The Mighty Quinns: Ronan. Kate Hoffmann

      The old man considered the question for a long moment as he prepared the malt. “Can’t say that I do.”

      “I’m also looking for a job,” Ronan said.

      “There’s a board over at the visitors center,” he said. “There’s always someone looking for help. They’ll help you find a room, too, if you ask Maxine. She’s usually behind the desk.”

      He placed the malt in front of Ronan. The old fountain glass was filled to the brim, then topped with whipped cream and a cherry. “That’ll be three-ninety-five,” he said.

      Ronan pulled out his wallet and laid a five on the counter. “Keep the change,” he said.

      Ronan lingered over the malt, watching as customers came and went, getting a feel for the locals. Everyone in town seemed pretty friendly. There was a certain civility in their manner that he’d never seen in big city residents. Maybe it was because they all knew each other that they went out of their way to greet each other with a friendly hello or a short conversation.

      When he finished his malt, Ronan grabbed his duffel and headed out to the visitor’s center. The converted railroad station was home to the local merchant’s association as well as the tourist office. He went to the job board and scanned the opportunities. There were jobs in restaurants and motels, a job at the local library and one at the marina.

      A job at a local oyster farm caught his eye. He glanced around, then pulled the card from the board and tucked it in his pocket. He loved oysters and farming meant that he’d be spending his time outdoors. He couldn’t think of a better combination.

      Ronan walked over to the hospitality counter and gave the elderly woman sitting behind it a quick smile. “Are you Maxine?”

      She nodded. “I am.”

      “I’m looking for a room. I’m going to be in town for six weeks. It needs to be cheap. I don’t have a lot of money.”

      “We have a couple of boarding houses in town,” she said. “And Isiah Crawford rents out a few of his motel rooms on a monthly basis. Let me try Mrs. Morey first.”

      The woman dialed a number. “Hello, Elvira. It’s Maxine down at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man down here looking for a room. Do you have anything available?” She paused. “Wonderful. How much?” She scribbled something on her pad, then glanced up at Ronan. “What’s your name?”

      “Ronan Quinn?”

      Maxine’s eyes went wide for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “Yes, Elvira, you heard that right. Well, I’m sure he’ll understand. If you forgot, you forgot.”

      Maxine hung up the phone and smiled apologetically. “It seems that she doesn’t have a room after all. Some big group coming in.”

      “Could you try the other boarding house?” he asked.

      “I—I don’t think Tillie has anything available either. I just saw her at church this morning and she—she would have mentioned it. Maybe you could try across the river in Newcastle?”

      Ronan had the distinct impression that he was getting the runaround. Why were these people suddenly unwilling to rent to him? “Maybe you could try the motel?”

      With a reluctant smile, she dialed the phone. “Hi there, Josiah. It’s Maxine over at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man here named Ronan Quinn and he’s looking for a—yes, that’s what I said. He’s looking for a room. Well, that’s a shame. All right. You, too, Josiah.”

      She hung up the phone again and shrugged. “He doesn’t have any vacancies either. Newcastle really is your best option. It’s just over the bridge.”

      “I need to stay here, in Sibleyville,” he said. Ronan picked up his duffel bag. “Never mind, I’ll find a place on my own.”

      Maxine forced a smile. “Can I offer you a bit of advice? Don’t give them your name. In fact, use a different name entirely. But don’t dare tell anyone I gave you this advice. Run along now.”

      With a soft curse, Ronan walked outside, keeping his temper in check. What the hell was going on here? Did the town have something against the Irish? Or was it just because he was a single guy? From what he could tell, the town thrived on tourism so it didn’t make sense they’d turn anyone away. If he’d thought Sibleyville looked like a friendly place at first glance, he’d been sadly mistaken.

      He looked down at the card he held. Mistry Bay Oyster Farm. Contact Charlie Sibley. Would a potential employer feel the same? Especially one named after this very village? For now, he’d keep his name to himself until he knew for sure.

      “Maybe living a different life is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he muttered.

      “YOU NEED TO scrape harder than that,” Charlotte Sibley said, running her hand over the rough hull of the skiff. “All this old paint has to come off. If you paint on top of it, it won’t stick.”

      Her fourteen-year-old brother, Garrett, looked up from the task she’d given him and rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”

      “Of course you do. You’re just not doing a very good job of it. You’ve been bugging Dad to let you work the boats on your own but you’re not willing to put in the effort that comes with it.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, princess, put some muscle into it. We’re going to need that skiff this season.”

      “Who made you the boss of me? You’re not the boss of me, Charlie. Dad is.”

      “And if you haven’t noticed, Einstein, Dad is laid up with a bad back. His doctor says he can’t work for at least a month or two. He made me the boss of things, so that makes me the boss of you, too.”

      Garrett muttered something beneath his breath and went back to work. Charlotte smiled to herself. Now that she’d been put in charge of the Mistry Bay oyster farm, it had been a bit of a rocky ascension from worker to boss. Charlie knew the business from top to bottom, after working it for years with her family. And six years away hadn’t been long enough to forget the ropes. But being in charge meant that she’d had to rein in the members of the Sibley clan who preferred malingering to hard work.

      A knock sounded on the door of the boathouse and Charlotte strode over to the door. She’d been expecting a visit from an up and coming chef from Boston who was visiting the area. Chef Joel Bellingham had already made a name for himself in Boston with one highly rated restaurant and would soon be opening a second—a seafood place that might feature Mistry Bay oysters.

      She yanked the door open, but her greeting died in her throat as she came face-to-face with an impossibly handsome man, not much older than she was. He watched her with pale blue eyes, as she tried to regain her breath, his gaze holding hers. Charlie swallowed hard, then cleared her throat. “Hello! Come on in. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” She’d met Bellingham over the phone earlier that morning and had somehow gotten the impression he was much older. This guy could be thirty, tops.

      “There was a sign above the door,” he said, glancing around.

      They stood there for an uncomfortable moment before Charlie could shake herself into action. “How was your trip?” she asked. “The traffic on Highway 1 can be really bad on the weekends.”

      “It was fine.”

      He was a man of few words. Charlie felt a stab of disappointment. He obviously wasn’t interested in chatting with her. And usually she was so good with customers. But this guy, though stunningly handsome, didn’t have much of a personality. “Let me show you around.”

      The waterfront building served multiple purposes for the family business. Charlie pointed out the shop area where they repaired equipment and boat engines. Housed in the other half of the lower floor was the shipping area, where workers cleaned and sorted oysters before they were boxed to be sent all over the east coast and beyond. As Charlie rattled off her talking