Cassie Mint

  Harbor Master

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2023

  Copyright © 2023 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-915735-28-7

  Cover art by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Last Night

  2. Mac

  3. Cocoa

  4. Mac

  5. Cocoa

  6. Mac

  7. Cocoa

  8. Mac

  9. Cocoa

  Teaser: Rock God

  About the Author

  One

  Last Night

  We burst outside with the first rumble of thunder, sprinting along the sea cliffs. Four of us, hair streaming. Four sets of feet pounding the grass. It’s long past midnight, the stars swallowed up by dark clouds, and rain lashes our cheeks as we run.

  Crack.

  Lightning forks between the clouds, jabbing at the earth half a mile away, and the air around us sizzles. There’s a wild burst of laughter. Goosebumps ripple down my bare arms.

  “Wait up,” I call, but the wind snatches the words and tosses them over the cliffs. Far below, the dark sea surges against the rocks.

  Cursing, I push myself to run faster.

  Usually, I’d be at the front of the pack, goading everyone else to keep up, but my left knee is stiff. It’s been stiff for days, no matter how much I stretch it.

  Lungs burn; elbows pump. The others are farther ahead now, screaming with laughter, pretending to push each other off the cliff.

  Did they see me follow them? If they did, they’d have slowed down—I’m sure of it. But I was last outside, slowest to run, and I fell behind before they knew I’d come too.

  “Hey,” I call again. It’s no use. My voice is reedy from breathing so hard.

  The wind flaps my white dress against my thighs as I slow to a walk. The fabric is soaked from the rain, sticking to my bare legs, and it’s probably gone see-through. Am I wearing a bra tonight?

  I pat my hard nipple through the dress. Nope.

  …Perfect.

  Well maybe it’s good, then, that I fell behind so fast. Saved myself the embarrassment.

  A plume of orange fire bursts above the group, followed by whoops and cheers. Artur’s fire-breathing again. How does he have the spare breath?

  They’ve stopped in one place now, but maybe I’m not sold on catching up anymore. Who wants to be the bedraggled loser who chased the rest along the cliffs, desperate to join in? Not me. No sir.

  Another rumble of thunder shakes the ground. I turn on my heel, lightheaded from sprinting so far.

  It happens so fast.

  One minute, I’m grouchy, plucking at my dress on the clifftop edge. The next, my foot slides on the wet grass, pain flares in my knee—and then I’m weightless, twisting in the rain, mouth stretched open in horror.

  I fall for so long. An eternity.

  When I hit the waves, all the air slams from my body. It’s like hitting concrete, flecked with foam.

  No.

  Panic claws at my throat; it strains the tendons on my bones. Don’t know which way is up, or how I got here, and the water is so cold, so cold. Like icy needles stabbing my limbs.

  Help.

  I fight to raise my head, to call out one last time, but a current gets hold of my ankle and drags me under. Seaweed brushes against my cheek, and everything goes black.

  Two

  Mac

  I lock my front door, then jingle the keys in my pocket as I walk the beach path to the marina. It’s just past dawn, the sky blushing pink, and the air is vinegary with brine.

  The ocean is calm on one side of the path, lapping at a long stretch of sand, while houses sleep on the other, curtains drawn.

  Last night’s storm was a wild one. Heard it howling around three, but even if I’d slept through, it’s clear from the seaweed tossed where it has no right to be that the wind and waves had a party. The closer I get to town, walking past rows and rows of tall, terraced houses snuggled against the cliffs, the more incongruous the seaweed is.

  Splayed on roof tiles.

  Tucked in third-story window boxes.

  And in the town square, draped over the statue of a long forgotten mayor like a slimy brown wig.

  Driftwood litters the smooth beach beyond the promenade, clear of footprints this early in the morning, but soon enough the dog walkers and sunrise joggers will leave their mark. Over in the town square, shop shutters are raised, and the scent of fresh bread drifts from the bakery.

  My stomach rumbles.

  I ignore it. I’d eat the whole damn grocery store if I let my appetite rule. I’m like a black hole; I’d never get full. Plagues of locusts have nothing on me.

  Striding past, I hug the shoreline and leave the bustle of shopkeepers and deliveries behind me. As quick as the sounds and smells of civilization came, they fade, and then it’s just me and the beach path again. The way I like it. Seabirds strut across the sand, pecking at nothing.

  Everyone has their part to play in Sweet Cherry Cove, and mine is at the marina. Mostly alone. Some think the town is in a time warp, like we’re all play-acting another era, but the truth is, our system works.

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if you don’t want thousands of tourists to descend on your golden beaches, don’t pander to ‘em.

  I think we’re doing just fine.

  A gull yells at me as I unlock the marina gate, and the metal creaks as it swings wide. Need to oil those hinges.

  The gull screeches louder, and I wave it off.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll oil it today. Keep your feathers on.”

  Boats clink against their moorings as I stroll around the marina, checking for damage after last night’s storm. It’s mostly small boats for fishing and drifting—no great wealth around here, apart from the occasional visitor venturing off the beaten track. Still, if there’s a single scratch, you bet your ass I’ll hear about it. The Sweet Cherry Cove locals are a mouthy lot.

  The jetty creaks beneath my steps. Barnacles cling to the wooden poles like crusty leg warmers, and the boats rock with the gentle swell of waves. Fine, all fine. It’s sheltered in this marina, tucked away from the ocean’s temper.

  “Hm.” Scratching the stubble on my chin, I cast one last look around. A flash of white in a distant rowboat catches my eye.

  …That’s strange.

  As I walk over, I’m thinking normal thoughts. Boring thoughts, like: should I check those lobster pots off South Point didn’t get all tangled last night, and what shall I cook for dinner?

  Then I get my first good look at the rowboat, and my heart stops. My legs wobble, and then I’m running, boots crashing against the jetty.

  The girl is curled in a ball, arms wrapped around her middle, her dark hair tangled with the pile of fishing nets she’s lying on. Her dress is white and torn, crusted with sand and rucked up around her thighs.

  She’s so still. Too still.

  Her lips are chalky pale.

  “Fuck.” I draw out my phone and curse my own antisocial ways as it takes forever to switch on. Her face is smooth and untroubled, as though she’s napping on a sun lounger and not curled up on a twisted pile of nets. Is this a crime scene? Can I go any closer?

  As I watch, her chest rises and falls on a shuddering breath.

  “She’s alive,” I say, like anyone could hear me, and fumble my way into the boat, the tiny vessel rocking madly. A scratched-up orange buoy rolls over the side, landing in the water with a plop.

  The girl is cold to the touch, and so ashen—but when I feel for the pulse point under her jaw, it taps against my fingers, steady and strong. Another breath stirs her chest.

  Thank god.

  “Miss,” I say, and I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I need a team of paramedics; a police detective; hell, even a passing dog walker, because I don’t have enough hands. Can’t think straight.

  Dial, you asshole. Call for help.

  My hand shakes as I start to dial 911.

  I can’t explain this. I’m good in an emergency—always have been. You need to be, in a job like mine. But something about this girl has rattled me completely, and the sight of her curled up and vulnerable sends a stabbing pain through my chest. I’m so off-center, I’m seasick.

  When the operator answers in a brisk voice, I clear my throat to speak. My fingers are still pressed against the girl’s throat, and her skin warms beneath my touch.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’m at the marina in Sweet—”

  The girl lunges upright, gasping for breath, eyes wide. I curse and fumble back, my phone startled right out of my hand. It hits the

water with a sploosh, going the way of that orange buoy.

  There goes my hope of back-up.

  “S-sorry,” the girl says, her chest heaving, color flooding back into her cheeks. Hazel eyes stare at me, roving over my features. “I—I’m sorry. Was that your phone?”

  She doesn’t seem badly hurt. Suddenly she seems fine. More than fine, like she really was napping. Only her ruined dress says otherwise.

  How old is she? Early twenties?

  “Miss,” I say again, palms up to show I won’t hurt her. It’s crowded in this little boat, especially now she’s upright. “Do you know where you are? Are you hurt?”

  The girl blinks and peers around herself, taking in the boats bobbing against the jetty; the sand-caked fishing nets; her torn dress. When she looks back up at me, her chin wobbles.

  “No,” she whispers.

  “You’re not hurt?” I push, needing to hear it again.

  She shakes her head slowly.

  “But you don’t know where you are?”

  Another no.

  I gust out a long breath. Jesus Christ, what a mess.

  “There’s a phone in my office.” She follows the jab of my thumb, eyebrows pinching together when she sees the small stone building by the cliffs. “We’ll call the police, okay? Get you sorted out. Are you alright to move? Did you…” I wince and gesture above her shoulders. “Did you hit your head? Can you feel any bumps or cuts?”

  She blinks at me, not moving, and her fingers twist in her dress. Like she’s waiting for something. Does she want me to check?

  Well, here goes nothing. “Can I…?”

  A shaky nod.

  And here’s something I didn’t expect when I set out from home this morning: that I’d find myself hunched in a rowboat, boots snagging in old nets, my fingers sliding gently through dark, tangled hair. The girl’s lips part as I probe her skull, touching as softly as I can manage, and she’s so delicate. When I speak again, my voice is rough.

  “How’d you get here?”

  A wobbly shrug. My chest aches worse than after a hard ten-mile run.

  “What’s your name?”

  There’s a long pause, then another shrug. The movement is jerky this time, and I watch as panic rises, her pupils turning to pinpricks. She doesn’t know her own name?

  No: her breaths come fast and shallow, and her cheeks flush. Christ, she doesn’t remember anything.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, my fingers still in her hair, and for a moment, I let myself cradle her head. I stroke her scalp, doing my best to be soothing—and sure enough, she settles back down, breathing slower again. Who knew I could be a comforting man? “Doesn’t matter, okay? We’ll figure it out. We’ll make that call.”

  Her throat shifts as she swallows. “N-no police.”

  Uh. What? I glance around, realizing for the first time how this must look to any passers-by. Here she is, washed up and vulnerable; so much smaller than me, bundled in nothing but a torn dress. And here I am, looming over her, so much older and bigger, and now she doesn’t want me to make that call?

  “I don’t want to star on the six o’clock news,” I tell her. “We’re calling them.”

  “No.” She breathes faster again, struggling to her feet. A net snags her ankle as she steps onto the jetty, tripping her up—and I lunge to catch her before she hits the wooden planks.

  She’s warm against my chest, curling into me like I’m the safest place around. My heart lurches.

  I set her down and back away.

  No police? Am I an asshole if I agree to that?

  Or am I an asshole if I call them against her will? What if she has good reasons to keep them away?

  “A doctor, at least.” Feels like we’re bargaining for my soul. My humanity. Because I can’t just let her go like this; can’t shrug my shoulders and go back to my errands for the day like she won’t haunt my every step. “Let me call a doctor in case you’re hurt and don’t realize it yet.”

  Don’t leave.

  Trust me enough for this. Please.

  Her mouth twists as she peers up at me. Slender fingers pluck at her ruined dress, and the morning sunshine picks out caramel strands of her brown hair. The breeze smells like brine.

  “Just a doctor,” she murmurs.

  I nod, chest thudding. “Just a doctor. I promise.”

  When I stretch out my hand, she takes it without pause.

  * * *

  Four hours later, my mystery girl is bundled in blankets in my back garden, sitting at the small wrought iron table where I always drink coffee first thing. She stares out to sea, the waves so close where the garden drops away with the cliff, sipping from a mug of hot, sweet cocoa. Steam curls from the mug into the air.

  The local doctor, a woman in her fifties called Dr Nahum, looks pensive as she walks up the stone path. I hand her a coffee when she reaches the back door.

  “Well?” I’m so antsy, there’s a swarm of bees in my gut. “Is she hurt? Can you tell what happened?”

  This whole situation is like a fever dream. Or a fairy tale—one of those old-timey ones, with the undercurrent of darkness. Bargains and blood.

  What if the girl was hurt? What if she was running away from something? I left the two of them alone for the examination, but if I don’t get some answers soon, I’ll go mad.

  The doctor lifts a shoulder, sipping from her coffee. “You’re not her next of kin, Mac. You know I can’t tell you anything personal.”

  Frustration swamps me. I grip my own mug so tight the china creaks. “Right now there is no next of kin, and I’m taking care of her. If there are injuries, I need to know about them.”

  My mystery girl already agreed to stay with me in the harbor master’s cottage until she’s back on her feet. I didn’t even plan to make that offer when I brought her here, but she looked so settled and happy in my garden, the words tumbled out without thought.

  She beamed up at me like her personal savior. Like I make the sun rise and set each day.

  “No injuries.” Dr Nahum looks tired even though it’s barely midday. I know how she feels. This day has already lasted five years, and it’s only part way done. “And no memory—but you knew that already.”

  Yeah, I knew. Christ, I can’t imagine it—getting wiped clean like that. Would I prefer it, forgetting all the stupidest things I’ve done in my time? All those bleak, lonely nights that slipped into despair?

  Dr Nahum sips her coffee and goes on. “I offered to take her in until her memory comes back, but she was very insistent. She wants to stay with you, and there’s nothing actually wrong with her. No reason to ignore her wishes.” A side-eye. “Are you alright with that?”

  It’s a fair question. If you look up ‘loner’ in the dictionary, there’s probably a picture of my face. The locals tease me plenty about keeping my distance, rarely coming to the local bar for a drink—but what they don’t understand is I’m not staying away to be snobbish. I’m ill-equipped. The most casual conversation can make my heart pound.

  So I’m not who you’d expect to take in waifs and strays. Every Halloween, trick-or-treaters skip the harbor master’s cottage. Apparently I’m too stern and scary, even on All Hallow’s Eve.

  An unpleasant thought occurs. “You’re sure she didn’t hit her head?”

  Because why else would she latch onto me of all people? Why wouldn’t she keep her distance like everyone else?

  The doctor puffs out a laugh, and her shoulders seem looser as she turns back to the garden. We both watch the young woman sip from her cocoa, bundled up in patterned blankets. Hopefully the sugar hit will help warm her through.

  “She’s a grown woman,” Doctor Nahum says at last. “And she got lucky. There’s nothing physically wrong with her that some fluids and rest can’t fix. Her memory will probably come back as the shock wears off.” An elbow nudges my arm. “But you’re not obliged to take her in. You don’t owe her, Mac.”

  “I’ll do it,” I rasp. “I don’t mind.”

  Because maybe I don’t owe her, maybe we’re complete strangers, but the thought of that young woman walking out of my garden into the big, wide world makes me want to beat my chest and howl.

  I wait until the doctor has gone, her empty mug cooling in my hand; wait until it’s just the two of us again, alone in my back garden.

 

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