Oceansong by C. W. Rose

One

NICK BOLTED TOWARD ANGIE AS though the docks were burning behind him.

"Angela! Hey, come here!"

Angie cringed at the sound of her full name. Figures the jerk called her Angela despite repeating to him over and over how she hated it. She'd only been home two weeks and already she felt like throttling him.

Nick was drawing closer.

Too tired to deal with him now, Angie lowered her head and turned the corner around the warehouse, blending into the evening crowd as they left the docks for the day, and lost him.

One last task to finish.

Stretching her fatigued legs, she walked to the dock's edge to wait for the last fishing ship to arrive.

She smiled as a cool breeze swiped her nape. She spied the forty-foot-long boat approaching, in awe at how its modest size so easily sliced through the thick waves.

Summers in Creston, her southwest Alaska home-town, were always her favorite time of year. Late May brought highs only reaching the upper forties, and the cold invigorated her and awakened her senses.

Beneath the deck's wooden planks, the Bering Sea's gentle lapping waves created a hypnotizing splish-splash, splish-splash, carrying balmy, aromatic salt air into her nostrils.

So refreshing and calming.

The ship docked, jolting her from the moment of calm. Angie helped the sailors and fishermen moor it, grabbing ropes thrown to her and tying a round turn and two and a half hitches knot around bollard posts.

She itched to go home, doff her heavy boots and baggy pants, hit the shooting range for an hour, grab dinner with Baba, and take a long, hot bath at her childhood home where she lived for the sum-mer.

Workdays were long and physical. They weren't doing her energy levels any favors. She was such a worn out twenty-four-year-old.

A group of fishermen stepped off the boat, dragging their trawler behind them. A red-bearded fisherman addressed her as he walked past. "Hey lady, help us sift through this? We're running behind, and we still have to take weight and record every-thing." Then under his breath: "Dying for a hot shower. I smell like stale shit."

Angie chuckled. Had she been out at sea for three straight weeks, she'd feel the same.

She hesitated before answering. There was no need for her to stay. Yet, going through the catch would give her practice identifying fish. As an extra bonus, Nick would have to keep waiting. That didn't bother her one bit.

"Sure." She followed them to the weigh station.

"How much today?" the red-bearded fisherman asked.

Angie half-listened to their rambling as she pulled out a pen and clipped a piece of paper to her clip-board.

"Half as much as yesterday," his colleague replied.

"Same as the last two weeks, then. I don't like this at all."

The red-bearded fisherman stroked his chin.

"Where the hell are all the fish lately?"

Jotting the weight down, Angie frowned.

Not good. Less fish meant business would suffer, and so would her job. Then there was that issue of her tiny, self-sustaining fishing village not receiving their daily fish supply and not having enough to eat.

She would have to investigate.

A shiny, sea glass-studded bracelet fell from the trawler.

Rosie, her young niece, would love this deep-sea treasure, as she liked to call them. Angie's gaze lingered on the bracelet before palming it. "Mind if I keep this?"

The red-bearded fisherman nodded without glancing at her.

Once they no longer needed her assistance, Angie said goodbye, fish report in hand, and scribbled down her daily duties to hand to Bàba.

Before she reached Baba's office, Nick Richelieu called out again, a raucous "There you are!" followed by a

"Goddamn, woman! You're hard to track down."

"And yet, you managed anyway," she spoke through clenched teeth.

He was within eyeshot, strawberry blond hair flopping at his forehead. His steps were heavy and clumsy, arm swing stilted, his forced smile lopsided.

What did Mia, her older sister, see in this overcon-fident, obnoxious man? It beat her.

Nick stopped beside her, panting. "Angela," he drawled.

"You know I don't like being called that." With her arms across her chest, she faced him.

"I know." His lips widened into a toothy grin, too fake for Angie's liking. "You told me. Because your parents and teachers called you that when you got in trouble."

So, he did listen, but clearly, he didn't care. No need to remind him yet again. "What's up?" She plucked the thick gloves off her hands and shoved them into her coat pockets, keeping her distance and angled her body away from him.

If she were lucky, he would get the hint that she wanted to go home, not be stuck here longer than she already had.

No luck. "Well, Miss Angela Song." He paused, still not telling her what he wanted.

Angie winced, but forced a smile.

Stay calm. Don't piss him off or you'll piss off Bàba, too. Can't have that. Nick was his right-hand man. The son he never had.

This was her dream job for the summer. She could be with family, save enough money for graduate school. And work near the ocean, her happy place, where she could dive and explore the undersea world in her free time.

And more importantly, get enough work hours to meet her future graduate school's requirements before starting her PhD program in the fall.

Nick continued despite her non-response, his voice grating. "You have today's duty report?"

"You want my duty report? That's why you were running at me like your ass was on fire?"

Her sarcasm might as well be a shooting star over his head. "It's the end of the day, and I need to get them from sixty of you. So, hand it over." The phony grin stayed on his face, and he extended his arm.

Angie pushed past him. "I'm giving it to my dad."

"No, he asked me to take it from you." Nick's outstretched arm blocked her path, and Angie sighed, dropping her papers into his grubby paws. "Oh, and Mia's looking for you. She's here with Rosie. They're coming this way now."

Angie's irritation subsided, and she beamed.

"She's picking you up?" She never broke stride, hoping to get to Mia and Rosie before Nick did.

Private time with her older sister and her daughter without Nick was a luxury. Not waiting for Nick's answer, she waved to Mia and swept Rosie-named for the female lead from Titanic, Mia's favorite movie-into a hug, before embracing Mia.

To this day, she didn't understand Mia's hopeless romantic views, or why she loved that movie so much. How could you fall in love with someone in a matter of days? The thought of falling for someone who was her complete opposite just seemed like more headache than it was worth. Why should love be hard?

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