Ms. Joanna always stares at me like I’ve baked ants into her olive bread. She opens the top of the bag and sniffs, eyeing me over the counter with those muddy-brown eyes.

“These are Kalamata?” Her English sounds as native as mine—until she hits Kalamata.

“Yes, just like last week.” I give her my most patient smile and try not to picture those little bits of olives wriggling to life and running away on six tiny legs.

Her eyes narrow on me. “Eliopsomo must be made with Kalamata.”

Regardless of what Ms. Joanna thinks of me, I would never put anything but the best Kalamata olives in her bread. The doubting woman in front of me is the only one who buys it, and if Benny, my father, had his way, we’d stop baking it all together. But for reasons not clear to me now, I’d argued to keep making it for her. Even with the way she looks at me.

Ms. Joanna sniffs the bag again, looking partly appeased. “If they don’t come from Greece, they aren’t Kalamata.”

“Would you like to see the jar?” We order it for her. One lonely jar that travels all the way across the Atlantic to tiny Portage Bay, Maine. Maybe even from the little Greek village she lived in as a child. Or at least, where I imagine she’s from. We never get past the olive discussion.

“I’ll pay.” She lifts her chin with the final proclamation.

I take her $2.25 and cram it into the old cash register with metal buttons. The 3 has been missing since I started helping at the bakery five years ago, two years after I was removed from my mother. Or, more accurately, after my mother was removed from me.

A twenty-year prison sentence will do that. It’s also the real reason Ms. Joanna double-checks her olive loaf before the silver bell tinkles over the door when it closes behind her.

Ms. Joanna isn’t the only one who sees the truth. A shadow crawls through the women in my family. Some families have legacies in businesses and trust funds. My family legacy is grittier. It slinks in darker desires, curling down the family line to find its place in me. My mother called it the echo. My father calls it the curse. The state of Maine calls it kidnapping and attempted murder.

I call it… I don’t know. My future, I suppose. But something I’m dead set on preventing. I just have to keep following my rules: mornings in the bakery, trying to make sure that—other than the olive bread—we turn at least a little profit. And no dating. All of which isn’t that much of a challenge in a town the size of Portage.

I draw in a breath of warm, humid silence that’s broken by the last ticks of the oven as it cools, and try not to think about things like futures and life. Instead, I concentrate on the sounds of the bakery and… water running in the back?

Crap, the dish sink I’d forgotten to turn off.

I wipe my hands on my yellow apron and hurry back to the overflowing sink, falling into the rhythm of dishwashing and a lullaby, my voice quiet between the splashes of water. And I ignore the small wake Ms. Joanna always leaves behind her with those accusing eyes.

I rinse out cupcake forms and lay them flat to dry—carefully since we can’t afford to get a new set until after the tourist season picks up. I’m stacking the last pans to dry when the back door bounces open and Benny walks in, swinging a wire cupcake display stand. He holds it up. “What do you think?”

I smile at the bright yellow that matches my apron and nearly everything else in the shop. “Where’d you get it?”

“Laura made it.” Silvery hair sticks out from under his hairnet and dips into crinkly-kind eyes. Chocolate frosting dots his starched apron. “It fits into the case.”

I brighten at my stepmother’s old project-making self—a side I haven’t seen much of since her multiple sclerosis has become more progressive. Before, she was forever repurposing cribs into desks for the neighbor children or creating canning jar chandeliers. Unfortunately, she was never very good at it. And the lopsided cupcake stand that will take up almost the whole case looks like it won’t be the exception.

“It won’t hold many cupcakes,” I say cautiously.

Benny shrugs. “But Laura made it.” He carries it to the front and pulls out the cupcakes, arranging them in straight rows next to the cash register.

Benny will always pick Laura. Every time, without question. My half-sister, Renee, thinks it’s because he’s too weak to stand for himself. But I get it.

It’s not weakness. It’s love.

I finish the dishes, humming the same lullaby, then walk up front to find Benny stuffing the lopsided cupcake holder into the display. It takes some metal bending and a pair of pliers for him to get the doors closed.

He smiles with satisfaction when it’s done. “See. Perfect.”

“I can see that.”

When he turns, his smile falls for a moment. “I—um… Did Joanna come in yet?”

“She was cheerful, as always.” I untie my apron straps. “Is that everything?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pauses, the cupcakes still lined on the counter next to the register. Where anyone could walk in and breathe on them. Which is very un-Benny-like.

I fold my apron into a careful square. “Is there something else, Benny?”

He always needs prodding. Maybe because we live in this strange purgatory—half father–daughter. Half employee–employer. My mother wasn’t with him for long, and then she left town—taking off with my half-brother and me before I even started school. I didn’t return home until fourteen years old. With so many unspoken words about where I was for all those years, it’s hard to find the edges of our truth. So we fumble around each other like we’re both peering into a dulled mirror.

“I’m sure you have a busy day…” He leans against the counter.

“Which means you should spit out whatever is on your mind.” I give him an encouraging smile. “Trust me, I’ve heard worse.”

“I don’t doubt that.” He glances toward the door that’s been silent since Ms. Joanna’s exit. Which is common for this time of year—it will all change in a month when the town fills with tourists. “The Heroine is back in dock.”

The words take a long minute to register. It’s not that I don’t understand. It’s that they are so unexpected. I shake my head. “Okay.” What else is there to say? I turn toward the back of the shop. “See you in the morning.”

I snake through the narrow walkway, then carefully tuck my apron into its cubby. I gather my keys and coffee tumbler. Pull on my sweater. It’s frayed on one wrist, and I pick at the thread.

“Ella.” Benny follows me and stops by the cooling oven. “Are you okay?”

I stop yanking on the sweater and search my pockets for my phone. “Yes, of course.”

“It surprised me too,” he says. “But I thought I should tell you before you saw her masts. I…” His eyes narrow on me. “You’re going there.”

“I have to see him.” I finally find my phone and tuck it right back into my pocket without checking it.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

“You’re right.” I hit the back door with more force than intended. I stop myself, take that calming breath, put on the easy-Ella smile, and look back at Benny. “Just a glimpse.”

To his credit, Benny doesn’t call after me. There’s nothing he can say to stop me anyway.

The back entrance of the bakery exits into an alley. The last weeks of winter hang on, making the sky slate gray. I flip up my hood so I can’t see the clouds, clutch my tumbler, and walk around the corner of the building.

As soon as I step around the corner, the Heroine’s masts rise—towering over the rest of the boats in the slips. An intricate network of rope twines her masts together. To me, it looks like an impossible knot. Tangled kite strings that can never be unraveled.

Beyond the boat, the water rolls, gray and even. The harbor’s asleep this time of the year. Everything’s a sedated kind of dull except for the boat’s crisp, white sails and the deep, rich, polished wood lined with red paint.

I shouldn’t get closer. But my feet—and my need for one small glimpse—don’t listen.

I walk down the Harborwalk toward the boat, cold humidity curling in my lungs. I pass the hardware store and the barber. I stop at the edge of the dock, where cement becomes wood, a hundred yards away from her.

I hold my breath and stare at the boat, waiting to glimpse the man I’m not sure I want to see. Her deck is empty, so I slide closer—between the unoccupied huts that will soon fill with tourist trinket shops and coffee vendors. I stop next to the first slip.

The Heroine belongs to Charles Archer. A long time ago, he was Benny’s closest friend. When I was fourteen, he became something else. One of my mother’s victims. And now I don’t know what he is. It’s been seven years since I laid eyes on Charles.

He didn’t testify against my mother. Didn’t go to the cops all those years ago. I don’t know why.

If he had, maybe she would have been stopped earlier.

“Can I help you?” The voice is close to my ear, and I jump—just about tumbling into green-gray water. A hand catches my wrist. “Careful.”

I look up into blue eyes, a few inches from mine. Island blue. The color of kites and childhood and memories. I blink at him, trying to get my bearings. I don’t remember him, but there’s something about him. Like a memory just out of reach.

No. I’m not going to fall into memories.

I’m not. I’m not.

And I don’t like being startled. His fingers still clamp my wrist. Strong, tanned hands that lead to gracefully muscled forearms. He’s wearing a t-shirt even though it’s cool and gray today. And he looks so easy. As if he fits perfectly into his own skin.

“You can let go of me now.” The words are tight in my throat, and I have to push them out. I’m frozen on the dock, trying to disappear into wood and nothingness.

Turn invisible. Her voice echoes in my head. My mother is always with me, even if I don’t want her there. I force her away.

“Are you sure?” His eyebrows hitch, drawing even more attention to those sharp blue eyes. “I wouldn’t want you to fall to a freezing death.”

I take in his rolled-up chinos and worn dock shoes. A thin black leather necklace rounds his neck and disappears under the collar of his t-shirt. A slight cleft in his chin, and a little inch-long scar on that cuts across a strong jaw. And he’s still holding my wrist.

“Consider me rescued.” I yank my hand away, and he lets go, stepping back as he does. It’s then that I realize how close we were standing. Almost toe to toe. I try to remember the last time I stood that close to someone. Especially a male, close to my age and stupidly attractive someone. There should be restrictions placed on men like this one.

“Then let’s return to my initial question.” He pauses, as if waiting for me to speak.

I shake my head, not sure what question he’s talking about.

A smile pulls his lips. It’s another echo. A memory I can’t filter out. Behind me, the Heroine rocks silently.

He tilts his head toward me. “I asked if I could help you.”

Oh yeah, that question.

I point toward the Harborwalk with my empty coffee tumbler. “I was out for a w-walk.”

I bite my lip. My brain tells me I shouldn’t be ashamed of the stutter, but the rest of me is stormy embarrassment. It hasn’t come out for months—not since I started singing over the morning dishes—soft lullabies that soothe my throat. I curse the stammer’s stupid arrival now. But silently, lest it come out again.

“Do you want a tour?” That half-smile doesn’t leave. Although he probably thinks I’m the most tongue-tied person alive. “She’s called the Heroine.” He says the name quickly, like a sudden snap of fingers.

Maybe Charles isn’t here. Maybe he sold the boat. I take a breath and focus on relaxing my neck and remember the feel of letting a lullaby curl up my throat. I can do this talking thing. “Who owns her?”

He studies me, as if it’s a much harder question than it seems. “Do you want to set up a charter? I just docked this morning. She won’t be ready to go for at least a few days.”

“No.” I shake my head and step back, trying to plan what I’ll say. Short sentences. No extra words. “Curious. I need… I have to go… away.” Oh holy crap, I did not just say that.

His lips twitch, but thank God he doesn’t laugh. I don’t think I could take that level of embarrassment. The hand that clasped my wrist a moment ago rises to his jaw, and his knuckles smooth from ear to chin. My eyes follow his fingers as they make a return arc.

He tilts his head, eyeing me curiously, as if searching for something. And it all clicks together. Or falls apart.

Charles Archer had two sons. Twins. Both with those bright blue eyes.