Haven Creek by Rochelle Alers

say it, because her children had minds like steel traps. They remembered everyone and everything.
    “Thank you for reminding me, Gregory,” he said in apology. “I’ll see you guys later.”
    “Aren’t you staying for supper?” Sharon asked.
    “No. I have to go to the Cove.”
    “Do you want me to leave a plate for you?”
    “No, thanks. I’ll grab something at Jack’s Fish House.”
    Nate was anxious to see what Morgan was proposing. He’d spent all day Sunday, Monday, and early Tuesday morning putting shingles on the roof of the barn. It’d taken him five months to put up the framework, including the roof and all-around overhangs, the exterior and interior walls, and the floors, windows, and doors. The structure could’ve been completed in under a month if he’d hired a crew to assist him. But for Nate it was a test of endurance. He’d used every waking hour for the project, dividing his time between working with his father in the one-room cabin that had served as the workshop for Shaw Woodworking for nearly a century and working on the barn site itself.
    He got into his truck, started the engine, and headed for Sanctuary Cove. The paved road connecting Angels Landing to Sanctuary Cove cut down on the travel time. Cavanaugh Island had changed slightly during his absence, only adding to the island’s charm.
    The Creek had Happy Hour, a club catering to the under-forty crowd. It was the only bar on the island. Then there was Panini Café, another gathering spot in the Creek for the younger crowd. Both establishments were popular with local and mainland residents. Nate maneuvered slowly along the two-lane road lined on both sides with towering pine trees. He barely glanced at the sign indicating the number of miles to Angels Landing and Sanctuary Cove.
    Angels Landing appeared to have been caught in suspended animation. Totally residential, it nevertheless had no new homes or subdivisions. There were the “haves,” who lived in scaled-down replicas of antebellum mansions, and the “have-nots,” who lived in one-story structures built on pilings off the ground. Many of these houses were in need of a fresh coat of paint as well as new windows and screens. He chuckled softly. The years he’d spent working for a West Coast developer had perfected his observational skills. He could now apply what he’d learned to his hometown.
    The paved road wound through a swampland where few had ventured in the past because of quicksand, alligators, and poisonous reptiles. His gaze followed the flight of a pair of snow-white egrets who had been perched on a fallen branch resting in the murky water.
    Fifteen minutes later he entered the town limits of Sanctuary Cove. Having been accustomed to speeding on California freeways, Nate had to reprogram his brain to drive less than twenty miles per hour. There were no streetlights, except in the Cove and Creek business districts, no posted speed limits, and no stop signs on the island.
    Nate decelerated, maneuvering through the downtown. He’d become a sightseer: He passed Jack’s Fish House, then the town square, where groups of teenagers used to gather around the fountain and the marble statue of patriot militiaman General Francis Marion atop a stallion. He stared at the Cove Inn, the town’s boardinghouse. It, too, needed a fresh coat of white paint. It suddenly hit him as if he’d been jolted by electricity. This was the first time he’d been to the Cove since his return. Jesse had accused him of hiding, Bryce had asked him if he knew how to have fun, and Morgan had talked about him not getting out enough. It was apparent they were right, because he felt more like a tourist than a native.
    Since his return, his routine was always the same: up at sunrise, retire to bed at midnight, which left him with little or no time for himself. And if he didn’t share Sunday dinner with his family or go to the lumberyard on the mainland, Nate would’ve lived a monastic existence. He