One anxious seafood empire heir. One nosy journalist. A very merry fish-mess. This Christmas, the catch of the day… is love.

Chapter 1: Ben

It’s the overwhelming stench of fish that hits you first. But it’s not just the fish; it’s the salt, the damp, the sour thaw-freeze-thaw stink that suffuses the planks of a working dock in winter. To Benjamin Whitaker III, it’s the smell of work done right. Today he’s trying to ignore the subtle afternote of ‘Oh dear lord, I’m absolutely going to screw this up,’ that comes with it.

The sun has barely risen over the bay, but the Whitaker Seafood plant is already in full swing and line workers are elbow deep in bins processing the morning’s catch. Ben, meanwhile, is trying not to chew through his pen cap as he reviews the status of last week’s issues. Water thermocouple? Repaired. Market Basket packaging redesign? Rolled out. Imminent nervous breakdown? Penciled in for Thursday, but he’s open to a reschedule.

Ben fiddles with the ratchet knob on his hardhat like it’s a fidget toy for emotionally repressed adults. It just makes his tension headache feel more official. He’s wearing the boss’ hat this week, and it’s his job to keep things humming until his dad gets back. He sets out onto the production floor, trying to project confidence but mostly just side-stepping errant fish guts.

At the cutting station, Lou Anello, built like a walk-in freezer and just as cool, makes it look easy. He’s slicing up bluefin with huge weathered hands that probably haven’t misaimed a knife since the early ‘00s. Ben tried the job one summer in high school and nearly lost a finger when the blade slipped.

Lou glances up and grins. “Mornin’, Ben.”

“Morning, Lou.” Ben tugs at his collar, the dress shirt stiff against his neck. He’d trade the whole outfit for his old rubber boots and apron back in a heartbeat. Back then, a mistake meant a mess on the floor. Now, if he slips, just once, he might take the town’s whole economy down with him.

“You’re out here early,” Lou observes. “What’s the occasion, recruiting for next year’s charity calendar? I’m in, but this time I’m Mr. July or I walk.”

“We’ll see.” Ben glances at his watch even though he knows exactly what time it is, a new nervous habit that buys him three whole seconds of fabricated control. “Just down here checking that we’re on track. MassDEP audit’s next week, and you know how environmental inspectors get.”

Lou snorts. “Yeah, seagulls in steel-toe boots. Don’t even land fully. Just hover long enough to shit all over everything.”

Ben presses his lips into a line, scanning the floor. A crooked label here, a container not quite sealed there and the whole thing can fall apart. He’s seen places closed for weeks over smaller infractions. No way he’s letting Whitaker Seafood be next.

“Take a breath, kid,” Lou chuckles. “Everything’s running slicker than a buttered eel down here. And from what I hear, you’ve got your end handled upstairs too.”

It sounds good out loud, sure. But part of him wonders if it’s just verbal bubble wrap, kind words to keep the boss’ kid from cracking. He has never been able to shake the feeling that everyone is waiting for him to snap under the weight of his own last name. 

Ben feels a flush creeping up his ears. “Sure, Lou.”

“Not just blowing smoke.” Lou sets his knife down. “You got your boots wet early, you keep your eyes open, and you’re here more than any of us. That matters.”

Ben’s nod is half acknowledgment, half self-consciousness. He’s putting in hours, sure, but is he actually being effective? He’s read studies on leadership styles; maybe he’s more of a ‘participative leader’ than an ‘authoritative’ one, and maybe that’s not translating into results.

Lou grabs another bluefin, slapping it onto the tray with a wet thud. “Anyways, it’s not all on your shoulders. Don’t work yourself into an ulcer. Been there, done that, and let me tell you, it’s not the badge of honor you think it is.”

Ben lets out a soft laugh despite himself. “I’ll do my best.”

“Glad to hear it,” Lou says, flashing a toothy smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a patriotic speedo and a tanning lamp for my calendar shoot.”

Ben laughs for real, short, but genuine, and continues down the line. Sure enough, everything looks fine until he reaches the loading docks. There, the high-pitched beep of reversing forklifts sets his teeth on edge, and so does the sight of Tom McKenna, the Logistics manager, bearing down on him.

“Morning, boss,” Tom says in a tone dryer than an unwatered Christmas tree two weeks past New Years. He thrusts a sheaf of manifests at Ben. “Here. Sign.”

Ben scans the documents a little too long for Tom’s liking; the man sighs, pointedly. “Trucks are waiting.”

“Uh, this waste disposal volume…” Ben taps a line with his pen, frowning. “Are we sure this is all from the weekend? It seems… high?”

Tom gives a short laugh, more an exhalation than an engagement of his vocal cords. “Funny thing about numbers, they all go up when we’re slammed. More production, more scraps. Simple math. Or did they skip that at your fancy college?”

Heat floods Ben’s cheeks. “I just think we should double-check—”

Tom cuts him off with a dismissive scoff. “Yeah, okay, let me drop everything and re-check it all. After fifteen years, I definitely have no clue how these things work. I’m sure it will be a great use of everyone’s Monday morning.”

Ben’s pen wavers over the dotted line. “Or,” Tom adds, pretending like it’s helpful, “You could always give your dad a ring. See what he thinks.” 

Ben’s already signing. He hands the clipboard back, his name a scratchy surrender. “There. All set.”

Tom barely gives the sheets a glance before moving off, barking at a group of workers unloading a truck, “You’re slower than the frickin’ Bruins’ defense last night! Pick up the pace!”

Ben stares after Tom, mouth half-open, working through imaginary retorts he’ll never use. What’s he supposed to say? “Excuse me, sir, your dismissive and aggressive tone is contributing to a damaging work environment that undermines my sense of self-worth?” Not likely.

He adjusts his tie, pastes on something that might pass as a smile, and heads for the office. He doesn’t make it far. Three steps, maybe four, before his phone buzzes. A message from his father: Remember, perfection is the standard.

Ben rolls his eyes even as his stomach twists. Another classic pep talk from Dear Old Dad. It feels like a bucket of ice water dumped straight down his collar. Fantastic. No pressure at all.

Chapter 2: Jackson

The Twisted Anchor Diner does three things better than anywhere else in Silver Shoals: brew coffee that tastes like jet fuel, fry eggs until they shimmer, and deliver hot, small-town drama with every scorched refill. 

Tinsel sags from the pie display like it’s already tired of December. Jackson James leans into his usual window seat, laptop balanced on the Formica, page open and cursor blinking. Mostly white space. He scowls at the word count, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. How the hell does Mort expect him to wring three columns out of Silver Shoal’s annual tree-lighting ceremony? It’s inhumane, frankly.

Just as he considers turning the piece into an obituary for the last of his journalistic ambition, a shadow falls over his screen.

“Need a warm-up?” comes a voice so chipper it should be illegal before 9:00 am. A sneaker chirps against the linoleum.

Jackson doesn’t glance up. No need to. “If another sip of that sludge sneaks past my lips, you will have a legal responsibility for my poisoning.”

“Say that again and you’re drinking dishwater,” Billy threatens cheerfully, apron clinging to his broad frame like it’s in love, the grease spatters suggesting a Jackson Pollock who worked exclusively with breakfast food. He tops off Jackson’s mug before dropping into the booth, ready to stir the pot, literal and otherwise.

If there were an Olympic contest for bad romantic decision-making, Jackson figures that particular fling would’ve earned him the gold. He’s not proud, but he is honest: the sex was decent even if the judgment was poor. Billy’s endless enthusiasm seemed sweet enough when Jackson first moved to Silver Shoals. He’d been comforting, uncomplicated, a little dim. At a time when Jackson needed easy, Billy had delivered.

But that shine faded fast once Jackson realized Billy didn’t have an “off” switch. Or an indoor voice. Or a bedframe. Besides, Jackson hadn’t been looking to get attached, to anyone or anything. Silver Shoals had been an emergency landing pad, not a life plan. Commitment? Not on the menu.

Still, somehow, against logic, against odds, he and Billy had stayed friends.

“Tell me what you actually came over here to talk about, Billy. But if it’s another Pukwudgie sighting,” Jackson says, tapping out a line about the town’s ‘beloved holiday traditions’ that he already wants to delete, “I’m not interested.”

“‘The truth is out there,’” Billy says, waggling his eyebrows. “Aren’t journalists supposed to be curious?”

“I don’t do curiosity before coffee.” Jackson takes a cautious sip from his mug. Immediate regret. “And this swill doesn’t qualify.”

“Alright, we get it, you don’t like the coffee.” Billy bounces in his seat so hard the vinyl squeaks. “How about some piping hot tea instead?”

Jackson tilts his laptop screen down a fraction of an inch. “Fine, I’ll bite. What’ve you got for me this time?”

Billy leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the fish.”

“Fish?” Jackson lifts an eyebrow. “Not exactly seeing the Pulitzer here.”

Undeterred, Billy continues, “Out by Scrimshaw Cove. A couple of my regulars say something’s wrong with them. Some are just floating up in pieces. Some are all bloated. And there’s this smell just coming off the water. All the fishermen from out that way are talking about it.”

Jackson feigns nonchalance, but his reporter instincts kick in. Silver Shoals’ booming fishing industry doesn’t just prop up half the local economy, it also sends a steady supply of seafood down the entire eastern seaboard. If something happened to interrupt that flow, it might graduate to national news. 

It’s the kind of headline that could rattle the hinges on the door you locked your ambition behind when you swore you were done with the chase. The instinct to follow the thread and see where it frays hums beneath Jackson’s skin.

Billy knows him well enough to see it written across his face. “But, hey, if you’re not up for it, maybe I’ll take it to that new vlogger in town. What was his name? Chad? Chaz?”

“First of all, it’s Chase, as in his handle @chase_the_truth_02,” Jackson corrects disdainfully. “And second, please do. I’d love to see his hard-hitting exposé on bad tuna. Maybe he’ll film a whole TikTok series about it. He’ll go crazy for a job he can do from the beach.”

“You’re impossible, you know that?” Billy says, more fond than frustrated.

“That’s my brand.”

“Look, all I’m saying is I think there’s a story there,” Billy insists.

Jackson eyes him over the rim of his mug. Billy does seem unusually serious about this, or at least as serious as Billy ever gets. “Fine. I’ll take a look. If only to prevent Chase from going viral again with one of his shirtless investigative dance routines.”

“There he is!” Billy gives the table a celebratory whack, sending the salt shaker into a nervous little hop. “Knew you still had the fire in your belly somewhere.”

“Is that what that is? I was positive it was from the food here.” He pauses, and tries a little sincerity. “But sure, I’ll poke around a little.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Billy snags Jackson’s notepad and scribbles something down. “You want the captain. His boat’s docked just over there at the marina.” He stands, smoothing his apron. “Catch you later, JJ. Sorry about the coffee, but I know you come here to see moi anyways.”

Jackson watches Billy swan off toward the blue-haired breakfast brigade.

Then it’s laptop closed, bag zipped, money down.

The old itch is back. He doesn’t know if he’s chasing a lead or just chasing the feeling of wanting something to matter again. But at least, for the next few days, he’s got a reason to put off writing about seasonal pie recipes. That alone feels like a minor Christmas miracle.