Chapter 10: The Spring Launch
By late May, Cape Haven was in full bloom.
The weeping willows had leafed out into curtains of vibrant green; the gardens were filled with peonies, English lavender, and rows of sweet peas climbing the cedar trellises. The bay was alive with white sails and the chug of lobster boats heading through the channel.
At the private stone pier below the house, a twenty-four-foot wooden catboat bobbed against braided hemp bumpers.
It was an old vessel that Thomas had spent two years restoring—its hull painted dark maritime green, its oak decks scrubbed clean, its single gaff-rigged sail gleaming white in the afternoon sun. Across the transom, carved in deep gold leaf, was a new name: The Margaret M.
Fifty people had gathered on the lawn for the launching: local fishermen, nurses from the community clinic, university archivists, and neighbors from the island.
There were no velvet ropes, no photographers, and no security details. Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of boiled lobster, fresh corn, sourdough bread, and pitchers of iced tea.
Thomas stood on the pier, dressed in a simple navy sweater and khaki trousers, his hair gleaming silver in the sun. He held eight-month-old Grace in his arms, letting her tiny fingers touch the carved letters of her grandmother's name.
Clara walked down the wooden gangway, wearing a white linen dress, carrying a bottle of local sparkling cider tied with sea-grass ribbons.
She looked at Thomas, at her daughter, and at the community of honest, hardworking people who had sheltered them through the winter.
She swung the bottle. It shattered against the bronze bow fitting with a clean, bright chime, foam washing across the green wood.
May you like
"I christen you The Margaret M.," Clara announced, her voice ringing clear over the water. "May you carry your crew through every gale, and may you always guide them home."
The crowd cheered, the sound echoing across the water, mingling with the cries of terns and the rhythmic slap of waves against the stone.
