Page 3 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

*C LARE

“Mom, you have to see these pictures!” I shoved my phone across the kitchen table.

Even though it wasn’t even seven a.m., Mom was already immersed in her laptop, probably reviewing paint samples or some other design detail.

Even at the breakfast table on a Saturday morning, she looked like she’d stepped out of a Talbot’s catalog.

She glanced up, her expression distracted.

“Honey, I'm kind of in the middle of something. Can it wait?”

“No!” I insisted. “Look!”

Mom sighed and picked up my phone, her eyes widening as she scrolled through the photos of the oarfish. The massive, silvery creature dominated every frame, its otherworldly appearance both fascinating and slightly terrifying.

“What... what is that?” she asked, her voice a mixture of awe and disgust.

“It's an oarfish!” I was proud of the photos—even Walter, for once, looked happy—exultant, even. "We found it on the beach at Ethan’s Grandpa Walter's. We helped him drag it up the sand.”

“We?”

“Yeah, me and Ethan,” I said, trying to sound casual.

“It was insane. You wouldn't believe the size of this thing. A friend of Walter’s from the Marine Institute came. They have an aquarium that can house him. They said he must be sick for him to come so close to land.” My excitement faltered under Mom’s obvious disinterest. “Oarfish are deep-sea creature...”

Mom stared at the phone with her brow furrowed. “I don't understand why you're showing me this.”

“Because,” I tried to tamp down my frustration, “we have to put these on the blog! It's incredible! It shows the human side of what we do. It's not just about the finished product but also the adventure, the unexpected things that happen along the way!”

Mom shook her head, her face firm. “Our readers are interested in design, in renovation. They want to see before and after pictures, paint colors, furniture choices. They are not interested in giant dead fish.”

“It’s not dead! Were you even listening?” I sucked in a deep breath. “It's a story! It's about community, about helping someone, about the unexpected challenges we face. It's real life!”

“Our brand is about aspirational design.” Mom was unwavering. “Not... not sea monsters.”

My frustration boiled over. Mom was so focused on the image, on the perfect aesthetic, that she completely missed the point. She never showed the mess, the sweat, the real human effort that went into these projects. It was always just the polished, finished product.

“You're so obsessed with the brand,” I said, my voice shaking slightly, “that you forget there are actual people involved! People with stories, with lives that are more interesting than beige walls and granite countertops!”

Mom sighed, a weary expression on her face. “Please don't be dramatic. I'm running a business here. A business, need I remind you, that will one day be yours. We can't just post random pictures of fish on our professional website.”

“Fine.” I snatched my phone. “Then I'll post them on my own accounts.”

And that's exactly what I did. I captioned the pictures with a slightly exaggerated version of the story, emphasizing the sheer size of the oarfish and the adrenaline rush of helping to drag it onto the beach.

I even included a slightly blurry photo of Ethan and me, covered in sand and seawater, grinning like idiots.

Let the world see the real story, I thought. Let them see that we're not just designers, we're people.

*ETHAN

“Call off the hounds,” Grandpa groused.

“The what?” I leaned back in my office chair, grateful for the distraction from the legal brief that was anything but brief.

“The hounds!”

“Grandpa, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did Mrs. Henderson get a new dog?”

“Have you seen the TV? We made national news. ABC, CBS, that station about the fox, they’re all wanting to talk to me.

Swarming the beach, hoping another oarfish washes up.

..which will probably never happen again in our lifetime.

” He was quiet for a moment. “Or, at least, mine. You need to talk to your girlfriend.” He ended the call.

Curious, I turned back to my computer and scrolled through the local news channels. It didn’t take me long to find the news clips and Clare’s blog.

Clare’s Revamp & Restore was sleek and modern with a minimalist design, soft neutral tones, and high-quality photos of her projects.

Her image was casual yet polished, and she was often wearing work boots, paint-streaked jeans, and a confident smile.

Would Grandpa still be grumpy if he could see her again?

And what had he said? You need to talk to your girlfriend. ..

I logged off, picked up my phone, and sent her a text: seen any more oarfish?

Clare: not today.

Me: grandpa’s cranky about the press.

Clare: oh, jeez. I should have thought of that.

Me: did he give you permission to use his photo?

Clare: he did, but I don’t think any of us knew the attention we’d get.

She paused for a long moment.

Clare: how can I make it up to him?

Me: meet me tonight and we’ll think of something...

Smooth. Marcus would be proud. Grinning, I pocketed my phone, my imagination already painting a sunset picnic on the beach.

*

I stood at the edge of the bluff, the wind tugging at my sleeves, the scent of salt thick in the air.

The sun melted into the horizon, casting streaks of gold and crimson across the sky.

It had been years since I thought about it, but suddenly, I was a kid again, standing right here, my mother’s hand wrapped around mine.

“Watch carefully, sweetheart,” she had said that first night we moved into Grandpa’s house. “If the sky’s clear and you’re lucky, you’ll see a green flash. It’s like a little secret the ocean shares with those who pay attention.”

I’d stared so hard my eyes burned, waiting for magic. And then, just as the sun slipped away, it happened—a brief, shimmering burst of green at the horizon, gone in an instant but impossible to forget. My mother had laughed, squeezing my hand.

“See? It’s real.”

Now, standing here again, I wanted to share that moment. Not with my mother this time, but with Clare. I turned, searching for her, finding her a few steps away, her face softened by the last light of day. She looked out at the waves, lost in thought, her hair catching the breeze.

“Come here,” I said, my voice quieter than usual. “I want to show you something.”

I had everything planned. The blanket was spread out on the sand, the waves rolling in just far enough to add a gentle soundtrack.

A bottle of Pinot Noir rested in the ice pack, and the picnic basket held the kind of meal that would impress even Clare—rosemary grilled chicken, a crisp arugula salad with shaved Parmesan and candied pecans, and fresh sourdough from the local bakery.

For dessert, I had picked up two slices of a dark chocolate tart, knowing she’d pretend she was only going to take a bite but end up finishing hers and half of mine.

Candles flickered in the breeze. For once, everything felt right. Just the two of us, the ocean, and the perfect evening.

Then, headlights cut through the dusky light, washing over us as a car rumbled down the drive.

I clenched my jaw. Now what?

Clare sighed, already getting to her feet. “Who even—?”

I pushed up and dusted the sand from my hands. “I’ll take care of it.”

She touched my arm before I could storm off. “No, I feel responsible. I’ll come with you.”

The sun was sinking fast, and the sky was painted in shades of tangerine and rose. We were going to miss it—the green flash. A childhood legend, a quiet moment I had wanted to share with her.

I exhaled, frustrated, but nodded. Together, we made our way up the path just as the car—a beat-up old station wagon covered in bumper stickers—rolled to a stop.

The driver’s side door creaked open, and out stepped a woman who might have just wandered out of a 1970s commune. Wild, silver-streaked hair, layers of flowing fabric, chunky beaded necklaces. She smiled at us like she already knew our names.

“Evening, kids.” Her voice was warm, easy, as if she belonged here.

She didn’t.

Before I could ask what she was doing on my grandfather’s property, Grandpa stepped onto the porch, his sharp eyes flicking between me, Clare, and the picnic basket still dangling from my hand. His lips twitched.

“Don’t let me keep you two from your fancy beach feast.” He crossed his arms and pointed his chin at the aging hippie. “I’ll welcome our visitor.”

Clare shot me a wary glance, but the woman beamed. “Walter! You look just like I imagined.”

"That so?" Grandpa grunted.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like this woman.

But Clare was already pulling me back toward the sand, whispering, “Come on, your grandfather can take care of himself.”

And he could. I just wasn’t sure I liked what that meant.