Page 2 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

*C LARE

The BMW bounced down the winding coastal road, the salt air whipping through the open windows. I glanced at Ethan, who was staring intently out the window, his jaw clenched. “You sure about this?” I asked, my voice rising over the wind.

Ethan nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “He’s stubborn, but... he’s also a sentimental old man. If you can get him to see the potential, maybe he’ll listen.”

“I don’t make the decisions, Ethan,” I reminded him. “My mom does. She’s the one who runs the company.”

He looked at me, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “But you can show him what we can do, how we can restore the house while keeping its character. Maybe your pretty face will win him over.”

I flushed at the compliment, but refused to let flattery sway me.

Ethan pulled the BMW in front of a weathered beach house.

I immediately saw the potential in the sun-bleached cedar shingles and sagging porch.

It was undeniably charming, with a classic, old-world feel.

The salty sea air had etched character into the peeling blue trim.

Bougainvillea climbed the walls, and a rusted wind chime sang out a greeting.

From this angle, no other neighbors were visible—and that alone was a rare find on the Southern California coast.

I spotted a figure sitting on the porch, a pipe clenched between his teeth. He looked up as we approached, his eyes narrowing.

“Ethan,” he rumbled, his voice gruff. “And you must be...” He looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Ethan spluttered, taken aback. “Grandpa! This is Clare.” He grabbed my hand. “She works for... for Clare’s Renovations. Remember, I told you about her.”

I wasn’t expecting Ethan to grab my hand. My heart gave an entirely inappropriate flutter. The gesture was just for show, or maybe a reflex, something to anchor him...and possibly win over his grandfather. And yet...

The calluses on his palm brushed against mine, a small, unspoken reminder that he wasn’t just some guy in a button-down with good manners—and a nice car. I told myself not to read into it. Still, I didn’t pull away.

Maybe I should have.

Maybe I didn’t want to.

The smile vanished from Walter’s face, replaced by a frown. “Just a business proposition, huh?” He looked disappointed, but then his gaze rested on our entwined fingers and turned speculative. “Well, come on in, I suppose.”

We followed him inside. The house was rich with the scent of old wood and salty air. Walter gestured towards a worn armchair. “Sit down, sit down. Though I don’t know what you’re expecting to achieve. I told Ethan I’m not selling. I don’t care how lovely you are.”

I warmed beneath the half-hearted compliment and tried to ignore the subtle shift in his demeanor and the way his gaze lingered a little too long on my face.

“Sir, I understand you’re attached to your home,” I began, trying to keep my voice calm and reassuring.

“And we respect that. We’re not interested in tearing it down and building condos.

We want to restore it, to bring it back to its former glory. ”

Walter scoffed. “Restore it? It doesn’t need restoring! It’s perfect just the way it is.”

I smiled, trying to project confidence. “It has a lot of potential, sir. Imagine... new windows, an updated kitchen, a deck overlooking the ocean...”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want new anything. I’m old, and I live in an old house. We’ve aged together. That’s the way it should be.”

Walter narrowed his eyes at the brochure I’d set on the table, like it had personally offended him. "I told you, I don’t need some slick pamphlet to tell me what my land’s worth."

“I’m not trying to sell you anything,” I said, already regretting my tone.

Ethan shot me a warning look. “We just want you to consider that the house needs work. Serious work.”

He snorted. “It’s held up this long.”

“Barely.” Ethan gestured toward the ceiling, where a brown stain was spreading like a bad mood. “You’ve got water damage. Mold, probably. The back porch is sagging, and I think the furnace is older than I am.”

Walter puffed on his pipe like it might calm him, but the twitch in his jaw said otherwise. “I know how to fix what needs fixing. Always have.”

“Yeah, but you’re eighty-three,” Ethan pressed. “It’s not safe for you to be climbing up ladders anymore, let alone crawling under the house to rewire things.”

That did it. Walter slammed the pipe down on the table so hard I was surprised it didn’t shatter. The sharp crack made Rufus jump and trot out of the room with his tail tucked.

“I built this place!” Walter’s face turned a scary shade of red. “Every nail, every board. With my own hands and your grandmother’s encouragement. Don’t come in here acting like you know better just because you’ve got a folder full of pretty pictures and big words.”

“I’m not—” Ethan tried to backtrack, but Walter was on a roll.

“You think some hotshot developer’s going to do right by this land?

They’ll bulldoze the garden, pave over the memories, and slap up condos with names like “Sunburn Suites” or “Luxury at Low Tide,” as if a catchy name could make up for paper-thin walls and a view of the dumpster.

And you’ll stand there smiling, thinking you did something noble. ”

A vein throbbed in Ethan’s neck. “It’s not about condos, Grandpa. It’s about safety. About planning for the future. About not living in a house that might cave in the next time a big storm rolls through!”

He glared at me, eyes sharp and wounded. “My future’s here. Right here in these walls. I don’t need anyone telling me how to live out the end of it.”

We stood there, the silence thick with stubbornness and pride. Finally, he picked up his pipe again with shaking fingers and muttered, “Now, get out of here and let me watch my show.”

Ethan, still holding my hand, led me into the kitchen.

I sighed and tried to damp down my disappointment. “Well, that could have gone better.”

Ethan looked sheepish. “I... I’m sorry. I thought if he met you, he’d be more...entranced.”

Entranced? What did Ethan possibly think I had that he didn’t? “It’s all right,” I said, trying to maintain a positive attitude. “Look, we can take some pictures outside. Get a feel for the place. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

I pulled out my camera, but the moment I pressed the shutter, a bitter taste of guilt rose in my throat.

I was intruding and felt like I was violating some unspoken code.

This wasn’t just a house to Walter; it was a piece of his soul.

And I, with my camera and talk of renovations, was an unwelcome intruder.

I put my camera back in my bag, a knot forming in my stomach.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

*ETHAN

I stood on the deck, watching Grandpa push his weathered rowboat out into the surf.

The waves lapped gently at the shore, the sun glinting off the water.

Clare was inside, her camera clicking away, capturing the scene.

I should have stayed with her, I thought, and unease slid down my spine.

I barely knew her, and leaving her alone in the house with my cantankerous grandfather’s things seemed like a bad idea.

But then I thought of the house itself, the old, creaking floorboards, the faded photographs on the walls, and the sea-salt smell that clung to everything. What could she possibly steal from this place? It wasn't like there were any valuables lying around.

Nostalgia washed over me as I watched my grandfather row away.

I remembered the day my mom had brought me here, all those years ago.

We had just moved from our little house in Irvine, where I had friends on every street corner, to this isolated beach house.

After Dad left, Mom had said this was the only place she could afford.

I hadn't been happy about the move. I missed my friends, my school, my old life. And Grandpa Walter hadn't seemed too thrilled about having us either. He had always been a solitary man, content with his books and his fishing rod.

But then, one morning, he had taken me out on his boat. He had shown me how to bait the hook, how to cast, how to feel the tug of a fish on the end of my line. We had spent hours out there, the sun warming our faces, the sound of the waves a constant lullaby.

And that was how it had started. Slowly, tentatively, Grandpa included me in his daily routine. He would take me fishing, teach me how to man his small sailboat, tell me stories of his adventures at sea. He had even started to teach me how to play chess, though I always seemed to lose.

I realized that this house, this old, creaking beach house, was more than just a building. It was a place of memories, a place where I had learned to love the ocean, to appreciate the simple things in life, to know the quiet comfort of an old man's company.

And as I watched my grandfather row away, I knew that no amount of money could ever replace that.

A creak of the deck roused me from my memories.

Mrs. Henderson, Grandpa’s closest neighbor, stood, shaking like a leaf on a windy day, on the first step.

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever seen her without dirt under her nails.

Today, she didn’t have a trowel in hand and, without it, she looked oddly naked.

Her wild silver hair shook, and she twisted her floral apron in her hands.

“He shouldn’t be living here by himself,” she whispered without even saying hello.

“He's just... he's getting older,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

She’d been our neighbor for as long as I could remember, and had always kept a watchful eye on Grandpa. She was a sweet, if slightly dramatic, gardener.

“We all are,” she said, her voice tight.

“But he's becoming reckless. I saw him trying to fix that railing last week.

He nearly fell! And he insists on going out in that old boat of his, even when the surf's like this.” She gestured towards the churning ocean.

“I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself, or worse, someone else.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair, and thought about pointing out that there was no else here to hurt, but I knew she was right, to some extent.

Grandpa had always been fiercely independent, but lately, his age was catching up with him.

That's part of why I was trying to convince him to sell the house.

“I know,” I said. “I'm trying to... to figure things out. It's just... he's stubborn.”

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air.

My pulse stumbled, then raced ahead. I spun around, my lawyerly calm vanishing. “Clare?” I yelled, my voice cracking.

I didn't wait for Mrs. Henderson's reaction. I bolted, my adrenaline surging. The back bedroom overlooked the beach, and I knew Clare had been taking pictures in there. I sprinted through the living room to the back bedroom, and out the French door, my eyes scanning the scene below.

Clare was scrambling down the wooden stairs that led from the balcony to the sand, her face white with terror. She was practically falling, grabbing at the splintered wood for purchase.

“Clare! What the heck?” I shouted, my voice trembling.

She didn't answer. She just kept pointing, her hand shaking violently towards the water.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, my eyes following her frantic gesture. And then I saw it.

At first, I couldn't make sense of it. It looked like Grandpa Walter was...wrestling? With something. Something enormous.

The creature was long, silver, and serpentine, thrashing in the shallow water.

It was easily twice the length of his rowboat, its body shimmering and twisting like some kind of.

.. sea monster. Grandpa was clinging to it, his small frame being tossed around like a rag doll.

He was shouting, but his words were lost in the roar of the waves.

My mind raced. What the heck was that thing? A giant eel? Some kind of... prehistoric creature? I had never seen anything like it. And Grandpa... he was losing. Badly.

The creature, thankfully, seemed to be tiring, but it was still incredibly strong. Its silver body, slick with seawater, writhed and twisted, and every movement sent a spray of water and sand flying.

“Grab that end!” I yelled to Clare, my voice hoarse from shouting over the waves. I grasped of the thickest part of the fish's body, near where its head (if you could call it that) was. Grandpa was further down, his face set with grim determination, his hands gripping the slippery flesh.

Clare, to her credit, didn't hesitate. She scrambled around the thrashing tail, her boots sinking into the wet sand.

She grabbed hold. I was seriously impressed.

Most people would have been screaming and running, but she was in there, her muscles straining beneath her T-shirt, breath hitching with each pull.

Sweat trickled down her temple, mixing with the grit on her skin.

My own fingers burned, slipping but holding firm, nails caked with sand. Every tendon in my arms screamed, but I refused to let go.

“Heave!” Grandpa grunted, and we all pulled in unison. The fish slid a few inches up the beach, leaving a glistening trail in the sand. But then it gave a powerful flex of its tail, and the force nearly ripped us off our feet.

Clare lost her footing. She stumbled backward, right into me. We both went down, crashing into the shallow water, a tangle of limbs and flailing fish. I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder as I landed awkwardly, and the world went momentarily blurry.

But then, I felt Clare push herself up, her hand finding my arm. “You okay?” she gasped, her face inches from mine. She was soaked, her hair plastered to her face, but she was grinning. Actually grinning.

“Yeah,” I sputtered, trying to untangle myself from her. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Then she actually laughed. A real, genuine laugh, even though we were both covered in sand and seawater.

I stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded. This woman was incredible.

“Come on!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Let's get this thing onto the beach before it decides to go back home. I’ve got to take some pictures for the blog.”

Grandpa was also smiling, sitting on the sand with his arms wrapped around his folded knees.

And with renewed determination, Clare and I heaved again. Slowly, painstakingly, we dragged the creature further and further up the shore, until it finally lay still beside Grandpa, a massive, shimmering testament to its power... and our combined, slightly insane, effort.

“It’s an oarfish,” Grandpa said. “They live in the deep. This one must be sick, or else he’d never come to the surface.”

“What are we going to do with it?” I asked.

“I’m calling Hector at the Marine Institute,” Grandpa said. “He’ll be thrilled.”