Chapter 1–Peaches
The alarm began at six.
Maren let it ring.
Not because she was asleep. She had heard it immediately—the same soft electronic chime she’d specifically chosen because she hated being startled awake—but knowing it was time to get up and actually getting up were two separate things.
She reached across the nightstand and silenced it.
Five more minutes.
That was the agreement.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.
The room was still dim, washed in the muted blue-gray that seemed to exist permanently along the Oregon coast before sunrise. Beyond the bedroom window, the sky was beginning to lighten behind the clouds, tinting the edges of the room with a faint wash of peach and rose. There was something peaceful about watching morning arrive anyway.
Her eyes drifted closed.
The alarm sounded again.
Maren sighed.
“Okay.”
She sat up.
6:05 AM
Exactly five minutes. She took the small victory where she could get it.
Her phone was beside the alarm clock, facedown where she’d left it before bed. When she picked it up, the screen filled with notifications she had absolutely no intention of dealing with at six in the morning.
Thirty-seven emails.
Three news alerts.
Something from the condo association.
She swiped past all of them.
One text.
Good morning. Hope you slept well ❤️ Dinner was amazing last night. Be safe out there today.
A small smile pulled at her mouth.
Dinner had been fun.
Daniel had taken her to a little place downtown called Da Sempre, an old Italian restaurant whose name suited it. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, run by the same family for three generations. People rarely called it by the sign out front anymore. They called it by the family name, as though the restaurant belonged less to the building than to the people who had spent their lives feeding Newport.
Framed photographs covered the walls: the grandparents who had opened the place, their children, and the grandchildren and great-grandchildren who had grown up in the kitchen. In every generation, someone had stayed.
The dining room felt less like a restaurant than somebody’s beloved house. Worn wooden tables sat beneath strings of small amber lights, red-and-white checked cloths softened the edges of everything, and shelves along the walls held chipped ceramic pitchers, wine bottles, and photographs from decades of Newport life. There were pictures of Little League teams, high-school theater productions, fishing crews, wedding parties, and community fundraisers. Everyone seemed to know someone in one of them.
The grandparents were still part of the place, at least in spirit. Their portraits hung behind the counter, both of them smiling with the calm confidence of people who had spent their lives feeding half the town. Their names were painted on the menu, too, above the handwritten daily specials, and the older servers still referred to the kitchen as “Nonna’s side” even though Nonna had been gone for years.
It was a local institution. Parents brought their children there, then watched those children bring dates of their own. The same families returned after Friday football games, school concerts, fishing tournaments, church suppers, and town meetings. Maren had been coming since she was little. She’d known her boyfriend since high school, back when they’d recognized each other from opposite sides of the gym at basketball games and from the same crowded community events. Their families knew each other. Their friends overlapped. Someone always knew where they’d gone to school, whose team they’d played for, or which fundraiser they’d helped with last summer.
There was no need to make a reservation unless it was a holiday. You walked in, and somebody greeted you by name.
They’d taken a table near the front window, beneath a framed photograph of a high-school baseball team that included two of the restaurant’s current servers. He’d pointed out one of the boys and told her the man was now a dentist in Corvallis. She’d recognized his sister from the café.
The food came family-style, heaped into warm ceramic dishes that looked older than either of them. They’d ordered pasta, salad, and a basket of garlic bread even though neither of them had been particularly hungry, then eaten most of it anyway. He’d put too many red pepper flakes on his first bite and spent the next five minutes pretending he wasn’t suffering. She’d laughed so hard she’d nearly choked on her own.
They’d stayed longer than either of them intended, talking over a shared piece of tiramisu and listening to the owner’s grandson argue cheerfully with a regular near the register.
Before they left, they ordered a pizza from the other side of the restaurant to take home. The kitchen divided it between two boxes without being asked—half for Maren, half for him, enough to spare them both from having to think about dinner at least once during the weekend.
When they finally stood to leave, three people called goodnight to them from different tables. He carried both pizza boxes outside and walked her to her car despite the fact that she’d parked approximately twenty feet from his.
He handed her one of the boxes.
“Dinner tomorrow,” he said.
“Possibly breakfast.”
“I respect that.”
She smiled as she took it from him.
Their cars were parked beside each other. They could have separated there with little more than a goodnight and the closing of two doors.
Neither of them seemed particularly eager to.
The memory left Maren smiling at her phone.
She typed back.
Good morning ❤️ I did, hope you did as well! It WAS amazing. Thank you for dinner. Have a great day!
She stared at the message for half a second, added—
I’ll text you when I’m back.
—and sent it.
Then she put the phone down and got up.
The condo was quiet.
Maren liked it that way in the morning.
She crossed the short hallway into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The counters were pale stone, still cool beneath her fingertips when she reached for a glass. A row of small ceramic bowls sat above the stove, each one holding something she used often enough to keep within reach: salt, pepper, garlic powder, red pepper flakes.
And mail.
A perfectly respectable stack of mail sat at the end of the counter.
Maren looked at it.
The stack looked back.
She’d deal with it later.
There was nothing irresponsible about that. Anything genuinely important usually came by email.
Her phone vibrated against the bedroom nightstand.
Maren glanced in its direction.
Then again, perhaps mail had a point.
She started the coffee.
While it brewed, she filled a glass from the tap and drank most of it standing at the counter. She refilled it before pulling a slice of bread from the freezer and setting it in the toaster.
Breakfast on work mornings wasn’t something she gave much thought. It couldn’t be too heavy, particularly if the Pacific decided to make the ride unpleasant, but going out on an empty stomach was worse.
She cracked one egg into a pan and let it cook while she buttered the toast.
The coffee finished first.
That mattered more.
By 6:20, Maren was sitting at the small table beside the window with toast, an egg, water and coffee in front of her.
Outside, Newport was beginning to emerge from the dark.
She couldn’t see much of the ocean from the condo—not the sweeping uninterrupted view tourists paid ridiculous money for—but she could see a sliver of it between the buildings farther down.
The clouds had thinned just enough for the early light to catch on the water.
Gray beneath silver.
She watched it while she ate.
There was movement out there even when it looked still. There always was.
Maren had never understood people who found that unsettling.
She finished the egg, ate most of the toast and drank the rest of her water before carrying everything to the sink.
Plate rinsed.
Pan washed.
Coffee transferred into her travel mug.
The mail remained untouched.
Twenty minutes later, she was dressed.
There wasn’t much decision involved.
Work pants. Shirt. Layers for the morning. Her hair went up into a tight braid, more practical than pretty. It would be wet later anyway.
She caught her reflection while securing the end.
Good enough.
Her work bag was already by the door.
Maren checked it anyway.
Wallet.
Identification.
Sunglasses, optimistically.
Personal gear she’d need aboard.
Everything else was either maintained by the company or already waiting for her.
She checked the time.
6:55.
Fine.
Her phone had accumulated another eleven emails.
She opened the app, stared at the number beside Unread, and immediately closed it again.
There were systems in the world that deserved her attention.
Her inbox had never successfully convinced her it was one of them.
She pulled on her jacket, slipped her phone into her pocket and picked up her coffee.
At the door, she stopped.
One more thing.
No—not a thing. A stop.
Breakfast sandwich.
Right.
She grabbed her keys from the bowl by the door, then paused long enough to check that her wallet was still in her bag.
Maren opened the door.
Cold coastal air met her immediately.
She breathed it in.
Salt. Damp pavement. That particular chill that found its way through clothing without being genuinely cold.
She locked the condo behind her and tested the handle once.
Then again.
Satisfied, she headed down.
The café would already be open.
They’d have her Canadian bacon, egg and cheese sandwich.
She’d see who was in.
Then she’d head to the harbor, meet the rest of the team, and spend the day doing what she had done more times than she could count.
Out to sea.
Work.
Home.
* * *
The Morning Tide was less than ten minutes from her condo.
At that hour, Newport was only beginning to stir. Traffic was light, storefronts were still dark, and the sidewalks belonged mostly to people with somewhere specific to be. A few trucks moved toward the harbor. Someone in a reflective jacket walked along the edge of a parking lot with a thermos in one hand. Farther down, a gull stood in the middle of the road with the confidence of something that had never once considered traffic laws applicable to it.
Maren slowed.
The gull didn’t move.
“Of course.”
She went around it.
The ocean appeared and disappeared between buildings as she drove, gray-blue beneath the brightening sky. Now and then, morning light flashed between the buildings, shining like silver across the water. By the time she turned toward The Morning Tide, the clouds had broken apart enough for pale light to spill across the surface.
The café sat facing it.
Low and wide, weathered by years of salt and wind, The Morning Tide had been designed around the view rather than protected from it. Most of the ocean-facing wall consisted of broad glass doors that slid open whenever the weather allowed. On colder days, they stayed closed, turning the café into a warm glass box overlooking the Pacific.
This morning, they were open to the sea.
Maren pulled into a space as one of the employees stood beside the patio, raising a broad canvas awning over the glass doors. The fabric rolled outward along its track, shading the entrance and the nearest tables. Beneath it, the segmented glass panels folded back along overhead tracks until the boundary between the dining room and the patio disappeared.
Late summer had been kind to them. The morning was cool, but not cold, and the wind hadn’t yet decided to make itself a problem. A handful of tables already stood outside facing the water, their surfaces still damp with the night’s moisture. The younger employee who had been carrying the chairs came back with a towel and wiped down each table as soon as it was set in place.
The smell hit her before she reached the entrance.
Coffee first.
Then warm bread.
Something sweet and buttery.
And underneath all of it, salt.
She breathed a little deeper.
The café was already filling with the sounds of morning: the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of cups behind the counter, and the low murmur of the first customers settling into their usual seats. Maren stepped through the open doorway as an employee carried a tray of clean mugs past her toward the counter.
“Morning, Maren.”
“Morning, Sara.”
Sara stood behind the counter, arranging pastries in the display case. Croissants occupied one tray, muffins another, and the top shelf held danishes—berry, apple, cream cheese, and something covered in sliced peaches that Maren hadn’t seen before.
Maren slowed.
That was unfortunate.
Sara noticed.
“Do it.”
Maren glanced at her.
“What are you talking about?”
“The danish.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you pretend you’re only admiring the pastries.”
Maren leaned closer to the glass. The peach danishes were still warm; faint condensation gathered inside the case.
“I am admiring the pastries.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m appreciating the craftsmanship.”
“Then you should appreciate it with your wallet.”
Maren glanced at her.
Sara smiled sweetly.
“Get one.”
“I have a boat to catch.”
“You have time for one danish.”
“I’m getting a sandwich.”
“Then you’ll have breakfast and dessert.”
“That sounds dangerously organized.”
“You’re welcome.”
Maren sighed, though she was already reaching for her wallet.
“But I’ll take one.”
Sara smiled.
“There she is.”
“For later.”
“Of course.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
Sara placed the danish in a small paper box and set it on the counter.
“That better survive the boat ride,” Maren said.
“Pack it properly.”
Maren gave her a look.
“I know how to pack a bag.”
Sara laughed.
She nodded toward the box.
“Then it’ll be fine.”
Maren ignored the look that said Sara had already decided exactly how long “for later” would last.
“I’ll take the sandwich too,” she said.
“Canadian bacon, egg, and cheese?”
“On sourdough, please.”
“Coming up.”
Maren paid and moved aside to wait.
“See?” Sara said. “You’re already happier.”
“I’m reserving judgment.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Maren turned toward the open side of the café.
The Pacific stretched beyond the terrace, morning light breaking across its shifting surface. Farther out, the water deepened to blue-gray beneath the horizon.
Maren rested one hand around her coffee.
A gull cried above the roof. Another answered down the beach. Someone dragged a chair across the patio behind her.
She barely heard any of it.
For a few seconds, she simply watched the water.
Something tickled her ear.
Maren jerked away and turned.
Nobody.
The nearest person was several feet away, carrying chairs.
She looked behind her.
Nothing.
“What the—”
Movement crossed the edge of her vision.
A man was already walking toward the far end of the patio, hands in his pockets, his pace just slightly too quick to be natural.
Maren stared.
He made it four steps.
“Erik.”
He kept walking.
“Erik Anders.”
His shoulders moved.
Barely.
But she saw it.
“Did you just touch my ear?”
Erik looked over his shoulder.
“What?”
“You’re fleeing the scene.”
“I’m walking.”
“Suspiciously.”
“I have places to be.”
“At seven in the morning?”
He turned around, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I knew it,” Maren said.
“Knew what?”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He walked back toward her.
“Were your hands even clean?”
“Immaculate.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I showered.”
“Today?”
“That’s invasive.”
Maren laughed.
Behind them, someone called from inside the café.
“Mayor Anders, are you harassing customers again?”
Erik turned toward the open doors.
“I’m engaging with constituents.”
“You stuck your finger in your sister’s ear.”
“I touched the outside,” he said.
“That is not better.”
“It’s anatomically different.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Mom asks the same thing.”
He reached for her coffee.
Maren moved it away.
“Absolutely not.”
“I was checking what you’re drinking.”
“You’ve known me your entire life.”
“People change.”
“Not that much.”
Erik glanced toward the counter.
“You eat yet?”
“Egg and toast.”
“And now?”
“Sandwich for the boat. The danish is for later.”
“Peach?”
Maren narrowed her eyes.
“I have eyes,” he said.
“Stop monitoring me.”
“It’s my civic responsibility.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“I can buy my own danish.”
“Then exercise your independence.”
Rolling her eyes so hard she could lose them, Maren laughed at him.
Someone passed carrying chairs toward the patio and greeted Erik by name. He stepped aside, exchanged a quick good morning, and asked about the man’s wife.
The answer came easily. So did Erik’s response.
That happened everywhere—at the grocery store, the harbor, restaurants, and on the street.
People knew him.
More importantly, Erik knew them.
Maren had once asked how he remembered so much about everybody: names, children, surgeries, new jobs, whose mother had moved into assisted living, whose son had made varsity.
He’d shrugged.
They’re people.
As if that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
When the man moved on, Erik turned back to her.
“You heading out?”
Maren nodded toward the water.
“Soon.”
“How long today?”
“Depends how cooperative everything is.”
“So midnight.”
“Optimist.”
Erik smiled.
“You diving?”
“If we get through the inspection.”
His expression changed.
Not much.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Maren did.
“Don’t make the brother face.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to tell me to be careful.”
“I was.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
And he did.
That was the thing.
Erik never asked her to stop.
Her parents had tried, years ago—not seriously, perhaps, but enough that Maren had heard variations of “Couldn’t you do something on land?” more times than she could count.
Erik had never said it.
He worried. He annoyed her. He had apparently graduated to touching her ear and fleeing in public.
But he’d never asked her to become smaller so he could worry less.
Someone behind the counter called her name.
Maren turned.
The wrapped sandwich sat inside a small paper bag beside the boxed danish.
“That’s me.”
Erik followed her inside.
“Are you working?” she asked.
“I am always working.”
“You’re at a café.”
“Networking.”
“You were attacking your sister.”
“Community outreach.”
Maren shook her head.
She collected the breakfast bag and pastry box, keeping them separate rather than risking either one inside her work bag.
Erik watched.
“Don’t crush that.”
“I know how to carry a box.”
“You used to put bananas under textbooks.”
“I was twelve.”
“Repeatedly.”
“I was twelve for a year.”
Erik laughed.
Maren adjusted the strap of her work bag over her shoulder.
“All right. I have to go.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in and hugged her.
It wasn’t unusual enough to mean anything.
Maren wrapped one arm around him, careful not to spill her coffee.
“Have a good day, Mayor Anders.”
“You too, Engineer Anders.”
He released her, then reached toward her ear.
Maren slapped his hand away.
“Don’t.”
Erik grinned.
“Drive safe.”
“You too.”
“And Maren?”
She had already started toward the open doors.
She looked back.
“Be careful.”
There was the face again.
Maren smiled.
“I will.”
Outside, the morning had brightened. More tables had appeared on the terrace, and a couple had taken seats near the railing with coffee between them. Farther down, a child stood beside his father, pointing toward something moving beyond the surf.
Maren followed his finger automatically.
A boat.
Nothing interesting.
She stepped off the patio and headed toward her car.
Behind her, The Morning Tide continued opening for the day. Chairs scraped across the terrace, coffee cups knocked softly against saucers, and someone laughed beneath the raised glass doors.
Maren opened her car door and set the breakfast bag and pastry box carefully on the passenger seat beside her work bag.
The danish was still intact.
She smiled.
She climbed in, placed her coffee in the cup holder, and started the engine.
* * *
The harbor was next.
By the time Maren turned toward the waterfront, the sun had finally decided to show its face.
The sky had brightened from gray to a washed-out blue, though a cloud bank still sat low over the water. Fishing boats rocked against their slips. Gulls wheeled above the roofs and pilings, screaming at one another over grievances Maren assumed were both serious and entirely fabricated.
She lowered her window before she reached the lot.
Salt.
Diesel.
Fish.
Cold water.
Maren smiled.
There it was.
The work vessel sat farther down the dock, already awake.
Its engines carried a low vibration through the pilings beneath her feet as she stepped out of the car. Deck lights still burned against the lingering morning gray. Someone moved across the stern in a reflective jacket, and another figure disappeared through the open cabin door carrying something large enough that Maren immediately hoped it wasn’t hers.
She reached into the passenger seat and grabbed her work bag, then her coffee, then the breakfast bag from The Morning Tide.
The small white pastry box was still sitting there on the seat.
Then she looked toward the dock.
Her work bag.
Coffee.
Breakfast bag.
Pastry box.
Maren frowned.
She had already run out of hands.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s a dilemma.”
She looked back at the pastry box.
Taunting her.
Maren stared at it.
The box remained pristine and smug.
Maren sighed.
“Get the pastry,” she said. “Do it.”
She set her coffee and the breakfast bag on the roof of the car, then picked up the pastry box with her right hand. Her work bag rested against her hip as she shifted the breakfast bag into the space between her elbow and her side. That left her other hand free, and she reached for the coffee.
Then she closed the car door.
Now she had to lock the car.
“Seriously?”
She set the coffee on the roof, dug in her pocket for the key, locked the car, and slipped the key into her work bag. Then she picked up her coffee again and started toward the dock.
“Morning, Anders!”
Maren looked up.
A man near the stern had one hand wrapped around a length of line and the other raised over his head.
“Morning!”
“Thought you were going to miss us.”
“Or get lost on the way from the parking lot.”
“Give her a break,” someone called. “Looks like she had a little trouble getting here.”
Maren glanced down at the collection of bags and boxes balanced against her.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Sure about that?” Ben Mercer called.
He had appeared near the gangway, one hand braced against the rail. His faded sweatshirt was already dusted with something pale and granular, and he wore the expression of a man who had been waiting for an opportunity.
Maren lifted her coffee.
“Perfectly.”
Ben stepped down onto the dock.
“Need a hand?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re carrying enough for three people.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Right.”
He reached for the breakfast bag.
Maren shifted it away from him.
“Not that kind of hand.”
Ben grinned.
“Worth a try.”
A laugh carried back across the water.
Better.
The floating dock shifted beneath her as she walked, rising and falling almost imperceptibly with the harbor. She adjusted without thinking.
Closer now, she could hear the vessel coming alive around her—the thud of something being set onto the deck, the metallic clink of equipment, the brief whine of a motor somewhere aft.
“Who moved my case?”
Maren stopped at the bottom of the gangway.
There was a pause aboard.
Then, louder:
“Who moved my case?”
Maren smiled.
Priya was here.
She stepped aboard.
“Good morning to you too.”
Priya Shah appeared from behind a rack of equipment, dark hair pulled into a knot and irritation already fully operational.
“Did you move it?”
“I’ve been here four seconds.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s an extremely convincing no.”
Priya stared at her.
Maren lifted her coffee.
“I brought witnesses.”
“Witnesses are useless.”
“Usually.”
Someone passed behind Priya carrying a coil of line.
“Ask Ben.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He said he didn’t know.”
Maren considered that.
“Then Ben moved it.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t move anything.”
His voice came from directly behind her.
Maren turned.
Ben stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself for seven in the morning.
“Interesting timing,” she said.
“I heard my name being slandered.”
“Accurately used.”
“Different thing.”
His attention dropped.
Maren followed his eyes.
The breakfast bag.
“No.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You looked at it.”
“I look at lots of things.”
“Not like that.”
Ben reached.
Maren pulled the bag away.
“You brought breakfast.”
“I brought my breakfast.”
“You already ate.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“You always eat before a dive.”
“That doesn’t make this communal property.”
“No.”
Ben nodded solemnly.
Then reached into the bag while she was holding her coffee.
“Ben.”
He already had half the sandwich.
Maren stared at him.
He took a bite.
“Are you serious?”
He chewed.
“Very good.”
“I hope you choke.”
“That’s not very buddy-system of you.”
From somewhere behind them, Priya said, “If he does, don’t do it near my equipment.”
Ben pointed the sandwich at her.
“See? She cares.”
“I care about my equipment.”
Maren looked down at what remained of her breakfast.
Half a sandwich.
Her gaze slowly moved to the pastry box tucked against her side.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then she sighed.
“Good thing I have the danish.”
Ben swallowed.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Maren muttered.
Maren tucked the surviving half of her sandwich safely away.
The peach danish, apparently, had been necessary after all.
By the time they cast off, the harbor had begun to loosen around them.
The vessel eased away from the dock, engines deepening as they cleared the slips. Newport receded in pieces—the pilings, the warehouses, the clustered roofs, the familiar line of shore.
Behind them, the sun had finally climbed high enough to clear the land, spilling light across the harbor.
Ahead, the Pacific began catching it.
The water shifted from gray to silver, then pale gold wherever the low waves turned toward the sky. The sun itself remained behind them, brightening the town and the wake, while the open water ahead seemed to gather the light and carry it outward.
Maren stood near the rail, her coffee warming her left hand.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then Ben came up beside her.
“Pretty.”
Maren looked out across the water.
“It is.”
Ben glanced at her, surprised.
She let the silence stretch for another second.
“Prettier when no one’s speaking, though.”
Ben smiled.
“Fair.”
Together, they watched the harbor mouth widen ahead of them. The vessel passed between the jetties, crossed into open water, and pointed west.
* * *
Newport disappeared gradually.
First the harbor narrowed behind them. Then the buildings lost their edges, the coastline flattening into a dark line beneath the morning sky.
Maren stayed at the rail, as she always did.
She had watched Newport recede hundreds of times, yet she never seemed able to resist the pull of it. Every departure drew her toward the railing, toward the familiar ritual of watching land grow smaller until it became indistinguishable from the horizon. There was nostalgia in it, a quiet ache for the shore she knew, even when she would be back before the day was over.
But there was excitement too.
The ocean never repeated itself exactly. The sun struck the water from a different angle each time, scattering silver across the swells or turning them briefly gold. Some mornings brought calm blue stretches. Others brought whitecaps and a restless chop beneath the hull. There might be a pod of dolphins, a sea turtle, a whale surfacing in the distance. Once, on a survey run farther south, she had seen the dark triangular fin of a shark cut through the water and vanish before anyone else noticed.
Out here, anything could appear.
Today, the sea was unsettled enough to keep the vessel moving beneath them, but not rough enough to alarm anyone. The swells were long and uneven, their crests lifting without breaking into whitecaps. Sunlight flashed between them in shifting fragments. Maren watched until the last recognizable piece of Newport disappeared and there was nothing left to distinguish her town from the rest of the shore.
Then she remembered her sandwich.
She carried her coffee and the remains of her breakfast toward the cabin, where Ben had already claimed one side of the narrow table.
He watched her sit.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Maren pulled the surviving half of the sandwich from the bag.
“For what?”
“Portion control.”
She looked at him.
“You stole my breakfast.”
“I prevented you from overeating before a dive.”
“I had one egg and a piece of toast before this.”
“Exactly. You’re welcome.”
Maren took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly while maintaining eye contact.
Ben smiled.
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m imagining pushing you overboard.”
“You’d miss me.”
“Eventually.”
“How bad would you feel?”
She considered it.
“Depends on the current.”
Ben laughed and leaned back against the bench.
The cabin shifted gently around them as the vessel moved farther into open water. Cups rattled softly in their holders. Somewhere beneath the deck, the engines maintained a low, steady vibration that Maren felt more than heard.
She finished what remained of the sandwich and reached for the small white box beside her.
Ben’s attention followed the movement.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Maren gave him a playful glare and continued opening the box.
His mouth twitched.
The peach danish had survived the dock, the gangway, Ben, and the first stretch of open water without losing so much as a slice of fruit. Its edges were golden and flaky, the peaches arranged across the center beneath a thin glaze.
She lifted it carefully.
Ben reached for the box, then stopped himself just short of touching it.
“Can I have a bite?”
Maren pulled the box toward her and held it just beyond his fingertips.
“Absolutely not.”
“I asked.”
“You reached first.”
“I was going to ask.”
“With your hand?”
“I was going to inspect it.”
“You’re a heathen.”
Ben placed a hand over his heart.
“That’s a strong word for someone who hasn’t offered to share.”
“You already stole half my breakfast.”
“That was before I knew there was a danish.”
“Can you let me enjoy this?”
He leaned back, considering her.
“Enjoying it would be easier if you weren’t guarding it like classified material.”
“You’ve proven you can’t be trusted around pastries.”
“I have never been convicted.”
“You’re not supposed to wait until conviction to develop self-control.”
Maren took a bite, keeping the box tucked close against her ribs.
Ben watched her chew.
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel.”
“Correct.”
He reached again, slower this time.
Maren lifted the danish out of reach.
“Ben.”
“I’m not touching it.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m appreciating the craftsmanship.”
“You’re a pastry vulture.”
“That’s not a phrase.”
“It is now.”
Ben sighed and folded his hands on the table.
Maren took another bite.
“Can I have a corner?”
“No.”
“A crumb?”
“No.”
“A description?”
She paused.
“Flaky.”
“Anything else?”
“Sweet.”
“Peaches?”
“Also sweet.”
He nodded solemnly.
“Thank you. That helps.”
A laugh came from across the cabin.
Dana Ruiz stood near the chart table with a tablet tucked beneath one arm. She had been watching them with the patient resignation of someone who had supervised both of them long enough to know that intervention only encouraged them.
“Are you two finished?” she asked.
“Yes,” Maren said.
“No,” Ben said.
Dana looked at Maren.
“Finish eating.”
Maren lifted the danish in acknowledgment.
Dana was the designated person in charge for the dive, a title the paperwork shortened to DPIC and everyone aboard shortened to Dana. She had spent enough years supervising commercial operations that she no longer needed to raise her voice to make people listen. She simply waited.
People generally corrected themselves.
Ben sat straighter.
Maren finished the danish.
Across from Dana, Priya had finally recovered her missing equipment case. It sat open on the table in front of her, foam compartments holding a compact monitor, control unit, cables, and several pieces of equipment Maren knew better than to touch without permission.
Not because the equipment was particularly delicate.
Because Priya was.
“You find out who moved it?” Maren asked.
Priya looked up from the monitor.
“Tom.”
From the wheelhouse, a voice called, “It was in the walkway.”
Priya turned toward him.
“The walkway?”
“It was blocking the passage.”
“It was beside the table.”
“It was beside the table in the walkway.”
Priya stared toward the open wheelhouse door.
Captain Tom Callahan stood at the helm with one hand resting near the controls. He had been operating workboats along the Oregon coast longer than Maren had been old enough to understand what one was. The sea had put permanent lines around his eyes and taken most of the color from his beard, but it had never managed to hurry him.
Tom glanced back.
“You found it.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It was in the way.”
“I understand that,” Priya said. “But I was right there. You could have said something, and I would have moved it myself.”
Tom considered this.
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“Then next time, keep the walkway clear.”
Priya exhaled through her nose.
“I will. And next time, tell me before you move my equipment.”
“Fair.”
Priya looked at Maren.
“I can’t believe he moved my case without saying anything.”
Maren glanced at the open case, then at the clear compartments inside it. Nothing appeared damaged or missing. Tom had moved the whole thing, not taken anything out.
“You wanted him to tell you,” she said.
Priya’s expression tightened.
“I wanted to know where it was.”
“Right.”
“I don’t want to find out later that something’s missing.”
Maren understood that. Priya’s equipment was her responsibility, and responsibility had a way of turning small uncertainties into persistent worries. But the case was open in front of them, every piece accounted for. Priya had checked every compartment before departure and again after recovering the case.
“Everything’s here,” Maren said. “We made sure of that.”
Priya glanced down at the case.
“I know.”
“You don’t have to keep worrying about it.”
“I’m not worrying.”
Maren looked at her.
Priya huffed and turned back to the monitor.
“I’m verifying.”
“Of course you are.”
Priya gave her a look, but the tension in her shoulders eased slightly.
Dana set her tablet on the table.
“All right. Since everyone is awake, fed, and temporarily in possession of their own property, let’s go through the plan.”
Ben looked toward Maren’s empty pastry box.
“Debatable.”
Dana waited.
He stopped.
Priya turned the monitor so the rest of them could see it.
A diagram of the offshore test site filled the screen. The installation sat approximately seven miles west of Newport, where deep water allowed developers to test wave-energy systems before committing them to full-scale deployment. Most of the site lay far below anything they would attempt to reach on scuba. The seafloor dropped to nearly two hundred and sixty feet in places.
Their work would remain well above it.
Priya tapped the image, enlarging one section of the diagram.
“This is the connection assembly on the eastern test berth. It’s part of the wave-energy converter occupying that berth, suspended along its mooring and cable system well above the seafloor. The seafloor and the main subsea power cables are much deeper than that. The shore station recorded intermittent drops from two monitoring sensors over the past three days. Not full failures. The signal disappears, returns, then drifts outside its expected range.”
“Electrical?” Ben asked.
“Possibly,” Priya said. “But the diagnostics aren’t showing a consistent fault.”
“Loose connection?” Maren asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. The ROV made a preliminary pass yesterday. Visibility wasn’t great, and something is obscuring part of the housing.”
Priya brought up a still image.
Green-gray water filled most of the frame. In the center, the dark geometry of the assembly emerged through the haze. One side of the housing was clearly visible. The other disappeared behind an uneven mass clinging to the structure.
Ben leaned closer.
“Growth?”
“That’s the assumption,” Priya said.
Maren studied the image.
Barnacles and mussels were common enough on anything left in seawater. Kelp could wrap itself around lines and housings. Other organisms accumulated wherever the current carried food and gave them something solid to claim.
This looked heavier than she would have expected around the sensor plate, but the image was too poor to tell them much.
“How recent is that angle?” she asked.
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you get the opposite side?”
Priya changed the image.
The second view was worse. Suspended particles caught the ROV lights, scattering them back toward the camera. The connection housing was barely more than a shadow.
“That’s why you’re going down,” Priya said. “We need clean images of the assembly, the sensor mounts, and the exposed section of cable. If the obstruction can be cleared safely by hand, clear it. No cutting unless Dana authorizes it from the surface.”
“And no repairs,” Dana added. “This is an inspection. We identify the problem, document it, and come back up. Nobody turns a simple dive into an engineering project because they think they can save us a second trip.”
Her eyes settled on Maren.
Maren placed a hand against her chest.
“Why are you looking at me?”
“Experience.”
“That happened once.”
“Three times,” Ben said.
“Two and a half.”
Dana continued as though neither of them had spoken.
“The working section sits between thirty-five and thirty-eight meters, depending on the line and the movement of the assembly. We’re keeping the profile conservative. No planned decompression obligation. You reach the time or pressure limit, you ascend. I don’t care if you’re one photograph away from finishing.”
Maren nodded.
So did Ben.
They had both heard the briefing before in one form or another. That didn’t make it ceremonial. Conditions changed. Equipment failed. People became distracted. A dive that felt ordinary was still occurring in cold water, miles offshore, beneath a working vessel.
Routine only remained safe when everyone refused to treat it casually.
“You two stay in continuous visual contact,” Dana said. “Ben does not wander after anything shiny.”
Ben frowned.
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
“Maren likes shiny things.”
“Maren documents them before touching them.”
“Favoritism.”
“Competence.”
Maren hid a smile behind her travel mug.
Dana turned to Priya.
“Communications?”
“Checked and clear. I’ll run another test before they enter the water.”
“ROV?”
“Ready. I want one more surface pass when we arrive. If visibility has improved, I may be able to narrow the problem before they descend.”
Priya would conduct one final ROV pass before the dive. Once the vehicle was recovered, she would step away from the control unit and transition fully into her role as standby diver. Her gear would be assembled and ready before Maren or Ben entered the water. During the dive, Dana would oversee communications and surface monitoring.
Dana looked toward the wheelhouse.
“Tom?”
“Conditions are holding,” he said. “Long-period swell from the northwest, but nothing we didn’t expect. I’ll bring us into position from the east and hold until Priya finishes her pass. Once we’re set for divers, propulsion comes offline and stays offline until everybody is accounted for.”
Dana nodded.
“I’ll confirm the propellers are stopped before entry. Nobody goes near the water until I give the word.”
She looked between Maren and Ben.
“Questions?”
“Just one,” Ben said.
Dana waited.
He nodded toward the empty pastry box.
“Does withholding food from your dive partner need to be added to the hazard assessment?”
Maren folded the lid shut.
“You already ate half my sandwich.”
“That was operational testing.”
“Of what?”
“Your reflexes.”
“And?”
“Concerningly slow.”
Maren pushed the empty box across the table toward him.
“There. You can have the box.”
Ben looked inside.
“You didn’t even leave me a peach.”
“I did not.”
Dana picked up her tablet.
“Briefing complete.”
She stepped toward the rear deck, leaving Ben to mourn what had never belonged to him.
Priya turned back to her monitor.
Tom adjusted their heading from the wheelhouse.
Around them, the vessel settled into its rhythm again.
Maren gathered the remains of breakfast and carried them to the small trash bin near the cabin door. When she returned, Ben was studying the ROV image.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Maren leaned over the table.
The uneven mass obscuring the housing seemed almost shapeless in the green water. She could make out strands of kelp along one edge and what might have been clusters of mussels nearer the base.
“Probably growth,” she said.
“That’s what Priya said.”
“You asked what I thought.”
“I did.”
Maren enlarged the image with two fingers.
The distortion shifted beneath them.
“It could be caught debris,” she said. “Part of a net. Rope. Something dragged through the berth and wrapped around the assembly.”
“Would that interfere with the sensors?”
“Depends what it pulled with it.”
Ben nodded.
“We’ll know when we get down there.”
Ben looked toward the windows.
“Assuming the Pacific feels cooperative.”
“The Pacific has never felt cooperative.”
“Fair.”
Maren followed his gaze.
The coastline had faded behind them. Open water surrounded the vessel now, the morning sun breaking across the swells in long, fractured paths. The swells lifted and settled around the hull without breaking, but their movement was enough to keep the deck in constant motion. For a moment, Maren thought she saw something dark surface beyond the next swell, but it vanished before she could tell whether it had been a dolphin, a seal, or only a fold in the water.
Seven miles wasn’t far.
Not by sea.
Tom’s voice carried from the wheelhouse.
“Site ahead.”
The cabin changed.
Not dramatically. No one rushed. No alarm sounded. But conversation stopped, and every person aboard shifted toward the work waiting for them.
Priya secured the equipment case and lifted the ROV control unit.
Dana moved toward the stern to begin the arrival checks.
Ben stood and reached for the rail as the vessel changed direction beneath them.
Maren stepped outside.
At first, she saw only a wide expanse of open water.
Then the site resolved itself in pieces. Widely spaced yellow navigation buoys marked the perimeter, their tall corner markers fitted with reflective tape, radar reflectors, and amber lights. Smaller monitoring buoys rode lower between them, rising and dipping with the swell. Farther in, several low, heavy wave-energy converters moved with the water, their upper floats and equipment housings lifting and settling in slow, uneven rhythm. Antennas and warning lights showed above the surface, but nothing about the site rose high enough to dominate the horizon.
Most of the installation remained hidden.
Moorings descended into water too deep to see through. Cables ran below the surface toward the subsea system. Sensors and connection assemblies waited along the submerged structures, concealed by distance, depth, and the shifting skin of the ocean.
Maren rested one hand on the rail.
The vessel slowed.
Ahead of them, the wave-energy converter occupying the eastern test berth rose and fell with the Pacific. Dana called for the arrival checks, and Maren turned toward the stern to help secure the dive gear.
