Page 23 of At First Catch

Kids’ fishing morning.

Local seafood night.

Boat safety demonstrations.

Sunset market.

Marina cleanup volunteer day.

Blessing of the Fleet revival.

I pause on that one.

We haven’t had a Blessing of the Fleet since before the hurricane.

I was still in college the last time. I remember standing on the dock with Holt, both of us sunburned, sticky from lemonade, watching boats parade past while the whole town clapped from the marina rails. Mom cried because she cries at anything involving community, children, or bagpipes. Dad pretended not to cry and failed.

The memory makes my throat tighten. Maybe Diane is right. Maybe I do remember what this place was. Maybe Nolan doesn’t have to carry the rebuilding alone.

I open another spreadsheet. Estimated visitor attendance. Weekend hotel occupancy. Restaurant traffic. Bookstore foot traffic. Fuel sales. Charter bookings.

If I want the council—and Nolan—to believe these events matter, I need numbers, not just ideas. Tourism isn’t just posters and festivals. It’s proving one good weekend ripples through the entire town.

The stronger those numbers became, the stronger Sweetspire’s case would be for future tourism partnerships and coastal revitalization funding.

One project done well almost always opened the door for the next one.

My phone buzzes beside my laptop.

Nolan

Thanks again for bringing those permit packets earlier.

I stare at the message for a second.

Me

Pretty sure that’s literally my job.

Nolan

Still saved me a trip to town hall.

Despite my efforts, a smile appears.

Me

You’re welcome, Marina Boy.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

I hate those dots.

I love those dots.