Page 3 of Forget Me Not

“Three weeks?”

“Well, don’t get your panties in a notch.” The old man behind the counter in Port Nova holds his hands up in defense. “It’s an old boat.”

“In case you missed it, all the boats in the yard are old.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But yours is special.”

Of course it is.

“Portland would have it on the shelves.” I know I’m being an asshole, but goddamnit, I’ve got to be in Alaska in September. I don’t have time to spare on this dusty little island.

“Well, you’re welcome to limp it to Portland, but don’t come calling me when you’re resting at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

Shit.

“I thought so,” Al, as his name tag reads, says.

Of course, typical name for a typical fishing island in the middle of fucking nowhere.

“Now,” Al continues. He must deal with men like me often because he’s not the least bit affected by how pissed off I am. “I have a couple spares I can rent ya, but they end up on the ocean floor, they’re coming out of your pocket.”

That’s what I want. A boat rigged up to sink so I’m out thirty grand. You know, pocket change.

“I’ll think about it.”

I’m about to leave when it dawns on me, I won’t be able to stay on the boat here. Not in Port Nova where it seems they lock the boat yard up at night. I haven’t slept anywhere but that boat for the past two years.

Turning back to Al, he looks all too happy that I’m still here. As if I’m a man-sized cockroach.

“Is there a hotel here? Anything?”

I won’t lie, I’ve had Hope’s Grace for the past three years. Once I fixed her up, she became everything I could ever need. I eat, sleep, shower, piss, all on that damned boat. Now, she’s broken and the only parts that can fix her have to come from California, of all places.

Yeah, the universe definitely thinks I’m a joke.

“There’s an inn and restaurant up the block. Might be full of tourists, but try there. Tell Beth Al sent you.”

I tip my hat, my manners getting the best of me before I leave. “Thank you.”

Leaving the boat office, I head into town, just up the path. The sidewalks aren’t full by any means, but the people there stare at me as I pass. I bet it’s not often they get newcomers out here. Whatever tourists Al was talking about may be a figment of his imagination because I can’t fathom why anyone would want to come here.

It’s just a small fishing village. What’s so fucking special?

A couple small businesses line the streets. A coffee shop. Pizza place. Hardware store that looks like stepped out of the fifties. Everything you’d expect in a small town. I can see a school up the hill a little ways and at the end of the block—the inn Al was talking about.

It’s an old, white brick building with Christmas lights still hanging on the outside in July. The paint is chipped and the bushes are so overgrown, they may as well just be weeds by now, but I’ve slept in worse places. It’s got a bed and shower and that’s all I really need.

Stepping through the front door, the smell of something that makes my mouth water hits my nose. It smells like a grandmother’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. Warm. Soft.

All the things I’m not.

“Well, hey there,” a woman at the front counter greets me a little too cheerfully. Probably because I’m not a face she recognizes. “How can I help you?”

I step up to the front counter, over a worn spot in the old tile on the floor and set my duffle bag down. “Need a room. Please.”

I spot her name tag, Beth.

“Al sent me.”

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