Page 4 of The Merman’s Betrothal (Outcast Hearts #2)

R ory was elbow deep in lobsters when Graham found him. A gruff but friendly, ‘Oy, oy!’ echoed across the dock as his towering meat-brick of a friend swaggered over to inspect Rory’s catch.

‘Bit poor today, innit?’ Graham announced, casting a critical eye over Rory’s haul. ‘Didn’t you get any prawns?’

‘Some,’ Rory replied, distractedly. He picked up a lobster that was making a spirited attempt to crawl out of its tub and threw it back in. ‘Already sent them off. Not as much as I ought to have, though.’

Graham scratched his chin. ‘None for me. I swear something’s eating my creels. Maybe I ought to try a different spot.’

Rory grabbed one of his damaged lobster pots and tossed it to Graham. ‘Yours look anything like this?’

Graham’s eyebrows hit his hairline. ‘Aye, right enough. All slashed—and one was crushed like it’d been stepped on. What do you reckon might be doing it?’

‘No idea,’ Rory replied wearily. ‘I’ll go weeks without losing a pot, and then have a day like this where half of them have been destroyed. Here, help me carry these, would you?’

Rory closed the lid on the final transport container for the live lobsters.

He pushed one box into Graham’s burly arms and loaded the rest onto a sack truck.

Ullapool didn’t have very much going for it, but at least everything was within walking distance.

The restaurant that today’s catch was destined for was only around the corner.

‘You ought to pay me if you’re treating me like a delivery boy,’ Graham said, ambling beside Rory. ‘This your last one for the day?’

‘Aye.’

‘Got anything else on tonight?’

Rory sifted through his to-do list. ‘Gonna pop in on Dad. Get him his shopping. Then probably clean the boat out.’

Graham gave him a theatrical nudge—which, with a loaded box of lobsters in his arms, meant there was a lot of weight behind it. ‘You know what’s more fun than cleaning out your boat?’

Rory groaned. ‘Don’t say the club.’

‘The club!’ Graham bellowed happily. ‘Drinks on me tonight, yeah? C’mooon. You’ve had Doaty with you today, aye? Come out and drink his smell away.’

Rory’s nose wrinkled, both in recollection of Ol’ Doaty’s stench and at the prospect of spending a night in the loud company of strangers. Graham was out every other night it seemed, and with it being a Friday there was no doubt that tonight would be long one.

But, on the other hand, it really had been a long week and Rory hadn’t seen much of anyone apart from Doaty and his Dad.

‘Bunch of my crew are coming,’ Graham continued, with the air of someone about to impart intensely valuable information. ‘Sara’s gonna be there.’

Rory allowed a mild flash of interest to pass over his face. According to Graham (who wasn’t always to be believed) Sara was newly single and actively looking for a short-term hook-up.

It was the best part of a year since Rory last had any luck in the sheets. Tourists were his usual game, girls who were in town for a week or two at most and happy to leave him behind. But, as Graham frequently pointed out, tourist-season wasn’t due for a few months yet.

Rory didn’t have the heart to tell Graham that it was his own lack of motivation that was keeping him dry, not the lack of opportunities. Sara sounded like a nice enough lass. Nice enough to have better prospects than Rory, certainly.

If Rory was being honest with himself, the fly-by nature of his romantic entanglements was wearing thin.

Each one felt like a failure of sorts; a mere addition to a long list of futures-he-did-not-choose.

Futures that might have taken him away from Ullapool, if only he’d had the courage to follow one of them.

‘Also got three groups booked in on the boat this weekend,’ Graham added. ‘If you’re looking for extra work. One’s a fishing trip and the others are sightseeing to the Summer Isles.’

Rory glanced up to the grey clouds pulling down over their heads. ‘Bit early in the year, isn’t it?’

‘Nah, I’m just a better salesman than you. I’ll get ’em on my boats whatever the weather.’ Graham un-surreptitiously slung a sideways glance at Rory. ‘Position’s still open, if you want it. Better than hauling creels every day, right?’

Rory tried to hide his grimace. ‘I’ll think about it.’

They rounded the corner, sack truck bumping over the curb toward the restaurant. The owner was waiting by the back door, having heard their rattling approach. After a quick exchange of lobsters and paperwork, Rory and Graham were able to double-time back to the dock.

‘So you’re coming out tonight, aye?’ Graham pressed as Rory finished putting the Star to bed.

‘Maybe.’

Graham slapped him on the back. ‘Well, I’ve already told Sara you’ll be there. So you gotta. ’

Rory huffed without surprise. Of course he had. ‘I’ll drop in for a pint, all right?’

‘That’s the spirit!’

They parted ways and Graham marched off into town.

Rory loitered on the harbour wall, staring at Graham’s boats moored further out.

One was a little creeler similar in size to the Wandering Star, which Graham kept for his personal use and more frequently now for taking out parties to experience ‘traditional’ fishing in the Minch.

Graham’s other boat was a fifteen-metre catamaran which dwarfed the Star’s nine-metre hull; it had comfy seats and two decks for viewing, and a small canopy to keep the rain off.

In the summer it ran endless trips around Loch Broom and the Minch giving tourists the chance to spot whales and dolphins, and take in the rugged coastline of western Scotland and the closest of the Hebridean islands.

Unlike Rory, Graham had always known his heart lay on the sea. And also unlike Rory, Graham had packed in his dad’s old fishing business at the age of twenty-one in order to pursue his true interest: people.

Now they were both on the cusp of thirty, Graham had grown a small empire based on his boat trips that drew holidaymakers all across the country to Ullapool. He employed people now. There was a sign with his name on by the harbour.

Yet Rory was still exactly where he’d been at twenty-one: slogging away on declining catches of lobsters, crabs, and prawns.

Rory took the slow route to his dad’s house, wasting the fading evening light. He stopped to pick up bread and milk and other sundries, smiled weakly at the cashier asking after his father’s health, and finally reached the garden gate after sunset.

From the outside, it was a sad looking bungalow with a wild lawn and drooping gutters. On the inside, it was one man’s castle.

Rory unlocked the door. ‘It’s me, Dad.’

A grunt from the living room was all the acknowledgment he got. The sound of a weather report droned from the television. Rory unpacked the shopping into cupboards, noting that once again the kitchen was in disarray. Dirty plates piled by the sink and a rubbish bin that was overflowing.

Rory silently cleaned it all up. Like he always did. Always had, for as long as he could remember. Then he made a plate of cheese on toast and took it into the living room.

‘Have you eaten, Dad?’

Hamish’s eyes left the television for the barest moment. ‘No.’

‘Fancy this?’ Rory passed him the plate.

Another grunt. ‘Cup o’ tea, too.’

Rory left to boil the kettle. Returned wordlessly with the mug. ‘You need anything else?’

‘No.’

‘I’m going out tonight. I’ll check back in tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Mm.’

Rory lingered in the doorway. He might as well have been a ghost. Little more than a pale shadow of his mother, whose faded picture on the mantelpiece was the only decoration in this depressing room.

He threw his coat back on and headed for the door. ‘Text if you need anything.’

‘Mm.’

Rory ducked into the cold wind and set out for the club.