Page 4 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

*C LARE

The waves lapped gently against the shore, the scent of salt and cooling sand mixing with the buttery aroma of Ethan’s carefully packed picnic.

He’d gone all out—grilled chicken, fresh sourdough, a crisp salad that made me feel like I was eating at a five-star bistro instead of sitting on a blanket under the open sky.

Candles sputtered in the breeze. It was perfect.

Or at least, it should have been.

I took a sip of wine and tried to focus on Ethan, on the food, on the moment. But I couldn’t. Not with the gnawing guilt twisting inside me.

“I can’t stop thinking that this is all my fault,” I admitted, setting my glass on the blanket. “People keep showing up, and he’s too polite to turn them away.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What if this woman is up to something?”

Ethan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. I don’t like it either.”

As if on cue, footsteps crunched on the path behind us.

“Oh, for the love—” Ethan turned, already bracing himself.

Mrs. Henderson.

She strode toward us, her gardening apron still dusted with dirt, arms crossed. “You two noticed all these strangers lurking around Walter’s house?”

Ethan nodded. “It’s why I feel like I should be—”

“Spying?” I asked.

Ethan gave me a look. “Watching out for him.”

“Same thing.” I leaned back on one arm, studying Ethan.

He blinked as if an idea had just struck. He pointed his wine flute at me. “What if you had an excuse to be there? What if you took on renovating the house?”

“You’re offering me a job?”

“Why not? Grandpa likes you. And if you’re working on the house, you’ll be around. Keeping an eye on things.”

It made sense, in a completely underhanded, ridiculous way that made me laugh. “Can I take pictures for my blog?”

Mrs. Henderson snorted. “Walter will never go for it.” She studied the windows of Walter’s house with a scowl.

Ethan frowned, too. “Yeah, probably not.”

Mrs. Henderson tilted her head. “But I will.”

Both Ethan and I turned to her.

Mrs. Henderson’s face lit up. “Why don’t you do some work on my house? That way, you’ll be right next door.”

I stared at her. “You’re serious?”

“I pay well.” She grinned. “And I don’t like these new people poking around anymore than Walter does.”

I looked at Ethan.

He sipped his wine and avoided my gaze.

“I already have a full-time job—and my mom’s pretty possessive of my time.”

Mrs. Henderson seemed undeterred. “Could you squeeze me in on the weekends and evenings?”

I didn’t have an argument for that. “Well,” I said, lifting my glass, “looks like I’ve got a new project.” What would Mom would have to say about others making demands on my time?

*

I ran my measuring tape along the length of Mrs. Henderson’s outdated kitchen counter, jotting down the dimensions in my notebook.

The space had potential—a good layout, sturdy cabinets that just needed some refinishing, and enough windows to bring in natural light.

I was already envisioning the transformation when my phone buzzed.

Mom.

I sighed, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I scribbled down another note. “Hey, Mom.”

“Clare, I just heard from Jordan that you’ve taken on a side project.” Her tone was brisk, all business. “We agreed—no solo work. We’re not just building a company here; we’re building your future.”

“My work for Mrs. Henderson can be done in the evenings and on weekends.”

“Evenings? That’s not going to work.”

“Then maybe I need to take some time off.” I inhaled slowly, steeling myself. “I’ve been working nonstop for years. Surely, I’m entitled to a vacation.”

“You just had time off! We went to Hawaii a few months ago.”

I rolled my eyes. “That was for the hotel remodel. We were picking out tiles, meeting with contractors—hardly a vacation.”

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat from across the room, obviously eavesdropping. She leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed, watching me with an amused expression.

Mom continued, “We need to stay focused, Clare. Every project we take on together strengthens our brand. You going off on your own—”

“I’m not leaving the business,” I interrupted. “I’m just taking a step back. I want to enjoy a project for myself, something without deadlines breathing down my neck.”

“Is this about that boy?”

That boy?

“If you’re talking about Ethan, he’s a thirty-two-year-old attorney.”

Mom blew out an audible breath. “Given our history, you should know better than most that a man is not a financial plan.”

She was referring to my dad, who had skipped out of our lives without a backward glance when I was four.

“Ethan isn’t Dad, and I’m not banking on him, or even working for him.”

Mom snorted. “His grandfather then—”

“This has nothing to do with them.” Sort of.

That seemed to silence Mom...for a moment—too brief. “How long is this project going to take?”

I decided not to answer that question. “If you really feel like you can’t spare me, I could ask Jordan if he’d like more hours.

” I knew he would be thrilled. I exhaled, gripping the measuring tape tighter.

“Mom, I have to go. We’ll talk later.” Before she could argue, I ended the call and set my phone down on the counter.

Mrs. Henderson gave me a knowing smile. “Good for you.”

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. “My mom is pretty powerful. I’ve never been great at setting boundaries with her.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be fine,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Especially with my help.”

I considered reminding Mrs. Henderson she was an eighty-something featherweight who barely cleared five-foot-two and posed zero threat to my bulldog of a mother. But then I remembered I liked having a job. Instead, I opted for silence.

*ETHAN

Clare’s text came through just as I was finishing up at work.

She’s back.

I didn’t need to ask who. I grabbed my keys and was out the door before my coworker could finish asking if I was heading home. Technically, it was almost the end of the day anyway.

By the time I pulled into Grandpa’s driveway, the sun was already stretching long golden streaks across the yard.

The hippie stood on the porch like she owned the place—which I’m pretty sure was her end game.

Grandpa, naturally, looked perfectly at ease beside her, arms crossed, a faint smirk on his face like he was enjoying the show. He glanced at his watch. “You’re here during the middle of the day? Don’t you have some corporation to fleece?”

“I, huh, wanted to meet your guest.” My gaze flicked over her. She wore a flowing tie-dye skirt, layered beaded necklaces, an embroidered shawl, and jangling bangles. She probably sounded like a one-man band when she walked.

The woman curtsied. “Madame Celeste, at your service.”

“I’m Ethan Bingham, Walter’s grandson.”

“Hmm, he mentioned you.”

“And he told me very little about you.”

“And that’s why you left work early, to meet me?” Celeste’s voice was rich with amusement. “How flattering.”

Grandpa grinned. “Celeste here has something interesting to share about our fish.”

Celeste placed a hand over her heart. “He means Elazar. ”

I frowned. “Who?”

“The oarfish,” she said, eyes twinkling. “That’s its name.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You named the fish?”

“Not me,” Celeste corrected with a trill of a laugh. “The universe had that honor. I simply listened.”

I exchanged a glance with Clare, who had just stepped onto the porch. Her expression told me she was curious and skeptical, too.

Celeste clasped her hands together. “I returned because I’m an expert on ancient maritime symbols. Elazar’s markings are fascinating. I believe he has a message for Walter and for all of us.”

I turned to Grandpa, raising a brow. “What do your friends at the Marine Institute think?”

Grandpa shrugged. “We’re going to the Marine Institute to take a gander and have a chat.”

I really didn’t want Grandpa gandering or chatting with this person.

Celeste beamed. “Walter has a rare and powerful connection to the sea. I feel it.”

Grandpa clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. If she tries to sacrifice me to Poseidon, you have my permission to step in.”

Celeste laughed, delighted. “Oh, Walter. You’re such a hoot. The Lord of the Sea isn’t interested in your sacrifice.”

Grandpa looked offended. “He’s not?”

“No, silly. Your wisdom is needed here, in this place.” She wrapped her hand around his arm. “You’ll see. It’s no accident Elazar washed up on your beach.”

I spoke up. “Technically, as I’m sure you know, all California beaches are public. My grandfather doesn’t own this beach.”

“I’m not sure you realize the oarfish’s significance.

” Celeste spoke as if I hadn’t. “He is nothing less than a shimmering messenger from the deep, a harbinger of mystery! Legends say he rises before earthquakes. Ancient mariners feared it, yet others believed oarfishes to be guardians, revealing their secrets hidden in the ocean’s depths.

” She leaned so close I could smell the cloves on her breath.

“Nothing appears without meaning, my dear!”

I edged away from her. “And you can read its markings?”

“I have that gift, yes.”

“And you think my grandfather also has gifts?”

Celeste hooted. “We all have gifts. But sadly, some of us refuse to acknowledge them.” She patted Grandpa’s arm. “I’m not going to let anything happen to Walter.”

*ETHAN

Ten days later, Celeste was still a part of our lives—a barnacle in jangly beads refusing to be brushed off.

I dipped my brush into the soft blue paint and ran it along the edge of the armoire Clare had found at an estate sale.

The piece had good bones, intricate carvings that the fresh coat of color was already bringing to life.

It was satisfying work, the kind that let my mind wander—except my thoughts kept circling back to Grandpa and Celeste.

“He’s spending all his time with her,” I grumbled, setting down the brush and rolling my shoulders.

“They’ve been to the Marine Institute three times this week.

She’s got him—and, if Grandpa is to be believed, even some of the scientists—convinced she can ‘decipher the markings’ on Elazar the fish, like he’s some scaly, prophetic Rosetta Stone. ”

Clare glanced up from where she was distressing one of the doors, a smudge of paint on her cheek. “Maybe she can,” she said lightly. “You have to admit, she’s entertaining.”

I scoffed. “She’s a con artist.”

“We don’t know that.”

I really liked Clare, but sometimes her ability to see only the good in people annoyed me.

Mrs. Henderson, who had been quietly knitting in the corner, suddenly let out a sharp tsk and set her needles down with a clatter. “Walter is a grown man, Ethan. He can see whomever he wants and make his own decisions. He doesn’t need you babysitting him.”

I blinked. “Wait a second.” I pointed my paint brush at her. “Weren’t you the one telling me he shouldn’t be left alone with strange people showing up at his house?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “That was before you started acting like some overbearing watchdog. Maybe he enjoys her company. Maybe he likes the attention. Did you ever think of that?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

Mrs. Henderson pushed to her feet, brushing imaginary lint from her skirt. “Honestly, men,” she muttered. “Worrying about all the wrong things.”

She stormed out of the house, leaving me staring after her. I turned back to Clare, who was watching me with amusement.

“Well,” I said finally, raising a brow. “That was unexpected.”

Clare smirked. “I think you just got told.”

I sighed, put my brush down, and strode to the window to watch where Mrs. Henderson was going. Why was she suddenly on Celeste and Grandpa’s side? I didn’t like it.

Clare stood and joined me at the window. Together, we watched Mrs. Henderson bang on Grandpa’s door.