Well, not about the drinking. She’d helped him home several times over the past few years. Seeing his daughter with a bottle to her lips roused a bittersweet pang. She hoped the girl knew when to stop. Ray never had. The thought settled the decision. She’d stay in the harbor instead of nipping up the tidal river for a little fishing. Being on the water, even if she didn’t move, was better than the chaos of the house she shared with her friends. She leaned back in the chair and watched the clouds turn pink, then orange, as the sun descended further into the western sky. The late May light softened the grays and blacks of the rocky shoreline with its shuttered summer homes and brooding pines.

Emilia. That was her name, same as Ray’s boat. Ray had mentioned she’d come to stay with him in the summer when she was younger, but Morgan had no memory of anyone who looked remotely like Emilia Russo ever setting foot in Seal Cove. She let her gaze drift back down to the sailboat, remembering the coldness in those brown eyes and the flush of embarrassment across Emilia's olive skin. Hot and cold. She wiped her palms on her pants, aware that the sudden prick of sweat heralded danger.

The majority of the moorings were empty this early in the season. Few of the summer people had arrived, and only the locals and the lobstermen and women had their boats in the water. Morgan preferred it this way. Quiet. Tranquil. It gave her a break from the hectic schedule of the clinic, which had lost its other full-time large animal veterinarian in April, and it also gave her a break from her housemates. It wouldn’t be the same this year without Ray, though. Settling deeper in her chair, she propped her feet on the dash and closed her eyes.

Morgan jerked awake some time later as her phone vibrated on her hip. A message from her friend Stevie glowed on the screen: You’re late.

She ignored it. Sunset brought cold air in from the ocean, and she inhaled the lingering winter chill.

A splash caught her attention. She shoved her phone back in her pocket as a string of obscenities carried over the water. Her dog woke at once and bounded to the rail with his tail upright and alert. Morgan stared around the harbor for the source of the disturbance. The fading sunlight cast long shadows, and the water surrounding the neighboring boats looked nearly black.

Emilia no longer sprawled over the bow of the sailboat. This, paired with the frantic barking of the woman’s dog, clued Morgan in.

“Shit.” She fired up the engine and sprang to unhook her boat from its mooring. The Maine water was still dangerously cold this time of year, especially for someone drinking. She gunned the engine as much as she dared in close quarters, not wanting to slap Emilia with wake, and circled around to bring her boat alongside the Emilia Rosa. She tossed a bumper out of habit and looped a hasty line around a cleat to keep the boats from drifting, then leaned over the bow to extend a hand to the woman clinging to the sailboat’s hull.