Page 19 of Everything You Hate
“The north shore you mentioned earlier—is that all Haven land?”
All that easy warmth cools by degrees when he glances at me. “Yes.”
“Has it been in the family since the original settlement?”
“Since 1893.” His voice is flat, and he gives no other information.
I try again. “Those cannery pilings—you said the Merricks claimed the Havens were responsible for the fire. Is that typical of the historical dynamic between the two families?”
“The feud’s been going on a long time.”
That’s it. That’s the entire answer. He says it the way someone might say the sky is blue, and then he’s pointing out a cormorant diving off the starboard bow, and the conversation is over.
I flip to a new page. Try a different angle.
“The geography of the island is fascinating. The north shore has those dramatic cliffs—are they sandstone? The color suggests?—”
“Mostly basalt with sandstone overlays.” He adjusts the throttle. “Formed during the last glacial maximum.”
Helpful. Technical. Completely useless for the story I’m trying to tell.
I try coming at it sideways. “The town naming controversy—Port Haven versus Port Merrick—that must have been asignificant moment in the island’s history. Do you know if there are any firsthand accounts from that period?”
“Historical society might.” He doesn’t look at me.
I press my lips together and write“Why so grumpy?”in my notebook, though the words swim slightly on the page. The ginger chew is helping, but the boat’s motion still sends my stomach into occasional rebellion.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I’ll check it out.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns back to the little girl in pink and points out a pair of otters playing near the rocky shoreline. The tourists lean toward the rail, phones raised, and I use the moment to study Dean’s profile.
Up close, the scar through his left eyebrow is more pronounced—a thin white line that cuts through the dark hair, pale against his tanned skin. He’s got crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes like he squints against the sun more often than not. His stubbled jaw is set. That stubble should look careless and sloppy, but on him, it works.
Of course it does.
Nothing about Dean Kinsella has the decency to be unattractive.
Well, except maybe his personality.
The boat rounds a point of land, and the water changes. The chop smooths into long, rolling swells that lift the hull and set it back down with a rhythm that’s almost, almost bearable. The ginger has done its work, and my stomach has stopped staging its mutiny. I can breathe again. I can think.
“J Pod’s paying us a visit.” Dean points to something on the port side, and there’s a collective gasp from the tourists.
I turn as the first dorsal fin cuts through the surface.
A second, smaller fin appears beside it. A calf.
Then a third, larger than both, surges up, water cascading off its back in sheets.
Orcas.
My notebook hits the bench with a soft thud. I don’t remember dropping it. My hand is on the rail, then both hands, and I’m leaning over, and the cold spray hits my face when the largest orca slaps the water with its tail.
The calf rolls alongside its mother, close enough that I forget to breathe. Its white underside flashes pale against the dark green, there and gone. It’s huge, but tiny compared to its mother.
I spent an entire career in front of a camera, built on always having something to say.
But right now, I have nothing.
