Tidal Pull

Chapter One: The Return

Grace Sullivan saw him before anyone told her.

She was standing on the deck of the *Mary Catherine*, her father's old boat, checking the lines before the afternoon tour when the familiar prickle started at the back of her neck. It was the same feeling she used to get in high school when he'd walk into a room—some invisible thread between them pulling taut, demanding her attention.

She looked up, and there he was.

Thomas Gallagher stood on the pier, talking to old Mickey Brennan like he'd never left, like twelve years hadn't passed since that July night when he'd kissed her goodbye and promised to call the next morning. He was broader now, filled out in ways that spoke of gym memberships and protein shakes rather than hauling lobster traps. His dark hair was shorter, professionally cut. He wore clothes that cost more than her monthly boat insurance.

But it was still him. She'd know him anywhere.

Grace turned away before he could catch her staring. Her hands were steady as she finished checking the lines—she'd had twelve years of practice at keeping her hands steady—but her heart was doing something complicated in her chest.

"You see who's back?"

She didn't turn around at the sound of Margie's voice. Margie Connolly ran the ticket booth and had been working for Grace's father since before Grace was born. She knew everything about everyone in Shelter Cove, and she wasn't shy about sharing.

"I saw," Grace said.

"Drove up in a fancy car. German, I think. Staying at the Harborview." Margie paused meaningfully. "I heard he's some big-shot lawyer in Boston now."

"Good for him."

"Gracie—"

"The two o'clock tour," Grace interrupted, finally turning around. "How many do we have?"

"Fourteen." Margie's weathered face was soft with concern. "You okay, honey?"

"I'm fine." Grace managed something like a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Ancient history."

But as she walked to the wheelhouse to start her pre-tour checks, she couldn't help one last glance at the pier. Thomas was looking right at her. Even from this distance, she could see the uncertainty in his posture, the way he half-raised his hand like he might wave.

Grace turned her back and went inside.

---

The two o'clock tour went smoothly, the way they always did. Grace had been running Sullivan Boat Tours since her father's heart attack four years ago, and before that she'd been his first mate since she was old enough to hold a rope. She knew these waters the way she knew her own reflection—every current, every sandbar, every spot where the seals liked to sun themselves.

She gave the tourists what they came for: the lighthouse at Gull Point, the seal colony on Rocky Island, the dramatic cliffs where the Atlantic had been carving its artwork for millennia. She told them about the fishing industry, about the lobstermen who still worked these waters the way their grandfathers had, about the storms that could turn the ocean into a fury.

She didn't tell them about the boy who used to work on his father's lobster boat, who used to meet her at the pier after his shifts smelling of salt and bait, who used to kiss her in the shadow of the lighthouse until she forgot her own name.

Some stories weren't for tourists.

By the time she got the *Mary Catherine* secured and the passengers disembarked, the afternoon light was going golden. Summer in Maine meant long days, and she still had the sunset cruise to run at seven. She should eat something, maybe take a nap.

Instead, she walked into town.

Shelter Cove hadn't changed much in her thirty years. The same clapboard houses lined the same narrow streets, painted in the same weathered whites and grays and occasional brave blues. The same shops sold the same combination of practical goods for locals and kitschy souvenirs for tourists. The same church steeple rose above it all, its bell marking the hours the way it had for two centuries.

The Anchor Bar was in the same spot it had always been, and Grace pushed through the door knowing exactly what she'd find: the same dark wood, the same fishing nets on the walls, the same smell of beer and fried food and salt.

The same faces turning to look at her.

"Gracie!" Danny Morrison called from behind the bar. He'd been a year ahead of her in school, had taken over the Anchor from his father the same way she'd taken over the boat tours from hers. "The usual?"

"Please."

She slid onto a stool, nodding at the familiar faces around her. Half the town seemed to be here, which wasn't unusual for a Tuesday afternoon in the off-season. What was unusual was the way they kept glancing at her, then away, conversations dropping to whispers.

They all knew. Of course they knew. In a town this size, you couldn't sneeze without someone asking if you were coming down with something.

"So," Danny said, setting a beer in front of her. "You hear about our visitor?"

Grace took a long drink. "Word travels fast."

"Always does." Danny leaned on the bar, his round face curious. "You gonna talk to him?"

"Why would I?"

"Because you two were—"

"Were," Grace cut him off. "Past tense. Twelve years past."

"Right." Danny didn't look convinced. "Well, if it helps, he's been asking about you."

It didn't help. It made something twist in her stomach, something she'd thought she'd buried deep enough to stay dead. "Good for him."

"Gracie—"

"I don't want to talk about Thomas Gallagher." She finished her beer in three long swallows and set the glass down harder than necessary. "Put it on my tab."

She was almost to the door when it opened and Thomas walked in.

They both stopped. The whole bar went quiet, twenty pairs of eyes fixed on them like they were the evening's entertainment.

Up close, the changes were more pronounced. Lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there at eighteen. A wariness in his expression that was new. But his eyes were the same—that impossible blue-green that had always reminded her of the ocean on a clear day.

"Grace," he said.

"Thomas." Her voice was steady. She was proud of that.

"I was hoping—could we talk?"

"I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"Grace, please—"

"Excuse me." She stepped around him, close enough to catch his scent—something expensive now, not the salt and sweat she remembered—and walked out into the evening air.

She didn't run. She wanted to run, but she didn't. She walked back to the pier with her spine straight and her chin up, and she didn't look back.

She'd had twelve years of practice at not looking back.