The air in the lighthouse parlor was thick with the scent of damp paper and simmering resentment. Finn sat at the dilapidated secretary desk, the very one that had yielded Maeve’s secret, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The hand-drawn map was spread out beside him, weighted down at the corners with a seashell and three chipped teacups. He traced the looping script of the letter with a fingertip, murmuring the words aloud as if trying to unlock their flavor.
“‘Where the sea-witch sighs her lonely tune, ‘neath the raven’s watch by the pale half-moon…’”
Across the room, Lena sat cross-legged on a dusty drop cloth, her laptop glowing in the dim light. The sharp, clinical clicks of the trackpad were a stark counterpoint to the soft rustle of the old parchment in Finn’s hands.
She hadn’t looked up, but he knew she was listening. He could feel the waves of her disapproval radiating across the room, more powerful than the draft whistling through the window frames.
“Finn, I am trying to figure out how we can afford pressure-treated lumber for the porch, exterior-grade paint that won’t peel in six months, and the fine Brenda will inevitably slap on us if we don’t show ‘significant progress’ in the next thirty days,” she said, her voice tight and clipped.
“Reciting bad poetry is not on my critical path.”
“It’s not bad poetry,” Finn retorted, looking up.
“It’s a riddle. It’s a clue. Maeve left it for us for a reason.”
“She left us a crumbling monument to maritime history and a looming legal battle with a power-mad HOA president,” Lena shot back.
“That’s the reality. This,” she gestured vaguely towards the desk, “is a distraction. A fanciful, time-wasting distraction.”
Finn stood, the letter in his hand.
“You don’t get it, do you? This is part of it. The whole thing.
Maeve wasn’t just about budgets and timelines, Lena. She was about stories, about history.
The ‘soul’ of the place, remember?”
The word hung in the air between them, a callback to their argument on day one. Lena’s jaw tightened.
“The soul of this place is currently suffering from water damage and wood rot. And while you’re hunting for a sea-witch, the actual witch on the homeowner’s association board is building a case against us.”
“So we ask for help,” Finn said, a spark of an idea in his eyes.
“We find a local. Someone who knew Maeve, who knows the coastline. Someone who speaks the same language as this map.”
Lena let out a short, incredulous laugh.
“Oh, brilliant. We’ll just wander into town and ask the first salty old sea dog we find if he knows anything about a sea-witch’s tune.
They’ll laugh us right back to the city. We have a plan, Finn.
Or rather, I have a plan. It involves research on building codes and getting quotes from contractors, not treasure hunting.”
Frustration coiled in Finn’s gut. It was always like this.
Her world was a spreadsheet, all cells and formulas, with no room for variables he considered essential.
“And what if this is the key to everything?” he pressed, holding up the map.
“What if this helps us afford the lumber and the paint? What if it’s the whole point?”
“The point is the will, the inheritance, the 365 days. The point is survival,” she said flatly, her eyes returning to the screen.
“I’m dealing with the tangible. I suggest you do the same.”
The finality in her tone was a slammed door. Fine.
If she wouldn’t be a partner in this, he’d do it himself. He snatched his jacket from the back of a chair and grabbed his keys from a hook by the door.
“I’m going into town,” he announced.
She didn’t look up. “Don’t forget to pick up wood sealant.”
The drive into the fishing village of Port Blossom was a short, winding affair. The town itself was a collection of salt-sprayed cottages and storefronts huddled around a working harbor.
The air tasted of brine and diesel. Gulls screamed overhead, and the rhythmic clang of a halyard against a mast provided a steady beat.
Finn parked his truck and headed for the docks, the letter and map tucked safely in his inner jacket pocket.
He asked a young woman hosing down a fishing boat, who pointed him toward a cluster of older men mending nets near a stack of lobster pots. One man sat slightly apart from the others, his back to the wind, his hands working a thick needle with a practiced, methodical rhythm.
He was weathered to perfection, his face a roadmap of deep lines etched by sun and sea, a frayed watch cap pulled low over a shock of white hair.
“Excuse me,” Finn began, approaching cautiously. “I’m looking for someone who might have known Maeve O’Connell.”
The man didn’t look up from his work. “A lot of people knew Maeve.”
His voice was gravelly, low and rough like the tide dragging stones across the shore.
“My name is Finn O’Connell. I’m her nephew.”
At this, the hands stopped. The man slowly raised his head, and a pair of startlingly sharp blue eyes fixed on Finn, sizing him up from beneath bushy white brows.
“So you’re one of the pair that inherited the Sea-Chaser. Heard Maeve’s will had a hook in it.”
“You could say that. I was hoping you could help me with something she left. A… puzzle of sorts.”
A dry chuckle escaped the man’s lips.
“Maeve was full of puzzles. And I’m busy.
Name’s Angus MacLeod. Most call me Salty.
And most know I don’t have time for city folk’s games.” He turned back to his net.
Finn’s heart sank. This was exactly what Lena had predicted.
But he couldn’t give up. “Please. It was important to her. It’s a letter.”
“I’ve got nets to mend before the tide turns,” Salty grunted, dismissing him.
Desperate, Finn pulled the letter from his pocket. He didn’t say a word, just unfolded the delicate parchment and held it out.
The elegant, slightly slanted script of Maeve’s handwriting faced the old fisherman.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Salty’s hands stilled once more.
His gaze fell upon the letter, and the hard lines of his face seemed to soften, the way a cliff-face changes in the evening light. A flicker of something—recognition, memory, maybe even affection—passed through his sharp eyes.
He wiped his hands on his trousers, the gesture surprisingly deliberate, and reached out. His calloused, rough fingers were unexpectedly gentle as he took the page.
He squinted, his lips moving silently as he read the poem. He held the paper for what felt like an eternity, the harbor sounds fading into a muted background hum.
Finally, he looked from the letter back to Finn.
“Maeve,” he said, the name a low rumble.
“She always put her stock in more than what you can see. Believed this town had more secrets than skeletons, and it’s got plenty of both.”
He carefully folded the letter and handed it back. It wasn’t an offer of help, not exactly, but it was an acknowledgement. It was a start.
“So you know what it means?” Finn asked, his voice filled with a hope he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Salty grunted, a noncommittal sound. “I know Maeve didn’t do anything without a reason.”
“Find your pot of gold, Finn?”
The voice was crisp, laced with an unmistakable, weary sarcasm. Finn turned to see Lena standing ten feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her sensible boots looking entirely out of place on the weathered planks of the dock.
Her expression was a carefully constructed mask of impatience, but he saw the flicker of curiosity in her eyes before she could hide it.
Salty’s gaze shifted to her, taking in her tailored jacket and the faint, disapproving line of her mouth. He looked from Lena’s rigid posture to Finn’s hopeful expression, and a wry, knowing glint appeared in his eyes.
He seemed to understand the entire dynamic in a single, sweeping glance.
“This is my… this is Lena,” Finn said, the word ‘wife’ dying on his tongue. “She’s helping restore the lighthouse.”
“I’m fulfilling a contractual obligation,” Lena corrected coolly.
Salty gave a short, sharp nod, as if this made more sense to him. He seemed about to retreat back into his shell, to turn away and end the conversation for good.
But then, he glanced at the map still clutched in Finn’s other hand. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand tides, he gestured with his chin.
“Let me see the chart.”
Hesitantly, Finn handed it over. Salty held it up, his thumb tracing the ink-drawn coastline.
He tapped the first line of the poem, still visible on the folded letter in Finn’s hand.
“‘Sea-witch’s sigh…’” Salty muttered, more to himself than to them. “Summer tourists and fools think it’s the wind whistling over the bluffs.”
He looked up, his gaze sweeping past them to the jagged line of the coast in the distance. He lifted a weathered, resolute finger and pointed.
“Maeve knew better. It ain’t the air. It’s the water.
The sound the sea makes when an inbound tide gets forced through that narrow gap in the rocks out on the point. Place is called the Devil’s Bellows.”
Finn’s eyes followed his finger, a thrill shooting through him. He could just make out the dark, ominous rock formation Salty indicated.
It looked exactly like the drawing on the map.
Lena took an involuntary step forward, her gaze fixed on the point. He saw the slight parting of her lips, the subtle frown of concentration that meant her analytical mind was processing new, unexpected data.
She was no longer dismissing it. She was calculating.
Salty handed the map back to Finn, his public service for the day apparently complete.
“Maeve O’Connell was a smart woman,” he said, his voice returning to its gruff baseline.
“But she was stubborn. And she believed things were worth saving.”
He gave Lena one last, long look. “Even things that looked hopeless.”
Without another word, he turned back to his net, the needle resuming its steady, rhythmic dance. The audience was over.
Finn looked at Lena, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. She ignored him, her stare still locked on the distant rocks.
Her arms were no longer crossed. The pragmatist, the planner, the woman who lived by spreadsheets and legal statutes, was looking at a landmark on a treasure map pointed out by a man named Salty.
And for the first time since they’d arrived, she looked utterly, undeniably intrigued.