The Captain's Secret Harbor Isn't Home

The delivery address read "Tidewater Apartments, Building 17, Unit 1203."

Below that, there was a note. "Must be signed for in person. Do not release to family members."

I stared at that last line for a long time.

"Do not release to family members."

Emery Harlow and I had been married for six years. Every time she left for sea, she'd leave her keys in the second drawer by the front door.

"Corbin, the house is yours while I'm gone," she'd say.

I looked after her parents, handled her annual inspection paperwork, and sent group updates to the crew members' families on her behalf. I'd always assumed I was family. But on her shipping manifest, family had meant the person who wasn't allowed to touch that set of accessories.

My phone buzzed on the table with a message from Emery.

"Just passed through the strait. Signal's spotty."

I typed back one word.

"OK."

She probably wasn't expecting something that short, because two minutes later, another message came through.

"How come you didn't ask if I've eaten?"

I closed the voyage ledger.

"Have you eaten?"

Her reply came fast.

"Yes."

I looked at the screen and let out a small laugh. For someone with a spotty signal, that reply came through just fine.

The next morning, I went to Tidewater Apartments. It was the most expensive oceanview complex in Seavale, only a ten-minute drive from the docks. The security guard asked who I was there to see, and I showed him the supply manifest on my phone.

"Building 17, Unit 1203. Package verification."

The guard glanced at the note, and his attitude shifted immediately. "One moment, please. Mr. Ford in 1203 happens to be home."

Mr. Ford. I filed that name away.

Emery's video call came through while the elevator was still going up, and I didn't answer. She called three more times before the fourth attempt came as a text.

"Where are you?"

"Grocery shopping," I replied.

She wrote back, "Don't go running around. I'm not home, and there's a lot you can't handle on your own."

The elevator doors opened, and so did the door to Unit 1203. The man standing there wore a silk lounging set, and on his wrist was the wave-patterned watch. He saw me and ran his fingers along the strap.

"And you are?"

"Corbin Wilder," I said.

The smile on his face froze for a beat before he recovered. "Ah, Mr. Wilder."

The way he said it carried no guilt and no courtesy.

Noah Ford invited me inside. The living room had a few open delivery boxes scattered around, and artisan wrapping paper from Beauhaven was still sitting on the coffee table. I saw the cufflinks, the tie clip, and a small card in Emery's handwriting.

"Waves belong on someone who understands the sea."

The year we got married, Emery gave me a nautical watch. The strap was stiff, and it chafed after wearing it too long.

"A captain's husband should own something from the ship," she'd said.

I wore it for six years. Then she went and gave someone else the ocean waves, telling him he was the one who understood the sea.

Noah poured me a glass of water. "Are you here to pick something up, Mr. Wilder?"

I didn't touch the glass. "Emery bought something for me, and it got shipped here."

He laughed. "Mr. Wilder, that's a question for her. The delivery address tells you who something belongs to, doesn't it?"

"It does," I said.

I took out my phone and aimed it at the card on the coffee table, but Noah reached out to block it.

"That's not a good look."

I looked up at him. "And accepting expensive accessories from a married woman is?"

His expression went cold. "Emmy told you, didn't she? She and I go back further than you do."

I nodded. "So, you've been waiting in line for six years. That's dedication."