened, I thought about taking Max in myself. But at my age, I didn’t think I could offer what he needed.
” Her tone bore a note of shame. Poor lady. She’d carried that guilt a long time.
Logan reached across the table to pat her hand. “God worked it out.”
She raised her chin and nodded tearfully. “I’m so glad Max found a happy home. You seem to love him very much.”
“I do.” A lump formed in his throat. Yeesh. When had he become such a softy?
He gulped the rest of his iced tea and set the glass on the table. “Thank you for taking the time to tell me about Sam.” He now felt like he had a fuller picture.
From Max’s point of view, Sam sounded larger than life, like some mythical figure from storybooks.
Logan didn’t mind. He wanted Max to admire his father.
But now, in addition to Sam’s supernatural skills at everything from fishing to soccer to belting popular sea shanties, he knew the man worked hard, long hours, but always made time for his son when he could.
He’d even helped Iris with tasks around the house like heavy lifting, taking out the trash, and assembling a bookshelf, despite being spread thin.
Although, he’d been banned from helping around the garden due to a deadly black thumb.
Logan also learned the man mostly kept to himself.
He didn’t do social media or dating apps or much of anything pertaining to technology.
And in all the months they’d lived here, they’d never had a single guest over.
Even though he’d supplied Iris with fresh fish without asking for anything in return, he’d never accepted her invitations to dinner.
“It was nice to talk about him,” Iris said wistfully. “They had no one in their lives. And Max is so young. I worry that someday Sam will be forgotten.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Logan promised. “By the way, what happened to their belongings?”
“Someone in law enforcement came to collect everything. I suppose it’s evidence until…” She fell silent, but Logan could guess her unfinished thought.
Until Sam is declared dead.
“Iris,” he said gently. “Based on what you knew of Sam and his skills as a sailor, do you think it’s possible he survived that storm?”
Iris studied the cubes of ice melting in her glass. Finally, she met his gaze, her eyes filled with a profound sadness. “All I can say for sure is, based on how much Sam loved his son, if he survived, nothing in the world could keep him away.”
Logan nodded in understanding. That’s what he thought.
Sam Bailey sounded like a man he’d like to know. A man he respected.
How was it possible to mourn a man’s death while also feeling gratitude for the unintended aftermath? Without Sam’s tragic passing, life with Max wouldn’t exist.
And what kind of life would that be?