Page 5 of Head Over Eels in Laguna (Ports of Call #1)

*C LARE

Later that night, I sat at my laptop, scrolling through search results.

Celeste had a pattern. Town after town, she appeared following rare marine sightings, always attaching herself to someone important, someone willing to listen to her mystical ramblings.

And now, that someone was Walter. Sure, he was important to Ethan and Mrs. Henderson, but he wasn’t a man of influence. Was he?

A knock pulled me from my thoughts. I quickly closed my laptop and opened the door.

Mom stood there in a crisp white blazer, looking as polished as ever. “You still good for the Three Arch Bay reveal?”

“Of course,” I said, bracing myself.

She studied me for a beat. “You’re not getting distracted from our mission, are you?”

Mission? I folded my arms. “Mom, I can take some time for myself.”

“We’re not just building a business, Clare. We’re building your future.”

How many times had I heard this?

I sighed. “I know. But I’ve been working nonstop for years. I deserve a break. And so do you.”

She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “Hawaii? Should we go again?”

I let out a short laugh. “For fun?”

“I think renovations are fun.”

When I didn’t respond right away, she added, “Well, maybe rewarding is a better word. Creating beauty is God’s work, you know.”

“Do you want me to pray about helping Mrs. Henderson with her renovations?”

Mom’s lips thinned. She didn’t answer. Instead, she gave a small nod, then turned and walked away.

A dozen Bible verses jumped to my mind—the first and foremost, of course, about honoring my mother and father.

But then there was also “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” —which wasn’t a Bible verse, and probably wouldn’t hold much sway with Mom, since she was perfectly okay with being dull. She would call it understated beauty.

I closed my door and reopened my laptop—not to continue my deep dive into Celeste’s background, but to browse apartment listings. Maybe it was time to move out. To carve out a life that wasn’t just an extension of Mom and her mission.

*ETHAN

I sat at the kitchen table, a half-eaten piece of toast in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. The sun was barely up, casting a warm light through the window. The local news was playing softly in the background as I tried to wake up.

Then, my coffee cup froze mid-air.

Celeste was on TV, looking victorious.

I’d been expecting to hear about the oarfish, but not like this. Not in front of a camera. Not like she was some kind of prophetess.

“The markings on the oarfish,” she said, looking perfectly calm, as though she had all the answers, “predict an imminent earthquake. The fish was sent as a warning, and it’s no coincidence that Walter Murphy has found it. He has been chosen to play a role in protecting this town.”

I nearly choked on my coffee when a picture of Grandpa appeared on the screen, captioned: ‘ Local Man Communes with Doomsday Fish. ’

The anchor, a woman with a smile so bright it was almost blinding, nodded as if she agreed—as if she truly believed that fish markings could predict the shifting of tectonic plates. “That’s fascinating, Celeste. Can you tell us more about what this means for Laguna Beach?”

“The Japanese call the oarfish Ryūgū no tsukai, or Dragon Palace Messenger, and believe it is a harbinger of earthquakes and tsunamis. This belief stems from reports of oarfish washing ashore before major seismic events, including the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami. But that is modern-day interpretation.”

Celeste smiled with a knowing glint in her eyes. “The markings are part of an ancient system of knowledge. A warning, yes, but also a call to action. Walter will lead us, and together we’ll be ready when the time comes.”

I muttered under my breath. “This is insane.”

But the anchor was eating up Celeste’s every word. “It sounds like we should all be paying close attention to Walter.”

People were going to hear this and believe it. Celeste was stirring up something she couldn’t control.

“Grandpa?” I said aloud to the empty room, my voice a mix of disbelief and frustration. He didn’t need this kind of pressure. I didn’t need this kind of pressure.

The news segment ended, but my unease didn’t. I set my coffee down with a heavy sigh and glanced at the clock. I didn’t want to get involved in whatever Celeste was up to, but it was hard to ignore when she was already pulling Grandpa into the deep end of the sea of delusions.

I flipped to another local news station. There, on the screen, was Celeste again, her silver-streaked hair wild in the ocean breeze, speaking to the reporter from Channel 5 News.

“The markings on the oarfish are not random,” she proclaimed, her eyes alight with conviction, her arms waving for emphasis. “They tell a story, a warning. A great shift is coming, an earthquake. And Walter—he has been chosen. The sea speaks to him.”

I groaned and rubbed a hand over my face. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

The reporter, a young guy who clearly had no idea what to make of her, nodded along. “And you believe Walter has a role in all this?”

Celeste’s smile widened, and she placed a hand over her heart. “Walter has a connection to the ocean, to forces beyond what science can explain.”

I pushed away from the table, my appetite ruined.

My phone buzzed. A text from Clare.

She’s back. And your grandpa’s with her.

I didn’t even finish my coffee. Grabbing my keys, I was out the door in minutes.

By the time I pulled into Grandpa’s driveway, the sun hung high over the water, casting long shimmering streaks across the waves. But his truck was gone. So was the boat.

I paced along the dock, scanning the horizon. Sure enough, there they were—a small speck in the distance, drifting lazily. I clenched my jaw.

It took another twenty minutes before they returned. Celeste was clinging to Grandpa’s arm when they climbed out of the boat, her laughter carrying across the dock. Grandpa looked... happy. Relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Ethan!” he greeted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “You should’ve come with us. The water was like glass out there.”

Celeste beamed at him. “Walter is a natural navigator. The sea is in his blood.”

I crossed my arms. “Funny, I thought common sense was in his blood, too.”

Grandpa laughed as if I’d made a joke. “Help me get this craft tied up.”

I stepped onto the dock, steadying the boat when Grandpa tossed me a rope. I secured it to the cleat while Grandpa grabbed the heavy netting from the deck. Together, we stretched it over the bow, anchoring it tightly to keep the sea lions at bay.

Grandpa grunted approvingly. “Those buggers won’t be lounging here tonight.”

“But will she?” I nodded at Celeste, who had made her way up the stairs. She crossed the lawn and headed for the house as if she already lived there.

Grandpa followed my gaze and chortled. “That’s none of your business, boy.” He trotted across the beach and climbed the stairs.

I followed.

The crunch of gravel signaled another arrival. I turned to see Mrs. Henderson stepping out of her old Buick, a bag of peaches in her arms. Her gaze flicked between Grandpa and Celeste, her expression tight.

“Thought you might like some fresh peaches, Walter,” she said, her voice a little too casual. “Just picked them this morning.”

Grandpa hesitated, then took the bag with a grateful nod. “That’s mighty kind of you, Millie.”

Celeste ignored Mrs. Henderson and turned to Grandpa with an air of urgency. “Walter, we must leave town. Tonight. The signs are clear. The doomsday fish is warning us.”

“It’s an oarfish,” I corrected. “Not a crystal ball.”

Celeste tightened her grip on his arm. “Walter, we have to go. The earth’s energy is shifting. I can feel it. You can feel it.”

I stared at Grandpa, waiting for him to tell her she was out of her mind. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe a little trip wouldn’t hurt.”

Mrs. Henderson’s shoulders slumped. “Walter, this is ridiculous.”

Celeste smiled like she’d already won. “You’ll see, all of you. Everything is about to change.”

Grandpa squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, boy. This’ll all be over soon.”

I watched in stunned silence as my grandfather climbed into Celeste’s car. The engine rumbled to life, and they drove off, leaving a cloud of dust and the scent of fresh peaches in their wake.

Mrs. Henderson let out a long breath. “Well, I didn’t see that coming.”

I tightened my lips. “Maybe we should take up reading fish markings.”

*CLARE

I carefully arranged the flow blue pottery inside the armoire, stepping back to admire the way the deep cobalt patterns stood out against the soft, distressed wood.

The pieces were old, delicate, and each one had a story.

I traced my fingers along the rim of a teacup, wondering how many hands had held it before.

Mrs. Henderson bustled around the kitchen, rolling out dough on her worn wooden counter. The sweet scent of fresh peaches filled the air. “My dear, we’re a good team.”

I hesitated before answering. “I think so, too. Working on your house has been fun.”

Mrs. Henderson glanced up, her hands stilling. “I’m glad you think so. But you do know that this is only half of my house.”

“Half of your house?”

“I have a basement.” She nodded, then wiped her hands on her apron. “And an idea.”

I turned to her, curious.

“The lower level of my house—it has a separate entrance. You could turn it into your own space,” she said. “If you help convert it into something I can rent out as an Airbnb, you can live there rent-free for a year.”

Live with Mrs. Henderson?

She put down her paring knife. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Move out? Out from under Mom’s thumb? “I had no idea you had a second level.”

She winked and opened a door I had thought led to a pantry. “It’s very private. Rumor is, it was used for smuggling bootleg whiskey during Prohibition.” She flipped on a switch, illuminating a wooden staircase.

“This house is that old?” The stairs groaned beneath our combined weight.

“Yep. Built in 1925. I’m not saying it was built for bootlegging, but you never know what my grandfather had in mind. He was, by all accounts, a wily old man.”

The basement was a timeworn, salt-kissed space carved into stone.

Thick, weathered wooden beams braced the ceiling, their surfaces darkened by age and sea air.

The stone walls, rough and cool to the touch, glistened with moisture.

Against one wall, wooden crates and old wine barrels sat half-forgotten, remnants of when smugglers might have used the basement as a hiding place.

A small, warped window offered a glimpse of the Pacific, the glass fogged with salt spray.

A concealed doorway, barely noticeable behind a stack of fishing nets, led to a narrow tunnel—perhaps once used to slip down to the rocky shore unseen.

The scent of brine, damp earth, and aged wood lingered.

My breath caught in my throat. “This would be an incredible project, but also really expensive. We need windows.”

Mrs. Henderson waved her hand. “I’ve got plenty of money. That’s not the issue.” She peered at me. “My question is, are you interested?”

The potential was enormous. I could see social media followers lapping it up. But what would Mom say? Something like this wouldn’t be a weekend or an evening project.

Mrs. Henderson continued to talk as if she weren’t offering a life-changing career move. “It’s a win-win, dear. I get a new source of income, and you get a place of your own without rushing into a lease.”

I considered it, a slow smile forming. “This... actually sounds perfect.”

Mrs. Henderson nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. Now, let’s get back to those peaches. We have plans to make.”