There's Something About Homer

Ruth stopped. “You’re pulling against the tide.”

“I noticed.”

His voice was low, roughened by cold or disuse. He wore a canvas boat coat whitened at the shoulders, a knit cap pulled low over silver hair. He braced himself with one boot against the railing and leaned back, not wasting movement. The line had cut a deep groove into his gloved palm.

Ruth knew the landing’s construction. She knew what the tide was doing beneath it, how the skiff’s weight transferred through the rope, how quickly a wet line could part. She also knew the man was standing where the loose cleat could take him with it.

“Move three feet left,” she called. “Now.”

He looked at her.

“Unless you’d rather go in with the boat.”

Something in his expression tightened. He shifted, barely in time. The cleat tore free with a shriek of metal and vanished into the water.

The rope whipped across the landing.

Ruth caught the railing. The man caught her.

His hand closed around her upper arm, hard enough to hold, not hard enough to hurt. For one startled second she felt the heat of him through her wool coat. Then he released her as if the contact had been an error.

“Retired engineer?” he asked.

She recognized him then. Thomas Venn. Boatwright. His shed stood beyond the harbor office, where the old cannery road narrowed toward the end of the Spit. She had seen his name on repair permits and heard his opinions at meetings he rarely attended.

“Retired,” she said. “Still able to see a bad tie-off.”

“Good. You can see it from shore.”

The skiff lurched again. Its bow struck the pilings, and a plank splintered with a sound like a rifle shot.

Ruth looked toward the office. The storm had thickened, turning the distance into a blank wall. Her truck sat above the ramp, its tires already half-buried. If the squall shut the road, she would not get another vehicle down here until morning.

“Where’s the second line?” she asked.

“Gone.”

“Anchor?”

“Stuck under the dock.”

“Then we get it loose.”

Thomas gave a short, humorless laugh. “You always issue orders to strangers?”

“Only when strangers are about to lose their boats.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then the boat breaks up, and you spend the rest of winter explaining why.”

His eyes moved over her face, measuring. He was perhaps her age, perhaps a few years older. There were deep lines at the corners of his eyes, not softened by the weather. A widower, someone had told her. She had never asked how long ago.

He turned back toward the water. “There’s a coil in the skiff’s locker. I need you on the landing to take the stern line when I get aboard.”

“I’m not going aboard a boat with a compromised bow.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to keep your hands steady.”

“I do that professionally.”

“Retirement seems to have made you modest.”

The remark should have irritated her. Instead, against her will, it drew the faintest warmth from her mouth. She hid it by pulling her gloves tighter.

Thomas clipped a line to his belt and descended the ladder. The rungs were slick, the tide churning below him. Ruth watched the skiff lift and fall, watched his boots search for the gunwale. When he jumped, the boat rolled sharply.

“Thomas.”

He caught the cabin rail.

“I have it.”

“You don’t.”

His head snapped toward her.

The boat swung, dragging him toward the pilings. Ruth dropped flat on the landing and seized the rope as it came within reach. The fibers burned through her glove. Thomas lunged for the locker, found the coil, and shoved it toward her.

“Take it!”

She wrapped the line twice around the railing. “Get back up.”

“Not until the stern’s clear.”

“Thomas - ”

“I said I have it.”

The skiff slammed the dock. He stumbled. Ruth felt the rope jerk, felt the landing rail flex under her hands. The old instinct to calculate, to solve, rose cleanly through the fear. She shifted her weight, fed the line through a gap in the railing, and shouted, “On my count. When I pull, you push the stern out.”

“You’re giving me a count now?”

“Three. Two. One.”

They moved together.

The skiff swung free by inches. Thomas shoved with both hands while Ruth hauled until the rope cut into her palms. The boat cleared the pilings, but the line around her railing slipped. She went forward on one knee.

Thomas climbed fast, caught the back of her coat, and dragged her away from the edge.

For a moment they remained tangled in the snow, his chest against her shoulder, his breath warm at her ear. Ruth could smell cedar, salt, and the faint bitter trace of coffee.

“Let go,” she said.

His hand lifted at once.

The space between them filled with wind.

Thomas looked at her gloved hands. “You’re bleeding.”

“So are you.”

He glanced at his palm. The torn glove had darkened. “Occupational hazard.”

“You say that like it excuses poor planning.”

“You say everything like a report.”

She rose, brushing ice from her knees. “And you say everything like you expect not to be heard.”

His face changed - not much, but enough. The sharpness went out of it, leaving something older and less defended.

“Most days,” he said, “that’s the arrangement.”

The confession landed harder than it should have. Ruth looked away toward the road. The harbor office had vanished completely now. Snow spun over the landing lights. Her truck’s engine gave a strained cough, then died.

She climbed the ramp, furious at the vehicle, at the storm, at the man behind her who had made the silence feel occupied.

The truck turned over once and failed.

Thomas came up beside her. “You’re not driving that out.”

“I’m aware.”

“Road will close.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

He leaned slightly toward the hood, listening as if the engine might confess. “Battery’s cold. Could be the starter.”

“I can diagnose a dead truck.”

“Then diagnose somewhere warmer.”

Ruth opened the door and reached for the inspection folder. The wind tore one page free. It skated across the lot.

Thomas caught it against his boot.

His eyes moved over the heading before he handed it back. “Pier report?”

“Seasonal inspection.”

“That’s not what it says.”

She took the paper. “It says nothing that concerns you.”

“Everything on this landing concerns me.”

“Because you build boats here?”

“Because I’ve watched the pilings shift for six years.”

Ruth held his gaze. “Then you should have filed a report.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Three times.”

The storm pressed around them, loud enough to make the silence between words feel private.

Ruth folded the page. “The office has no record.”

“Then the office has a problem.”

She should have dismissed him. Instead, she remembered the loose cleat, the flex in the railing, the way the skiff had struck the pilings. She also remembered the harbor records she had promised herself she would review before the inspection, and how much easier it had been to work alone when no one could contradict what she saw.

Thomas nodded toward the far end of the Spit. “My shed’s two minutes from here.”

“I’m not going to your shed.”

“Then stay in the truck until the road buries you.”

“I can call for a tow.”

“With what signal?”

Ruth looked at her phone. One bar flickered, then disappeared.

Thomas took off one glove and reached for the folder. “Come inside. Dry your hands. We’ll secure the skiff properly when the tide turns.”

“We?”

“You’re already involved.”

“I was involved because your boat was breaking loose.”

“And now you’re involved because your truck won’t start.”

His tone was infuriatingly calm. Beneath it, she heard something else - not triumph. Concern, perhaps, though she distrusted the word when it came from a stranger.

She looked at the skiff. The new line held, but the bow still rose and fell against the swell. She looked at the road. The whiteout had erased every sign of escape.

Thomas extended his bare hand.

Not an invitation. A practical offer.

His fingers were scarred, broad, and shaking slightly from cold.

Ruth put the folder beneath her coat and took his hand.

His grip closed around hers with immediate steadiness. He did not pull her close or hurry her. He simply held on while the wind pushed at them both.

At the shed, he opened the door against the storm. Warmth rolled out, carrying the smell of sawdust, linseed oil, and old wood. Ruth stepped inside, but Thomas did not release her at once.

The skiff shifted below the landing. A rope groaned.

“You’ll stay until the tide eases,” he said.

“I’ll stay until my truck can be moved.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

His gaze dropped to their joined hands. When he looked back at her, the guarded irritation was still there, but it had acquired a question.

Ruth withdrew her hand first.

Outside, the wind struck the shed walls. Somewhere beyond them, the harbor took hold of the secured skiff and tested every knot.

Her truck was stranded. The road was closing. The difficult stranger stood between her and the storm, offering shelter she did not want and could not safely refuse.

Ruth stepped farther inside.

“Show me the pier reports,” she said.

Thomas shut the door.

“Not tonight.”

“Then when?”

He slid the bolt into place and faced her in the amber light.

“When you stop pretending you came here only to inspect mine.”

End of chapter one. 32 more chapters in the full book.