The Road Back to Havens Bay
The sea air hit Eleanor Monroe before she even crossed the county line.
It was that same briny mix of salt and pine that used to cling to her clothes as a girl, when she'd race down the docks with sand stuck to her calves and fish scales glinting on her sleeves. She rolled down the window of her aging SUV and let the wind rush in, stinging her eyes. Or maybe that was the grief. It had a way of sneaking up on her lately, sudden and sharp.
She hadn’t been back to Haven’s Bay in over ten years. Not since graduation. Not since she slung her camera bag over her shoulder and promised her grandparents she’d send postcards from every continent. And she had. Postcards from Lisbon, from Kyoto, from Nairobi. But never a visit. Never a return.
Until now.
The GPS chimed, breaking the silence. “Arrived at destination.”
Ellie pulled into the gravel lot of Monroe’s Bait & Tackle, the tires crunching beneath her like bones in the stillness. The shop looked the same. Faded red paint peeling at the edges. A crooked wooden sign hanging from rusted hooks. The old porch swing her grandpa used to rock in while sipping his morning coffee creaked gently in the breeze.
She turned off the engine and stared. The lump in her throat thickened. Her grandparents were gone. Just like that. A phone call from the sheriff two weeks ago, polite but grim. A highway curve, a truck, and no chance to say goodbye.
Ellie stepped out of the car and felt the wind off the water wrap around her like a long-lost friend. Or a ghost. She walked slowly toward the front door, every step echoing with memory. She could still see Nana in her blue apron, humming as she counted bait buckets. Grandpa Gus puffing his pipe as he taught her how to gut a fish.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The inside smelled of earthworms, salt, and old wood. Everything was just as they left it. The glass counter filled with lures and hooks. A faded photo of her at age ten holding up a trout, grinning with missing teeth. She reached for it, her hand trembling. The photo was crooked. She straightened it and wiped a thumb across the dusty frame.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered aloud, the words falling heavy in the silence.
The plan was simple, at least on paper. Take care of the paperwork. Figure out what to do with the shop. Sell, probably. Go back to the life she built—photo shoots in Bali, coffee in Paris, deadlines and exhibitions. She was in control out there.
But here?
Here, everything was different. Slower. Softer. And heartbreakingly familiar.
A knock on the open door made her turn.
“Didn’t think I’d see you back in town.”
The voice was low, steady. Familiar enough to freeze her in place.
She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe. Callum Hart. Taller than she remembered, with sunburned skin, a strong jaw, and the same sea-glass green eyes that used to look at her like she hung the stars. He held a tackle box in one hand, a wary curiosity in the other.
“Callum,” she said, her voice catching.
He nodded once. “Ellie.”
And just like that, the past came rushing back in with the tide.
