Page 9 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

I side-eye him. Typical Quinn.

He just grins.

The walk takes us past tidy, colorful houses, some with boats parked in the driveways and giant metal crab pots stacked on lawns, and lots of big trees. We descend a set of stone steps lined with shrubs bearing tiny purple berries. Quinn pops one in his mouth.

“Quit that. What if they’re poisonous?”

“Then tell Deb she gets the Tesla.”

I shake my head, but can’t help smiling. “What about the coupe?”

“You can have it.”

“I won’t survive without you.”

“Sure you would. Get yourself a guard dog and hire a cook.”

I laugh.

The moist air thickens the closer we get to the harbor. Most of the businesses and shops are clustered along the shore, and a marina packed with fishing vessels extends into the bay.

The Rusty Pelican’s rough-hewn wood facade looks like something out of the Wild West. Outside, a row of pickup trucks, dusty SUVs, and cars with salt-rusted wheel wells face the broad covered porch. After climbing a set of wide steps, Quinn pulls open the heavy wooden door, and we step inside.

It’s comfortably dark, with rock music barely audible over the din of conversation. The booths along the right wall are occupied by groups or couples. Tall, circular tables fill the open space in the center. Against the back wall, the bar is lined with an impressive array of booze, but, then again, thesearefishermen. High-backed stools line the counter, which is made from a single slab of wood coated with a thick layer of gloss.

It’s loud and a little chilly, but the vibe is electric. Quinn was right—this is the place to be.

I cross the crowded room to the one open stool at the bar between two men with bushy beards and wiry frames—fishermen, no doubt—and a group of twenty-somethings who could be models from an L.L. Bean catalogue shoot. Among them is a young woman, her thick brown hair cascading down her back. She’s wearing tight jeans and a tank top that reveals tanned, freckled shoulders.

“Let’s go fishing tomorrow,” Quinn says, jolting me back to the noisy bar. He glances up at the trophy fishing shots lining the wall. In each, a fisherman is either standing or squatting in a river holding a giant fish.

“Why?”

Quinn laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “Because it’s fun. And it’s time you started having some of it.”

He’s not wrong. It’s been a long four years. Though my kind of fun would be more of an indoors endeavor.

I scan the pictures. Though the dim light in the bar makes details fuzzy, there’s no mistaking the triumph in each fisherman’s expression or the beauty of their surroundings. The background details and subjects change, but only slightly. There’s one of a young woman, cradling a fish as big as my thigh. She’s wearing a silver locket that hangs just above the V of her button-down shirt. A ball cap shades her face, but her grin could power a small city.

“She makes it look like fun,” I say to Quinn.

“I’ll find us an outfitter,” Quinn says, whipping out his phone.

“Remember our survey flight,” I remind him.

“That’s in the afternoon.”

While he’s tapping away on his phone, I squeeze into the gap of patrons to get the bartender’s attention.

The young woman at the bar shoots me a hostile glare.

Oops. I flash my palms. “My bad.”

She pulls her friends away, muttering something I can’t decipher.

Quinn gives me a look. “We’re here all of two minutes and you manage to piss off the cutest girl in the bar?”

The young woman slinks off to the game area with her friends.

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