Chapter 1: Driftwood
The Driftwood Bar always smelled of salt and citrus cleaner—a scent I’d long ago categorized as Tuesday through Sunday. My boss used enough cleaner to fight off the Atlantic itself. He didn’t trust the ocean not to rot his floorboards. Most nights I barely noticed it anymore. It was just part of the background noise of my life, like the hum of the refrigerators or the low murmur of conversation from the regulars.
Tonight had been steady but not chaotic. A handful of locals sat scattered around the bar, and two small tables near the windows were occupied by people watching the harbor lights flicker across the water.
I leaned against the back bar and ran a mental map of the room.
10:43 p.m.
Almost closing.
Pete was at the end of the bar, a permanent fixture on the corner stool. He’d been there since 6:00 p.m., his shoulders hunched in that specific way that told me he was down to his last twenty minutes of social energy.
“Another?” I asked. I didn’t need to check his glass; I could hear the hollow clink of the ice against the bottom from three feet away.
Pete barely looked up from his phone. “Just a half.”
“Half turns into a full every time, Pete. Your math hasn’t improved in five years.”
I reached for the whiskey anyway. My hands moved with a rhythm I didn’t have to think about anymore—ice, pour, the heavy thud of the glass hitting the wood. Precision was my brand. It kept things moving.
“You know me,” Pete shrugged.
“Unfortunately,” I murmured. There was no bite in it. I liked Pete. He was a known variable. After the “unexpected turns” my life had taken a few years back—the kind of mess that involved too many lawyers and not enough sleep—men like Pete were a comfort. They didn’t surprise you.
I slid the glass across the counter. “There you go.”
He raised it in thanks without looking up again.
Across the room, a sharp, jagged laugh cut through the low murmur of the radio. I shifted my gaze instantly. Two tourists at a window table. I’d flagged them as “Secret Seekers” an hour ago—the kind of visitors who treated North Haven like a curated museum exhibit rather than a place where people actually had to pay property taxes.
They’ll be gone by Monday, I noted, watching the woman check her rose-gold watch. And they’ll tell their friends they ‘found’ the real Maine.
I grabbed a stack of clean glasses from the rack. I’ve never been good at standing still, so I lined them up in neat rows.
“You closing soon?” the woman called out.
“About fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Good to know.” She went back to her friend.
I went back to the counter, my rag moving in tight, practiced circles. I liked the predictability of the “Gentle Kick-Out.” It was a ritual I could perform in my sleep.
The front door pulled open, bringing a sharp slap of cold, Atlantic air that smelled of wet stone. I looked up immediately. In a small town, a new body in a room changes the air pressure.
A couple stepped in, wind-whipped and blinking against the dim amber light.
“Kitchen’s closed,” I called out. I was already reading them: mid-thirties, high-end hiking gear that looked too clean to have seen a real trail.
“That’s fine,” the man said. His voice was a bit too loud for the room. “Just drinks.”
“Take a seat.” I gestured to the middle of the bar.
“Two lagers,” the woman added.
As I popped the caps, I watched them settle. They had the kind of restless energy that didn’t belong in a bar that was about to close. They were talking in low, hurried whispers. Most people at this hour were leaning back, letting the day drain out of them. These two were wound tight.
Stress-vacationers, I decided. Trying to outrun an argument they started on the ferry.
I slid the bottles over and retreated to the end of the bar, leaning my elbows on the wood. I watched the harbor lights through the window, the broken lines of white and green reflecting off the black water. This was my favorite part—the transition. The world shrinking down to this one room, this one street, this one quiet life I’d worked so hard to rebuild.
10:55 p.m.
“Alright,” I said, a single, sharp clap of my hands signaling the end of the play. “Last call, folks. Let’s head toward the exits before the ghosts take over.”
Pete lifted his glass in a silent toast. “I’m already ahead of you, Iris.”
“You’re a pioneer, Pete.”
The room began to disassemble itself. One by one, they filtered out. I followed them to the door, my keys already in hand. I watched the tourists disappear toward the inn, and Pete vanish into the shadows of the docks.
Click. The lock turned. I flipped the sign to CLOSED.
The silence that followed was heavy. The hum of the refrigerators suddenly seemed louder.
I moved through my closing checklist with military focus. Wiping. Stacking. Dimming. I left only the small bulbs over the bar on—a low, golden glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room.
By the time I was done, it was 11:13.
Not bad for a Thursday.
I grabbed my jacket from the hook near the back door and shut off most of the lights. I stepped outside, the salt air hitting my lungs like a cold shock.
North Haven at night was quiet in a way most places never are. Most people see it as empty; I see it as resting. I walked the familiar route, my boots steady on the pavement. Left at the corner. Past the grocery store where the produce always smells like old cardboard. Two blocks into the residential heart of the island.
I noticed the small things: the way the Miller’s gate was rattling in the wind—the latch was loose again—and the way the streetlamp near my house was flickering in a stuttering SOS pattern.
My house was a small, salt-box structure that had survived a century of storms. Inside, it smelled of cedar and the lavender soap I used to pretend I wasn’t a bartender. I dropped my keys on the counter—clink—and kicked off my shoes.
The place was small but comfortable—just a living room, a kitchen, and a narrow staircase leading up to the bedroom and ensuite bathroom.
Home sweet home.
The wind shifted outside, a branch scraping against the siding with a sound like a fingernail on a chalkboard. I didn’t flinch. I was already heading upstairs, my mind drifting toward sleep.
I had a plan for tomorrow. Nine a.m. online behavioral psychology. After that, a run along the cliff trail if the weather stayed decent. A grounded plan. A smart plan.
As far as I knew, tomorrow would be just another normal day.
