Chapter 3 - The Gentleman at the Yacht Club
Grace did not burn the check. She tucked it securely into the inside zip-pocket of her canvas jacket, right alongside the letter with its ivy-wrapped crest. All morning at the harbor, her hands moved on autopilot, gutting cod, scaling flounder, and tossing ice into wooden crates, but her thoughts were anchored to that noon meeting. Earl Dolan spent two hours leaning over his counter, warning her that high-society vultures like Richard Bennett didn't give away nickels unless they planned to take back a dollar's worth of hide, but Grace tuned him out. She needed the truth.
At eleven-forty-five, Grace walked along the timber boardwalk that separated the commercial fish docks from the private berths of the Mercer Harbor Yacht Club. The contrast was obscene. On the public side, paint peeled from rusty hulls and the air smelled of diesel exhaust and dead shrimp; on the club side, polished teak yachts bobbed against padded slips, their brass fittings gleaming beneath the pale autumn sun.
She was stopped at the wrought-iron gate by an attendant wearing a crisp navy blazer. “Private grounds, miss. Deliveries have to go through the service lane at the back.”
“I’m not delivering fish,” Grace said, her gaze steady and unyielding. “Richard Bennett asked to see me.”
The attendant’s arrogant smirk melted instantly into nervous deference. He tapped his earpiece, mumbled a short phrase, and pushed the heavy gate open with a polite bow. “Third terrace on the south pier, Miss Mercer. Mr. Bennett is waiting for you.”
Richard Bennett sat alone at a corner table overlooking the open ocean, an untouched pot of black coffee sitting between two porcelain cups. He was dressed in a dark wool turtleneck and a tailored charcoal trench coat, looking completely restored from the shivering wreck she had dragged across the slippery dock pilings twenty-four hours earlier. Yet when he turned his head to watch her approach, Grace saw that the hollow, haunted weariness in his gray eyes had not lessened at all.
“You came,” Richard said, rising politely to pull out the wrought-iron chair opposite him.
Grace remained standing, her boots leaving faint damp rings on the polished bluestone pavers of the terrace. She pulled the fifty-thousand-dollar check from her coat and placed it flat on the glass table between them.
“I don’t want your money, Mr. Bennett,” Grace said directly. “I pulled you out of the water because leaving a drowning man behind is something animals do, not people. If I take this check, Earl Dolan and every fisherman in Mercer Harbor will spend the next twenty years saying I pushed you in just to claim the salvage reward.”
Richard looked down at the paper, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You have your mother’s pride, Grace. That fierce, stubborn arrogance that mistakes suffering for virtue.”
The wind sweeping off the sound suddenly felt ten degrees colder. Grace took half a step forward, her hands clenching into tight fists inside her jacket pockets. “You mentioned my mother yesterday when you saw her picture in my stall. You acted like you were guessing. Don’t lie to me. How do you know my mother?”
Richard motioned toward the empty chair again. “Sit down, Grace. Please. What I have to tell you will not be easier to hear on your feet.”
Grace held his gaze for five full seconds, trying to read the billionaire’s stone-faced composure, before reluctantly pulling the chair back and sitting. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Her name was Clara Mercer. She died twelve years ago in a hospital ward in Boston because we couldn't afford an experimental oncology treatment that cost forty thousand dollars. That was the year I turned twelve. Grandma told me Clara worked as a housekeeper for rich families in the Back Bay before she got sick and came back home to the harbor to die.”
May you like
Richard closed his eyes, his breathing heavy and uneven. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, tarnished silver pendant shaped like an anchor—identical to the miniature brass carving Grace kept hanging on the mirror over her dresser at home.
“She didn't work as a housekeeper in Back Bay, Grace,” Richard said quietly, opening his palm so the silver caught the gray light. “Clara was the chief landscape architect for Bennett Harbor Holdings. And for five years... she was the only woman I ever loved.”
