There he was. Henry Cross. He’d been standing there, immortalized, the whole time. A larger-than-life brass version of him, anyway. Maybe that’s why his frozen smile and the metal ripple of his fisherman’s jacket seemed so impersonal, foreign. Piper searched for some kind of connection inside of her, but couldn’t find it, and the guilt made her mouth dry.

A plaque positioned at his feet read: Henry Cross. Deeply Missed, Forever Remembered.

“He looks like a young Kevin Costner,” Piper murmured.

Hannah huffed a sound. “Oh shit, he really does.”

“You were right. This is weird.”

Their hands met and clasped. “Let’s go. I have that Zoom call with Sergei in ten minutes, anyway.”

Hannah had agreed to do some remote administrative work while in Westport, and she needed time to brush her hair and find a good background.

Their pace brisk, the sisters turned down the street that would guide them back to No Name and their apartment, but neither spoke. Hannah seemed deep in thought, while Piper tried to contend with the guilt—and a mild sense of failure—that she hadn’t been . . . grabbed by her first encounter with Henry.

Was she too shallow to feel anything? Or was the beginning of her life so far removed from her reality, she couldn’t reach it so many years later?

Piper took a deep breath, her lungs rejoicing from the lack of smog. They passed fishermen as they walked, most of the men on the older side, and every single one of them gave the sisters a tip of the cap. Piper and Hannah smiled back. Even if they stayed a year in Westport, she’d probably never get used to the friendly ease of the locals, as they went around acknowledging other humans for no reason. There was something kind of nice about it, though she definitely preferred the bored indifference of Los Angeles. Definitely.

There was also something to be said for not looking at her phone as she walked. If she’d been responding to comments on her post, she might have missed the woman putting fresh fish into the window of her shop, two seagulls fighting over a French fry, a toddler trundling out of a candy shop stuffing saltwater taffy into his mouth. Maybe she should try to put her phone down more often. Or at least take in the real moments when she could.

When they reached No Name, Piper was surprised to find a man leaning up against the door. He appeared to be in his sixties, slightly round at the middle, a newsboy cap resting on top of his head. He watched them approach through narrowed eyes, a slight curve to his mouth.

“Hi,” Hannah called, getting out her keys. “Can we help you?”

The man pushed off the door, slapped a hand against his thigh. “Just came to see Henry and Maureen’s girls for myself, and there you are. How about that?”

After living two decades without hearing her father’s name at all, it was a jolt to hear it out loud, have it connected with them. And their mother. “I’m Piper,” she said, smiling. “This is Hannah. And you’re . . . ?”

“Mick Forrester,” he said affably, putting out his hand for a shake, giving each sister a hearty one. “I remember when you were knee high.”

“Oh! It’s nice to meet you as adults.” She glanced at Hannah. “My sister has a work thing. But if you’d like to come in, I think there’s still some beer in one of the coolers.”

“No, I couldn’t. I’m on my way to lunch with the old-timers.” He smoothed his thick-knuckled hands over his belly, as if pondering what he’d order to fill it. “Couldn’t let a day pass before I stopped by to say hello, see if you girls ended up favoring Maureen or Henry.” His eyes twinkled as he looked between them. “I’d have to say your mother, for sure. Lucky, that. No one wants to look like a weathered fisherman.” He laughed. “Although, Henry might have had that ocean-worn look about him, but, boy, your dad had a great laugh. Sometimes I swear I still hear it shaking the rafters of this place.”

“Yeah.” Inwardly, Piper winced at this stranger having more substantial memories and feelings for her own father. “That’s kind of the only thing I remember.”

“Shoot.” Hannah’s smile was tight. “I’m going to be late to the meeting. Pipes, you’ll fill me in?”

“Will do. Good luck.” Piper waited until Hannah had disappeared, the sound of her running up the back stairs of No Name fading after a moment. “So, how did you know Henry?”

Mick settled into himself, arms crossing over his chest. A classic storytelling stance. “We fished together. Worked our way up the ranks, side by side, from greenhorns to deckhands to crew, until eventually I bought the Della Ray and became my own captain.” Some of the luster dulled in his eyes. “Not to bring up a sad subject, Piper, but I was right there in the wheelhouse when we lost him. It was a dark day. I never had a better friend than Henry.”

Piper laid a hand on his elbow. “I’m sorry.”

“Hell, you’re his daughter.” He reared back. “I’m the one should be comforting you.”

“I wish . . . Well, we don’t remember much about him at all. And our mother . . .”

“She was hurting too much to fill in the blanks, I’m guessing. That’s not unusual, you know. Wives of fishermen come from tough stock. They have nerves of steel. My wife has them, passed them on to my daughter, Desiree.” He gave a nod. “You might have met her husband, Brendan, the other night when you arrived.”

Desiree. That was Brendan’s late wife’s name? Just like that, she was real. Someone with a personality. Someone with a face, a voice, a presence.

Sadness had turned down the sides of his mouth at the mention of his daughter. “Wives of fishermen are taught to lock up their fears, get on with it. No crying or complaining. Your mother rebelled against the norm a little, I suppose. Couldn’t find a way to cope with the loss, so she picked up and left. Started over in a place that wouldn’t remind her of Westport. Can’t say I wasn’t tempted a time or two to do the same after my daughter passed, but I found it was worth staying the course.”

Piper’s throat felt tight. “I’m sorry. About your daughter.”

Mick nodded once, weariness walking across his face. “Listen, I’ve got a lot more to tell you. Since you’re staying awhile, I figure we’ll have chances. A lot of us locals remember your father, and we never miss a chance to reminisce.” He took a piece of paper out of his back pocket, handed it over to Piper. An address was written on it, blunt but legible. “Speaking of locals, I figured there’s one who’d be more eager to catch up than any of us. This here is the address for Opal. I wasn’t sure if you’d had a chance to stop over and see her yet.”

Was Opal a woman Piper was supposed to know?

No clue.

But after visiting Henry’s memorial and not being moved the way she should have been, she wasn’t up for admitting her cluelessness, on top of the lingering guilt. Plus, there was something else she’d been wondering about and didn’t want to miss her chance to ask.

“Opal. Of course.” Piper folded up the piece of paper, debating whether or not she should ask her next question. “Mick . . . how exactly did Henry . . . ?” She sighed and started over. “We know it happened at sea, but we don’t know the details, really.”