Chapter 1
The key stuck in the lock before giving way with a rusty click. Maretta pushed the door open, and the scent of salt and cedar greeted her like an embrace. The little seaside cottage had been waiting for her, patient and steadfast, the way her father always promised it would.
The air inside was cool, touched with the faint sweetness of lavender sachets tucked in old drawers. Driftwood shelves sagged under seashells and bottles of smoothed glass, treasures her father had once gathered from the shore. The place wasn’t grand, but it breathed of the sea - whitewashed walls, creaking floorboards, a window that opened straight to the dunes and the endless horizon beyond.
It was perfect.
It was her home away from home. There was nothing quite like the open sea, but this would do until she was ready to head back home.
A smile tugged at her lips. “Hello to you too.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. She laughed softly at herself. The cottage couldn’t answer. It was only a building. At least, that’s what any human would say. But Maretta had never thought of it that way.
This place had always felt alive somehow.
Patient.
Waiting.
Like an old friend sitting by the window, watching the horizon and counting the days until her return.
Her father had built the cottage long before she was born. He’d spent years adding to it piece by piece, collecting treasures from both land and sea. Every beam, every shelf, every creaking floorboard carried memories.
And somehow, no matter how long she stayed away, it always felt as though she’d only left yesterday.
Maretta dropped her small suitcase by the door and stepped barefoot across the worn rug. She tilted her head, listening. The crash of waves rolled in steady rhythm. The sea was right there, close enough to taste. Her chest ached, sharp and deep, as though every swell was calling her name.
Her hand brushed her collarbone, where the absence burned the fiercest as fear of what could happen while she was here moved through her. Her pelt. Her freedom. The silken seal skin that should have been waiting for her, folded safely away for the moment she wished to return home. Gone. Stolen.
The memory arrived before she could stop it. One moment, she was standing in the safety of the cottage. The next, she was thirteen again.
Young.
Reckless.
Certain nothing bad could happen to her.
The sea had been warm that summer. The water clear enough to see straight to the sandy bottom. She remembered slipping from her seal form beneath the moonlight, laughing as she raced toward shore with a group of younger selkies.
Land had felt like an adventure then.
A game.
A secret.
Her father had warned her countless times. Humans are curious creatures, little tide. Curiosity can become greed. Greed can become an obsession.
At thirteen, she had rolled her eyes and ignored him. Because what did fathers know?
She’d hidden her pelt beneath a cluster of rocks near the dunes. She remembered feeling proud of the hiding place. Certainly no one would ever find it. She had spent the entire afternoon wandering barefoot through the nearby village, enchanted by everything she saw. The smell of baking bread. Children chase one another through the streets. Music drifts from an open tavern window.
Humans seemed wonderful. Ordinary. Harmless.
She’d forgotten she was supposed to be careful. Forgotten that she was supposed to remain hidden. Forgotten that someone might be watching.
The fisherman had seen her shift back that evening. Just one glimpse. One impossible glimpse. A flash of silver skin becoming human flesh beneath the setting sun. That had been all it took. By the time she’d returned to retrieve her pelt, it was gone.
She could still remember the moment. The empty space beneath the rocks. The cold certainty that spread through her body. The panic.
“Mama?” Her voice had shaken. She had prayed that it was one of them that had taken her pelt. “Dad?” Nothing. Only waves crashing against the shore. The ocean had never felt so far away.
At first, she had searched frantically. Every dune. Every rock. Every inch of the beach. She’d dug through seaweed and driftwood until her fingers bled. Nothing.
The fisherman had hidden it well. Days passed. Then weeks. Every sunrise brought the same crushing realization. She was trapped. Land became a prison. She couldn’t return home. Couldn’t dive beneath the waves. Couldn’t hear the songs of her kin.
The sea called to her every hour of every day. And she couldn’t answer. The loneliness had been unbearable.
She remembered sitting on the shoreline at night, crying until her throat hurt, watching seals swim beyond the breakers. Watching home drift farther and farther away.
Then her father came. The memory remained crystal clear. A storm had rolled across the water that morning. Dark clouds. Towering waves. Wind was screaming across the coast.
The villagers had spoken about it for years afterward. About the unnatural fury of the sea. About how lightning struck the harbor three times. About how every boat moored there had broken free from its ropes.
What they never understood was that the storm had a name. Her father. He had arrived furious. Not the loud kind of fury. Not shouting. Not screaming. Something worse. Something cold. Ancient. The kind of anger that made waves rise and gulls flee.
Maretta remembered running toward him the moment she saw him step from the sea. “Dad!” She had collided with him so hard she nearly knocked them both over. His arms had wrapped around her instantly.
For a moment, he had simply held her. Tight. Safe. Home. Then he’d pulled back and looked at her. “Where is it?”
She had burst into tears. The fisherman didn’t stand a chance. Her father found him before sunset. No one ever told Maretta exactly what happened. Only that her pelt was returned. And the fisherman never went near the shore again.
When her father handed the pelt back to her, she’d clutched it so tightly her arms ached. Relief had flooded her so completely she could barely breathe. Then came the lecture. Hours of it.
They sat on a rocky outcropping overlooking the sea while her father spoke. His voice had been calm. Steady. But disappointed. Which somehow hurt worse than anger.
“You are not human, little tide.” The words remained etched into her memory. “You cannot afford human mistakes.”
She’d cried. A lot. Tried arguing. Tried apologizing. Tried promising she would never do it again.
Her father had listened patiently. Then he’d banned her from visiting land for nearly a year. At the time, she had thought it cruel. Unfair. The worst punishment imaginable.
Now, standing in the cottage years later, Maretta understood. The punishment had never been about discipline. It had been about fear. Her father had nearly lost her. And fear made harsh teachers.
After learning her lesson, she knew where to hide her pelt this time so it would be safe. There was no way that someone would find it this time. She needed to be on land for a bit. She loved the feel of the ground underneath her feet. She loved the feeling of the wind blowing through her hair and over her skin. Eventually, she will have to return to the sea, but for now she’s going to enjoy her time on land.
She shut her eyes and breathed through the memory of her pelt being stolen. Her father’s voice whispered through memory, as constant as tide and wind: If you’re ever trapped, the cottage will keep you safe for a time. Let it hold you until you find your way again.
Safe. For a time. The words caught in her throat.
Taking a deep breath, Maretta opened the wide window and let the summer air flood in, lifting the hem of her sundress. Sundresses were the only clothing she wore when she was walking on land. She loved the way the thin cotton fluttered against her skin, like currents tugging at her underwater. Sundresses had become her armor - her substitute for scales and sleek skin, airy fabric that reminded her of freedom. She leaned on the sill, staring past the golden dunes where marram grass bent in the wind, and let the salt cling to her lips. Her tongue would dart out every once in a while across her lips, tasting the taste of home.
Movement caught her eye to her right.
The cottage next door wasn’t whimsical like hers - it was solid, square, the clapboards weathered gray, shutters plain and practical. No seashell wind chimes, no driftwood sculptures. Just a porch that needed sweeping and a stack of lobster traps resting to the side.
Maretta just knew that the inside needed a good dusting and decorating.
A man moved there ten years ago, broad-shouldered and tall, a scowl permanently etched into his face. Maretta leaned against the open window sill and watched as he carried something heavy from the back of a battered pickup truck. The sunlight caught on his dark hair as he adjusted his grip on what looked like a crate of equipment. What kind of equipment, she didn't know, but they looked expensive. He didn’t pause, didn’t glance toward her window. His movements were efficient, purposeful, no-nonsense.
Before she could stop herself, she lifted a hand. A friendly wave. Neighborly. Polite. After all, they were neighbors. There was no sense in starting things off with awkward silence.
The man was halfway across his yard, carrying another crate toward the cottage. Up close - or as close as she could get from her window - he looked even larger than she’d first thought. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Strong in the quiet, practical way that came from years of physical work rather than time spent in a gym. His dark shirt stretched across his back as he lifted the heavy crate.
Not that she was staring. She was simply observing. There was a difference. Right?
“Hello!” she called cheerfully. The sea breeze carried her voice across the dunes.
The man didn’t react. Not even a little.
Maretta blinked. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. That happened sometimes. Humans had surprisingly poor hearing compared to selkies.
She lifted her arm higher and waved again. A bigger wave this time. One that was impossible to miss.
The man paused briefly beside the truck. For one hopeful second, she thought he might finally look her way. Instead, he reached back into the truck bed and grabbed another crate. Then he turned and disappeared inside the cottage. The door slammed behind him.
Thud. The sound echoed through the still afternoon.
Maretta stared at the closed door. Then she stared a little longer. Nothing happened. No head appeared through a window. No awkward apology. No delayed wave.
Nothing.
Just silence.
A laugh escaped her before she could help it. “Well,” she muttered. “You’re a cheerful one.” The tiniest sting of disappointment prickled beneath her ribs.
Most people smiled back. At least eventually. This man hadn’t even acknowledged her existence. Which was honestly impressive.
She rested her elbows on the windowsill and studied the neighboring cottage. It suited him. Plain. Practical. No flowers. No decorations. No colorful curtains. Not even a wind chime. The porch looked as though it had never experienced joy.
Maretta was fairly certain there wasn’t a single seashell displayed anywhere. The tragedy of it. She clicked her tongue. The place desperately needed help. A lot of help.
Her gaze drifted back to the closed front door.
Who was he?
A fisherman?
A researcher?
A writer hiding from the world?
A grumpy widower?
A murderer?
No. Probably not a murderer. Murderers usually smiled more in stories. At least before the dramatic reveal.
Another laugh slipped out. The sound carried across the dunes before being swallowed by the wind.
Some people were like seashells. Beautiful. Interesting. And completely closed. The thought should have discouraged her. Instead, it made curiosity flicker to life. Because every shell held something inside. Some simply took longer to open than others.
And if there was one thing Maretta had never been particularly good at, it was leaving mysteries alone. Especially handsome, grumpy mysteries living next door.
The sea roared softly behind her. The cottage settled around her. And somewhere beyond that stubbornly closed door, her new neighbor remained blissfully unaware that he had already become the most interesting thing in her world.
