Ann stood at the barroom door, her nose twitching at the smell of testosterone – like hot buttery sweat – mixed in with that of old wood, stale beer and sweet whiskey.  Half a dozen men sat on bar stools cheering to a televised football game. Though they faced away, she could tell these guys weren't tourists. Their clothing – wool shirts, jeans, boat shoes – were too seasoned, too much the color of the island in October. Her late fiancé’s words came to mind: stout-hearted men, salt of the sea.

A vague unease snuck along her chest wall because you never knew what you were in for with a crowd like this, but what the hell, she was here and looking forward to a drink. She stepped under fish nets sagging from the low ceiling and scanned the wall hangings – boat wheels, anchors, starfish – when her gaze fastened on the photograph of a schooner. Enveloped in light fog, its sails furled, it drew her to it. She squinted at the gold plaque fastened to the frame. THE GHOST SHIP OF DIAMOND SHOAL.  Below the photograph, snug against the wall, a small table had been shoved and flanked by two captain's chairs. She had a choice, choose the chair looking away from the men or the one facing them. No choice really. It would be a serious snub to come into their bar and turn her back. She settled into the wooden chair and let her eyes rove the place A sudden stream of cool air drifted across her shoulders, and she glanced up and smiled at the notion that the ship … No, photographs don’t cause drafts my imagination does.

She really needed that drink, and where was a waiter or the bartender? No one tended the taps, and, as yet, the men hadn't noticed her. She could move.  Or leave.

In the next instant, a roar went up.  Touchdown!  Fists pumped the air.  She looked at the ship.  It was just a picture. She let a smile blossom and thought how Boyd would have loved this place.  How that man loved the sea and football. At the merest excuse, he'd shed his expensive suit and don his captain's hat or a football jersey. She twisted the diamond on her finger and considered that coming in here had been a mistake. Too soon, too many memories. She pushed back to leave, but at the same time a commercial broke into the football game, and the men reached for their beer bottles.

A ruddy-faced man glanced over his shoulder, rounded his bar stool and saluted her with his bottle. Another man glanced back – and another. Their faces – old and young – were weathered and genial, altogether welcoming. Except for one man. He sat at the far end, hands wrapped around his bottle, head down.

The bartender came through a door at the side of the bar. He called to her, "Welcome, Miss. Sorry for the delay. I'm MacGregor. Something to drink, perhaps?" His Scottish brogue was unexpected and charming.

Yet she became conscious of how on edge she was. "Gin and tonic, please."

"A nice Beefeater's," the bar man said, "coming right up."

The men turned back to the television, and she leaned back and shifted her mass of blonde hair, twisting long strands around a finger. She looked up at the ship and thought how beautiful it was, and how it waited for something to happen. Like me.

MacGregor came with her drink and flourished a half sheet of paper. "How about something to eat after the long drive down our blustery isle?"

She hadn't considered food, although she hadn't eaten since the fruit salad on the flight to Norfolk. Examining the three-item menu, she said, "The chowder."

The man with the ruddy face swung his barstool toward her. "Good choice, Miss."

"Thanks," she said, liking his white smile.

"Mrs. MacGregor makes it fresh every month."

A punch line was on the way, but she frowned for his benefit. "Every month?"

"Gotcha," the man said. "I'm Spence, by the way. Mrs. MacGregor stirs up a pot full of fish and shellfish in brine, and then she freezes it in batches. When a batch is heated just below the boiling point, she adds the cream. Best anywhere."

Squeezing lime into her drink, she said, "Wait until they hear about this in Boston."

"You're not from Boston," Spence said. "You're a Southern girl."

"Atlanta."

"Hotlanta. I get there at least once a year. Welcome to The Pub. What brings you here this time of year?"

"Vacation," she said. She tipped the drink into her mouth and savored the tang of juniper berry and lime.

"Maybe you didn't hear," he said, "we got kissed by a hurricane last week."

"I went through one driving down this afternoon."

"Just a little ol' squall. This time of year, you get one every forty-five minutes."

 "Must make life interesting,” she said, wondering how long this banter would go on.

"If you're out on the water, it's a lot more than interesting."

Without pause or thought, she said, "Surely y'all know better than to go out on a boat when a storm's coming."

She could almost hear the silent gasps coming from their gaping mouths. The men turned their stools toward the television as if they'd been choreographed for a Broadway show. Except for Spence. He looked at the man at the end of the bar, the one who had his head down. Until now. Without moving his body, the sullen man swiveled his head toward her in slow motion. She heard Spence say, "It's all right, Rod. No harm."

The man named Rod fixed her with a stare so blue it froze the muscles around her mouth. Under her sweater, her heart beat erratically. What could she possibly say? Sorry if I’ve upset you, even if I don’t know why? A thwack shattered the tension hovering heavy on the boozy air. Her body pitched back against a blow, and she looked toward the sound. MacGregor had butted through the kitchen door carrying a soup tureen. She thanked God and blew twenty pounds of pressure from her lungs.

He served the chowder, then said in a quiet, kind burr, "I'll be bringing you crackers, hot sauce, and vinegar. Anything else I can be bringing, Miss?"

"Another gin would be fine. Forget the tonic."

He grinned. "Pleased to."

The chowder was velvet on her tongue, and she wanted to tell Spence that he'd been right, but she could still feel the blue chill from the man called Rod and the disquiet of his companions. She found herself staring at Rod. Ramrod might have been his full name. His dark red hair curled from the hole in the back of his baseball cap, his shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, and every muscle looked tight enough to burst through his clothes. Then she caught Spence easing his bar stool sideways. He looked over his shoulder and winked.