Page 12 of Hook, Line and Mystery

Kit nodded. “But that drop isn’t the worst part. I’m not seeing as many egg-bearing females as I should and some of the bigger lobsters are missing—ones I’d put trackers on.”

Joe smirked. “How the hell do you put a tracker on a damn lobster?”

“Very carefully,” Kit grinned. “I’m worried.”

“Me too. Finnigan and his boys are talking about trying to find better grounds.”

Silence fell between them, neither knowing what to say or do to offer the other comfort or support.

Kit sat back, his eyes softening. “I met someone.”

“I heard.”

“Nothing travels faster than gossip in a small town.”

“People care about you. They cared about Clara. What happened was a tragic accident. That doesn’t mean you should hole up in that research center of yours for the rest of your days to mourn her passing. Clara would have been the first one to tell you that.”

Kit knew he was right. “She had this amazing laugh. Clara, I mean,” Kit murmured, fingers tracing the top edge of his mug. “Like waves crashing against the rocks—unrestrained, full of life.” The image of her beauty, hair swept by seaside winds, took center stage in his mind’s eye—so tangible it was nearly painful but was pushed aside by images of Abby from the night before.

Joe nodded; the lines etched into his weathered face deepening with sympathy. He reached for the sugar and ripped open the packet, some of the granules scattering with a sound reminiscent of sand sifting through his fingers. “Yeah, I remember that about her. I remember the three of us sitting on your porch after working on the cottage—tired and filthy but just sharing a laugh and a beer.”

“Those were good times.”

“You’re entitled to more good times.”

“Clara and I, we had plans, you know.” Kit’s voice was a low thrum, competing against the backdrop of hushed conversations and the gentle hum of the espresso machine. His eyes fixated on a point beyond the window, where the dreams he and Clara had spun together seemed to evaporate into the misty air outside. “So many dreams and plans to make them a reality.”

“The dreams don’t have to change. Just find someone to share them with. Make new plans and if the dreams have begun to rust and aren’t what you want, you’re not hurting Clara’s memory to do something else.”

Kit looked up at Joe and saw the sadness and sincerity in his eyes; sadness not for Clara or himself, but for Kit.

There was a lull in the conversation—a silent chasm stretching between them with words left unsaid. Kit ran his hands through the waves of light brown hair from his forehead, exposing the taut skin over his furrowed brow—a dam holding back the floodwaters.

“Her death...” The words were heavy, sinking beneath the surface of casual conversation to reveal the stark abyss below. “It changed everything for me.”

“It changed everything for a lot of people. The only difference is the rest of us have moved on. You need to do the same.”

Joe’s words hung in the air, suspended. He reached across the table, placing a rough, calloused hand atop Kit’s, a silent anchor amidst the storm of memory and loss.

“You can’t close yourself off, Kit—not to new experiences, not to new dreams, and not to love. You know that’s not what Clara ever would have wanted for you.” Joe’s voice sounded gruff, the words not a reprimand but a lifeline thrown across the widening gap of Kit’s isolation. “Love finds a way, often when we least expect it.”

The chair beneath Kit creaked softly as he shifted, the weight of Joe’s gaze pressing upon him with the gravity of his counsel. Joe sat opposite Kit, an island of stoicism amidst the sea of chatter. His weathered face, marked by years of battling the ocean’s wrath, seemed as much a part of the coastal town as the docks themselves. His sweater, thick and knitted, bore testament to countless seasons at sea, while his boots, caked with the remnants of saltwater, told the tales of a life spent beneath the vast sky.

Kit’s eyes wandered from Joe to the steamed-up windowpane, where the world outside blurred into watercolor smudges. The remembrance of the warmth of Abby’s skin seeped into his consciousness, her laughter echoing in his mind like a melody that soothed his soul. The memory of their bodies entwined, moving in a dance as old as time. It was an embrace that promised new beginnings, yet even as he remembered every soft sigh from her lips the night before, the memory threatened to revive Clara’s ghost.

He grappled silently with the contrast of these two forces—Abby’s vibrant presence pulling him towards the present and future, while the phantom of Clara tugged at his allegiance to the past. His fingers tightened around the ceramic mug, the heat a sharp reminder of the here and now, even as his mind roved through the bittersweet corridors of the past.

“Life keeps going, doesn’t it?” Joe said aloud, somehow knowing and understanding Kit’s inner turmoil. “We’ve just got to keep up with it.”

As Kit nodded, the murmurings of other customers burrowed their way into his thoughts. Near the counter, Martha Simmons, the café’s owner, stood out like a signal flare, her voice rising above the lull. Her short, curly hair framed a face alive with purpose, and she wore her apron like armor, as if ready for whatever battles the day might hold.

“Seen Derek Holloway by the docks again,” Martha was saying to Gordon Lowrie, whose presence was defined by tweed and skepticism. “He’s been nosing around more than usual. It’s not right, I tell you.”

Kit’s attention sharpened at the mention of Derek Holloway. He leaned forward slightly, straining to catch the undercurrents of the conversation that suddenly held more weight than his own tangled thoughts. The concern in Martha’s eyes was unmistakable—the tilt of her head, the furrow in her brow—a tableau of suspicion and fear for what might be happening unseen along their treasured coast.

“Poaching lobsters, you think?” Lowrie’s tone was skeptical, but Kit thought he saw more than just a casual interest flash behind his rimmed glasses.

Lowrie was a curious character. He had vague ties to one of the founding families of Badger’s Drift and had bought the dilapidated mansion the family had built before the turn of the last century. The word was he’d spent a small fortune to renovate and improve the property—turning it into a luxury resort. There had been a rumor that he’d had to slow down some of the improvements due to lack of funds, but that had picked back up, and it was scheduled to open any time now.

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