windows on either side of the entrance. The bus pulled away behind him and Ronan turned and watched it disappear down the street.
He drew a deep breath and the salt-tinged sea air filled Ronan’s lungs. It was a different smell from home, he mused. Familiar, but different. Small town life was bound to be a change for him. He enjoyed having all the conveniences that a big city provided. But then, people were supposed to be friendlier in places like this. And for a guy who usually depended on himself, Ronan might need the kindness of a few strangers right now.
He walked inside the drug store and immediately noticed the lunch counter along one wall. He still had a little cash left in his pocket so he decided to take a seat and have something to drink while he got his bearings.
An elderly man stepped behind the counter. “What can I get for you?”
“Chocolate malt,” he said.
“Made with vanilla ice cream or chocolate?”
The man’s New England accent was thick, the words flattened out until Ronan could barely understand. “Vanilla,” Ronan said.
He grabbed a menu from the rack in front of him and perused the prices. They served soda fountain treats and sandwiches for lunch, but he’d have to find another spot for breakfast and dinner. “I’m looking for a place to stay,” Ronan said. “Something cheap. Can you suggest anything?”
“Well, it’s still high season around here, but there are a few boarding houses in town that you could try. Mrs. Morey has a place over on Second Street and Miss Harrington has a few rooms in her house on Whitney. They’re pretty fussy about who they rent to. No funny business, if you get my drift.”
“Do you know how much they charge?” Ronan asked.
The old man considered the question for a long moment as he prepared the malt. “Can’t say that I do.”
“I’m also looking for a job,” Ronan said.
“There’s a board over at the visitors center,” he said. “There’s always someone looking for help. They’ll help you find a room, too, if you ask Maxine. She’s usually behind the desk.”
He placed the malt in front of Ronan. The old fountain glass was filled to the brim, then topped with whipped cream and a cherry. “That’ll be three-ninety-five,” he said.
Ronan pulled out his wallet and laid a five on the counter. “Keep the change,” he said.
Ronan lingered over the malt, watching as customers came and went, getting a feel for the locals. Everyone in town seemed pretty friendly. There was a certain civility in their manner that he’d never seen in big city residents. Maybe it was because they all knew each other that they went out of their way to greet each other with a friendly hello or a short conversation.
When he finished his malt, Ronan grabbed his duffel and headed out to the visitor’s center. The converted railroad station was home to the local merchant’s association as well as the tourist office. He went to the job board and scanned the opportunities. There were jobs in restaurants and motels, a job at the local library and one at the marina.
A job at a local oyster farm caught his eye. He glanced around, then pulled the card from the board and tucked it in his pocket. He loved oysters and farming meant that he’d be spending his time outdoors. He couldn’t think of a better combination.
Ronan walked over to the hospitality counter and gave the elderly woman sitting behind it a quick smile. “Are you Maxine?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“I’m looking for a room. I’m going to be in town for six weeks. It needs to be cheap. I don’t have a lot of money.”
“We have a couple of boarding houses in town,” she said. “And Isiah Crawford rents out a few of his motel rooms on a monthly basis. Let me try Mrs. Morey first.”
The woman dialed a number. “Hello, Elvira. It’s Maxine down at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man down here looking for a room. Do you have anything available?” She paused. “Wonderful. How much?” She scribbled something on her pad, then glanced up at Ronan. “What’s your name?”
“Ronan Quinn?”
Maxine’s eyes went wide for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “Yes, Elvira, you heard that right. Well, I’m sure he’ll understand. If you forgot, you forgot.”
Maxine hung up the phone and smiled apologetically. “It seems that she doesn’t have a room after all. Some big group coming in.”
“Could you try the other boarding house?” he asked.
“I—I don’t think Tillie has anything available either. I just saw her at church this morning and she—she would have mentioned it. Maybe you could try across the river in Newcastle?”
Ronan had the distinct impression that he was getting the runaround. Why were these people suddenly unwilling to rent to him? “Maybe you could try the motel?”
With a reluctant smile, she dialed the phone. “Hi there, Josiah. It’s Maxine over at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man here named Ronan Quinn and he’s looking for a—yes, that’s what I said. He’s looking for a room. Well, that’s a shame. All right. You, too, Josiah.”
She hung up the phone again and shrugged. “He doesn’t have any vacancies either. Newcastle really is your best option. It’s just over the bridge.”
“I need to stay here, in Sibleyville,” he said. Ronan picked up his duffel bag. “Never mind, I’ll find a place on my own.”
Maxine forced a smile. “Can I offer you a bit of advice? Don’t give them your name. In fact, use a different name entirely. But don’t dare tell anyone I gave you this advice. Run along now.”
With a soft curse, Ronan walked outside, keeping his temper in check. What the hell was going on here? Did the town have something against the Irish? Or was it just because he was a single guy? From what he could tell, the town thrived on tourism so it didn’t make sense they’d turn anyone away. If he’d thought Sibleyville looked like a friendly place at first glance, he’d been sadly mistaken.
He looked down at the card he held. Mistry Bay Oyster Farm. Contact Charlie Sibley. Would a potential employer feel the same? Especially one named after this very village? For now, he’d keep his name to himself until he knew for sure.
“Maybe living a different life is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he muttered.
“YOU NEED TO scrape harder than that,” Charlotte Sibley said, running her hand over the rough hull of the skiff. “All this old paint has to come off. If you paint on top of it, it won’t stick.”
Her fourteen-year-old brother, Garrett, looked up from the task she’d given him and rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Of course you do. You’re just not doing a very good job of it. You’ve been bugging Dad to let you work the boats on your own but you’re not willing to put in the effort that comes with it.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, princess, put some muscle into it. We’re going to need that skiff this season.”
“Who
