ONE
Megan McCallister thought her emotions were under control by the time she reached Cape Perpetua on the Central Oregon Coast, but seeing the familiar newspaper office produced a dark well of sadness within her. Dad was gone. She slowed her car as she drove past the old shake-sided building, taking in a quick breath as she glimpsed the faded sign above the front door. The Perpetual Press. The building looked sad, almost like it, too, was grieving the loss of its owner.
This family-owned newspaper had survived the Great Depression, the recent recession and even the news-source domination of the internet. The weekly paper’s old press machines would soon grind to a complete halt. Just like her father’s life. She sighed, trying to grasp this. Was it only yesterday that Dad’s fishing boat had gone down in the Pacific?
The sound of a blaring horn reminded her that, thanks to Memorial Day weekend, Main Street was crawling with traffic. She needed to keep moving.
When had Cape Perpetua gone from being a sleepy fishing town to this bustling place? Parking her Prius about a block from the newspaper office, she blinked back tears and attempted to steady herself. Just get through this. Do what needs to be done and move on. Buck up! That was what her no-nonsense dad would tell her.
As Megan got out of the car, she could hear strains of music mixed with the sounds of jovial voices, happy folks out enjoying this unusually warm evening. Of course, she realized as she locked her car, the busyness of town was due to the holiday. These oblivious tourists had no idea that one of Cape Perpetua’s heroes had died yesterday. Why should they?
Feeling conspicuously lonely, Megan averted her eyes from the out-of-towners as she hurried toward the office. She knew it was closed and locked up. But she still wanted to go inside, to look around and maybe, she hoped, to feel her dad’s presence again. She unzipped her oversize purse, feeling around for the key.
The sound of a car’s backfire made her jump, and that was when she noticed the sunset. Rose-colored light reflected on the river that flowed alongside the town, past the jetties, and into the ocean. Red sky at night, sailors’ delight... The pretty image was blurred by her unshed tears as she dug for the key. It had to be there—she always kept it with her. To her relief, she felt the rounded oblong shape of the wooden fishing lure. Extracting it, she saw that it was still attached to the old-fashioned brass key. Unless Dad had changed the locks, and she felt certain he hadn’t, this key should get her inside.
She paused for a moment in front of the office, staring up at the unimpressive single-story building. It all looked the same. The big front window and glass door, the grayed cedar shakes and white trim, which as usual needed painting, had not changed. In fact, little had changed since her great-grandfather built the humble structure almost a hundred years ago. Dad had been planning a centennial celebration for the upcoming spring. That probably wouldn’t happen now. Or if it did, it would be in the hands of a new owner.
She fumbled to get her key into the keyhole. She knew it was the right key, but it refused to slide inside the lock. She bent down to see better in the dimming light, making sure that the dead bolt lock hadn’t been changed. But it looked the same. So, once again, she shoved the key in, but it only went partway before it stuck. In complete frustration, she kicked the door with her foot. “Come on!”
“Excuse me?” A deep voice gave her a start.
Megan turned to see a dark-haired man standing behind her. Several inches taller and dressed casually in faded jeans and a dark blue jacket, he was peering at her with what seemed a suspicious expression.
“What?” She stepped back from the stranger, bumping into the glass door as she held up her key like a defensive weapon—a trick she’d picked up while living in the big city these past seven years. But the yellow wooden fish lure with its buggy eyes swung back and forth as if to mock her. As if to say she was really a wimp.
“Excuse me.” His voice grew warmer. “But the newspaper office is closed in the evenings.”
“I know it’s closed,” she said in a slightly terse tone.
“But you’re kicking the door?” His brow creased.
She waved her key under his nose as if to make a point. “This is my family’s newspaper,” she declared. “The stupid key isn’t working.”
He leaned forward, peering curiously at her in the light coming from the nearby streetlamp. “Hey, are you Rory’s daughter?”
“Did you know my father?”
“I did.” He slowly nodded as he looked at her with what now seemed compassionate eyes. “And I knew you, too.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Garret Larsson. And you’re Megan. Megan McCallister.”
“Garret Larsson?” She gingerly shook his hand, trying to remember why the name rang a bell.
“I was a couple years ahead of you in school. I doubt you’d even remember me.” He grinned. And she had to admit it was a handsome grin. “Maybe you recall my grandparents, though. They owned Larsson’s Marina.”
“Oh, yeah.” She nodded. “I remember now.” The truth was she only vaguely remembered this guy. But she did remember Dad had kept his boat at that marina.
“I’m so sorry about your dad,” Garret told her. “Such a huge loss for everyone. But especially you.”
“Thanks.” She held up her key again. “I just wanted to go inside—to, you know—just to, well...you know.” She felt the lump returning to her throat. Don’t cry, don’t cry, she told herself.
“Yeah.” He nodded sadly. “I know.”
“I guess I’m still trying to absorb the news,” she confessed. “I mean, it’s so hard to believe. How could my dad, the indomitable Rory McCallister, have drowned while fishing? It just doesn’t make sense.”
Garret nodded. He didn’t speak, but his eyes seemed understanding. She felt his empathy, probably the reason she continued talking.
“I checked the weather on the internet last night,” she blurted, “and it sounded like it had been a beautiful day here—calm seas, no wind, no fog. No hazards or warnings of any kind.”
Garret rubbed his chin with a thoughtful expression. “A perfect Fisherman’s Thursday.”
“You know about Fisherman’s Thursday?”
“Sure. The paper comes out on Wednesdays, and Rory celebrates by going fishing on Thursdays. Rather, he used to.” He cleared his throat.
Megan blinked. “Yeah. That’s right.” Garret really did seem to know a lot about her dad. And although that seemed slightly odd, it was also a relief. She’d been so eager to talk to someone—anyone—who knew her dad. Someone who knew about what had happened yesterday. Who could commiserate with her and perhaps answer some questions. She had many.
And so, like liquid from an uncorked bottle, they poured out. “I just don’t understand,” she began. “How could his boat have gone down? And on such a nice clear day? It makes no sense. Even if his boat had developed a mechanical problem out there, which seems unlikely. I mean, my dad was meticulous about his boat engines. And safety, too. So why would his boat go down? Even if he did have a problem, why wouldn’t he have radioed someone?
