Page 161 of At First Catch

I tell myself he’s busy. That meetings run late, and Nolan loses track of time whenever the marina is involved.

Unfortunately, logic does very little to quiet the uneasy feeling sitting beneath my ribs since this afternoon.

The marina has become more than a business to him.

I know that.

I also know investors rarely offer money without expecting something in return.

Diane wanders past my office.

“You’re still here?”

“Trying to figure out how many visitors the marina used to bring downtown.”

“For Nolan?”

I looked back at the spreadsheets.

“For the town.”

I spend the next hour pulling up old records: hotel occupancy, sales tax reports, festival attendance, boat registration numbers, and restaurant weekends until my eyes glaze over. Noticing most of the office lights have been turned off, I sluggishly pack my things and head toward my car.

By the time I pull into the marina parking lot with takeout balanced on the passenger seat, sunset burns orange across Back Bay, and the last of the charter customers are heading toward their cars.

The place looks beautiful.

Dock lights flickering on one by one.

Boats moving gently against the restored slips.

Families carrying coolers and beach bags toward Main Street.

This is what Nolan built.

Not alone, exactly, but through sheer determination and more hours than any reasonable person should work.

And suddenly, I understand why the word “investor” made my stomach tighten.

Someone else could look at this place and see only potential profit.

Nolan sees home.

I spot him near the marina office, standing alone beside the railing with both hands braced against the weathered wood.

Even from a distance, I can tell something is wrong.

His shoulders are too rigid.

His head is bowed, gaze fixed on the water, while the whole marina moves around him.

I pull out my phone.

Me

You alive?

Nolan