Eric's words echoed around me, refusing to be ignored. For the first time in sixteen years, I wondered whether the life I'd built on Ironhook Island protected me or merely locked me in another kind of prison.
Chapter three
Eric
Mrs. Henrietta Pelletier's hands told stories on their own—knuckles gnarled from decades of hauling traps, fingertips stained permanent yellow from handling buoy rope, and calluses thick enough to grip barnacle-crusted lobster shells without flinching. She sat across from me on her front porch, balancing a steaming mug of herbal tea on the arm of her weathered Adirondack chair.
Meanwhile, I fumbled with my recording app and tried not to look like the nervous college kid I was.
"You want to know about resilience?" She pronounced it like someone asked her to translate a foreign word. "Nineteen ninety-two, that's when the bottom fell out. Cod stocks collapsed, lobster prices dropped to nothing, and half the island packed up and left before Christmas."
I nodded, stylus poised over my tablet screen. Behind her, the Pelletier house stretched back from the porch in a series of additions and repairs created over decades of making do.
Paint peeled from the clapboard siding in strips that curled like wood shavings. On the roof, different colored groups of shingles indicated past emergency fixes.
"My husband Frank, God rest him, said we should sell the boat and move to Portland. Get jobs at the shipyard." She sipped her tea and gazed at the harbor, where a handful of lobster boats bobbed at their moorings. "But I say you can't sell your blood to the mainland."
Mrs. Pelletier's grandson, Noah, appeared from around the corner of the house, carrying a stack of glossy brochures. He'd inherited her sharp cheekbones and steady gaze, and he radiated the restless energy of a man trying to build something new from old foundations.
Mrs. Pelletier gestured for him to join us. "Noah, tell him about the tour business."
He dropped into the third chair and spread the brochures across the porch table. "Authentic Maine Lobster Experience," the headlines promised, with photos of weathered fishermen hauling traps against picture-perfect sunrises.
"We figured out people would pay to pretend they were us for a few hours," Noah said, and I heard the tone of irony in his voice. "City folks from Boston and tourists from Bar Harbor want to haul a few traps, take some pictures, and eat lobster rolls on the deck of a working boat."
I studied one of the brochures, noting how the marketing copy emphasized words like "authentic" and "traditional" while adroitly avoiding mentioning economic collapse or families forced to leave their homes.
Noah continued his explanation. "It's still making our living with the sea. Only now, the product is a little different."
Mrs. Pelletier reached over and straightened the stack of brochures. "Some of the old-timers don't like it. Say we're turning ourselves into a circus act."
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
She was quiet for a few moments. We all watched a gull work its way along the dock, checking for scraps. "I think survival isn't pretty, but it's better than the alternative."
I made notes, capturing not only her words but also how she and Noah moved around each other. It was the casual intimacy of people who'd shared tight spaces through long winters and learned to read each other's moods without asking questions.
Mrs. Pelletier set down her mug. "And you? What are you adapting to?"
The question caught me off guard. I'd prepared for interviews about fishing quotas and tourism revenue, not probing questions about my personal life.
"I'm only here to learn." I followed my comment with an attempt at a disarming smile.
Her gaze didn't waver. "Everyone's adapting to something, dear. The trick is knowing whether you're growing or hiding."
I clicked off the recording app and tucked my tablet into my bag, suddenly aware that Mrs. Pelletier saw more than I'd intended to show. She had the unsettling talents of people who'd spent decades reading weather patterns and tide tables—she could spot storms coming long before they appeared on any forecast or on a person's face.
"Thank you for your time." I stood and shouldered my gear bag. "This has been incredibly helpful."
Noah walked me to the edge of the property, where the path split. One direction led to the harbor and the other back toward Wes's cottage.
He glanced back at the porch where Mrs. Pelletier was still watching us. "Fair warning about Gran. She's got a talent for asking questions that stick with you."
What are you adapting to?
The question followed me down the path.
A rhythmic scrape of metal against wood, punctuated by the occasional snap of breaking rope, drifted toward me from the cottage. I rounded a corner and found Wes hunched over a pile of lobster traps. They were a mess, looking like they'd been through a hurricane. They had torn wire mesh, and their wooden frames split along the grain.
