Tides Where The Heart Meets

The ferry's horn blared, a low, mournful note that echoed across the harbor and rippled through Clara Hayes' chest. She stood on the deck, gripping the cold metal railing, her leather portfolio clutched tightly in her other hand. The salty air, crisp and damp, carried with it the faint aroma of seaweed and nostalgia. Bayshore, her childhood home, lay sprawled ahead, the quaint seaside town glowing under the soft morning sunlight. The sight was picturesque, almost idyllic, but Clara's stomach churned with unease.

The ferry rocked gently, its engines humming as it cut through the glimmering waves. Clara's eyes darted to the waterfront-a collection of colorful shingled buildings, weathered piers, and bobbing fishing boats. The centerpiece of the harbor, an aging wooden pier long past its prime, was the reason for her return. Her firm's project, a multimillion-dollar redevelopment, would transform it into a modern destination with sleek shops, trendy restaurants, and a sprawling promenade.

Clara pulled her wool coat tighter against the brisk breeze. She'd been avoiding this moment for months. When the assignment first landed on her desk, she'd tried to trade it with a colleague. Bayshore was a place she'd left behind-an anchor she had no intention of revisiting. But the project was too high-profile to refuse, and her boss had made it clear: if she wanted to climb the ladder at Preston & Mills, this was her chance.

"Heading to the harbor?" a voice broke through her thoughts.

Clara turned to see an older man standing a few feet away, a knit cap pulled low over his silver hair. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of a worn peacoat, and his weathered face bore the deep lines of someone who had spent a lifetime at sea.

"Something like that," Clara replied, forcing a polite smile.

The man nodded, his gaze drifting toward the shoreline. "Used to fish off that old pier when I was a boy. Shame they're tearing it down."

Her smile faltered. She wasn't ready to navigate the town's opinions, let alone justify the project to strangers. Instead, she glanced at her watch, hoping the conversation would end naturally.

The man seemed to sense her reluctance and gave her a small wave before turning away. Clara let out a slow breath and looked back at the horizon. Bayshore was close enough now that she could make out the faint lettering of a faded sign hanging from the pier: *Bayview Market*. The familiar sight tugged at her chest, stirring a mixture of guilt and longing.

The ferry docked with a soft thud, and the crew began to lower the ramp. Clara stepped back, allowing a group of tourists with cameras and oversized jackets to disembark first. She waited until the crowd thinned, her heels clicking against the deck as she made her way down to solid ground.

The town was just as she remembered-narrow cobblestone streets lined with mom-and-pop shops, ivy creeping up the walls of brick buildings, and locals chatting by the flower stalls at the market square. Clara inhaled deeply, letting the scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee momentarily calm her nerves.

Her destination wasn't far. The town's planning office was located in a historic building near the harbor, a place she used to visit with her father when she was young. He'd been a contractor, always poring over blueprints and muttering about measurements. Clara had inherited his meticulous nature, though not his love for small-town life.

When she reached the office, she paused to straighten her coat and smooth the flyaways from her dark hair. The heavy wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, and the warmth of the interior wrapped around her.

"Ms. Hayes, I presume?"

A sharp voice drew her attention to the reception desk, where a woman in her sixties sat typing on a vintage computer. Her gray hair was neatly pinned, and her glasses perched at the edge of her nose.

"Yes," Clara replied, stepping forward. "I'm here to meet with the planning committee."

The woman gave a curt nod and gestured toward a hallway. "Second door on the left. They're expecting you."

Clara muttered a quick thanks and headed down the hall. Her heels echoed against the polished wooden floors, a reminder of her city roots in a place where sneakers and boots were the norm.

Inside the meeting room, the committee members were seated around a long table covered in documents and maps. The tension was palpable the moment she walked in. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stood and extended his hand.

"Ms. Hayes, welcome. I'm Mayor Lucas Reid."