She sipped her gin and tonic and looked toward the Queen Anne area. There were houses for sale, many in the price range that she and Theo could afford. Brooklyn suggested they buy a fixer-upper and have Bowie do the work. They could flip and invest. Her friend made it sound so easy. They didn’t need a lot of room and could buy small, remodel, and move on to something else. When she asked Theo what he thought, he said it would be a waste of time, and he didn’t want to live in a construction zone. He, too, made sense. Their time was valuable, and with Rennie’s job keeping her at the office longer hours, the last thing she wanted to come home to at night was a dust-filled house. After the first of the year, they’d find the right house—she was sure of it.
Her intercom buzzed, and within seconds, silence filled with music and laughter. The voice of her assistant, Ester, came through the receiver. “Ms. Wallace, are you coming to the party?”
Rennie continued to stare out the window, her eyes scanning the darkened city for any sign of Theo . . . not that she could see him—or anyone, for that matter—from her office. Besides, she knew deep down he wouldn’t surprise her, not tonight and not likely over the extended holiday. Their last words had been curt. She would call him later—if not tonight, then tomorrow—and apologize and tell him that once they lived together, things would be different. It was the distance that frustrated them, not their jobs. She would promise to put work aside so they could keep their reservation at the quaint bed-and-breakfast they’d fallen in love with in Vancouver, British Columbia, so they could spend New Year’s together. Everything would be on track for them; she’d make sure of it.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” she told Ester as she stepped away from the window. She placed the glass on the corner of her desk before walking out of her office and closing the door behind her.
TWO
Cape Harbor, Washington, was known for its beautiful coastline, its majestic views, and its quaint style of living, as well as swashbuckling ghosts. Over the years, the story about the pirate ship, the Grand Night, sinking a mere thirty feet from the shore grew with each person telling the tale. It was a stormy night, might’ve been snowing, or was the wind whipping so hard the captain couldn’t keep the ship straight? There was no way to tell. What about the ghosts who sat at the bar of the Whale Spout long after it closed, causing a ruckus? As the folklore went, the gangplanks used for the Whale Spout came from the Grand Night, but how that came about was unknown. Some say the wind ripped apart the ship, and the wide pieces of wood slammed against local angler Justin Schreiber’s boat one afternoon, waking him from a drunken stupor. Others say he was a thief who robbed the ship, taking what belonged to the ocean and bringing a curse to all the fishermen. Whether the tales were true, no one would ever know, but the uncertainty hadn’t stopped fortune hunters from coming to the small Washington town with their diving gear, hoping to discover what many before them hadn’t—those elusive chestfuls of gold coins and jewels. The tourist shop in town sold magnets, T-shirts, and replica coins and necklaces related to the myth, and the old fishermen who sat in the same corner of the Whale Spout as the fishermen before them had continued to spread the story to anyone willing to sit and listen.
A man sat down at the bar and motioned to Graham. There were very few patrons in the bar tonight; most people were home or traveling to visit relatives for the upcoming holiday. “What can I get you?” Graham asked.
“Whatever you have on tap.”
Graham pulled a glass from the counter, set it at a forty-five-degree angle, and pulled the tap of his favorite local brew, the White Elephant Couch, and watched as amber liquid filled the glass. He held it up and admired his ability to create as little head as possible. Beer pouring was truly an art form, at least for him.
“Is it true?” the man asked Graham as he slid the pint toward him.
“What’s that?”
“The ghost stories. My buddy has been here a few times and says this place is haunted. Said if I stay until closing, I’m likely to catch the spirit of Blackbird.”
“As far as I know, Blackbird never sailed the Pacific.” There hadn’t been a day since he took over the bar from his father that he hadn’t been asked if any of the legends were true. Hearing what others had heard over the years was one of the best parts of his job, and he often wished he could confirm or deny the fables. Was the Whale Spout haunted? Likely. There were too many instances that left Graham wondering. Most often, he’d come in to work and find the barstools tipped over or a water faucet running. Each time, he would thank whoever did it for not touching the taps, because losing a keg of beer would be costly, especially during the winter.