Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
He slipped each one a niblet—not the kind they sold at the pet stores. These were homemade treats Wren had made from dehydrated whatever the hell cats ate.
He sniffed the jar and drew back. They smelled like rotten fish food, but the cats loved them. “That’s it. Go play.”
They ignored his command in true cat fashion but eventually lost interest when he started filing the edges of the shovels.
“I was wondering when you’d stop by.”
Greyson glanced over his shoulder at Bodhi as he wandered from the Zen garden. “What’s your family’s issue with boots?”
Wren’s father looked down at his bare toes peeking through his Jesus sandals and shrugged. He looked like he’d escaped from a commune in that silk kimono hanging out from under his Big Lebowski sweater.
Leaning against the truck with a steaming cup of something green that smelled like dirt, Bodhi glanced at the clouds overhead. “Wren told me we’re expecting more snow.”
“Another eight inches.”
Bodhi rubbed his straggly grey beard, contemplating the flurries as they fell. “Feels more like three inches.”
“That’s what she said.”
Bodhi laughed. “I hope not.” He drew in a deep breath as flurries drifted through the air. “This isn’t the sort of snow that sticks. It’ll melt as soon as you’re done plowing. See, big flakes. Big flakes always lead to a small accumulation. It’s the little flakes you gotta worry about, Greyson.”
He didn’t trust old hippie science, which was roughly based on joint pain, astrology, and the taste of air.
“Three inches or eight, you’re gonna need salt and shovels, Bodhi.” Finished with the last blade, he switched to oiling the metal. “You have enough supplies?”
“We’ve still got a pallet of salt from last year.”
Greyson nodded. “Good. But you should order more. That’s not going to be enough to get you through winter.”
“I’ll make a call.”
“Ask the receptionist to place an order online—”
“Those Wi-Fi waves alter the aura, Greyson. Fastest way to misalign the chakras. Not to mention the declining bee population.”
“Right,” Greyson said slowly, learning long ago that debating with people like Bodhi was not a constructive use of his time. “Well, I’ll swing by with the plow once the ground’s covered. That way, you just have to worry about the walkways. If you can, ask the guests to move their cars to the far side of the parking lot.”
The wind picked up, and the scent of patchouli oil wafted from Bodhi’s clothes. “I’ll try. But first, I should see to the elders.” The elders were what Bodhi called the cats.
“Sounds good.”
Wren’s father scooped the mangy tabby with one ear off the hood of the truck. “Come on, Nog.” As he passed Greyson, he used the cat’s paw to wave. “You know, a cat who naps in sunlight knows more about life than a man who checks his phone.”
Greyson lifted his eyes from the screen, where he was waiting for the weather app to load. Accumulation had dropped from eight inches to six, but who knew how up-to-date that report was? The satellites hit Hideaway Harbor on sporadic waves, so their headlines weren’t always current.
As soon as Bodhi disappeared down the gravel path, Wren appeared. Like her father, she only wore sandals. At least she had the sense to throw on a sweater. “You told me to wait and then never came back.”
He used a rag to oil down the now sharp edge of the shovel. “I didn’t tell you to wait. I told you to stay.”
“Ah, this must be why I flunked collie training.”
He met her dry stare. “Smartass.”
She lifted the canister of mineral oil and read the label. “Thanks for taking care of my shovels. I never would have thought to sharpen them or even known how.”
He meant to say welcome, but only a grunt of acknowledgment escaped.
When her hand rested on his arm, he paused but didn’t take his gaze off the blade. “Greyson, you can talk to me. I know what Magnus did this morning.”
“I’ve got nothing to say about that.”
Her touch fell away. “Are you upset about what he plans to do with the company?”
He shrugged and continued oiling the metal. “His company, his choice.”
“You have a right to be angry. He promised Hawthorne Fishery to you guys since you were children.”
“Well, he changed his mind.”
There was a time Greyson thought he would follow in his father’s footsteps. He loved fishing and being out at sea, but it had been decades since his father set foot on one of their boats. Crews managed everything, and with so many vessels in the fleet and captains handling the details of each expedition, his father hadn’t been on a boat in years.
Being the CEO of a billion-dollar fishery had very little to do with actual fishing. Greyson liked being out at sea but CEOs rarely saw the coastline. They were too busy trapped inside corner offices looking at numbers. He had no interest in a life like that.