Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

KRIS

“This meeting of the Lifeboat, Maine, chapter of the international KELPS organization is now closed.” Pete banged his gavel on the table three times. “Make sure to stick around for coffee and cookies.”

The rest of the assembled members, all eight of us, stood, some more slowly than others, while others ambled toward the snack table. I started folding the chairs and stacking them against the small stage in the community center’s multipurpose room. Since our meetings were open to any and all members of the community, Pete always insisted on setting up twenty chairs, even if we’d never had more than ten members since I started attending the KELPS meetings when I was in my late teens.

“Thanks for agreeing to go to the local businesses and hang up flyers for our holiday shindig.” George had wandered over, a cup of coffee in one hand while the other gripped the handle of his cane.

“My pleasure.” As the youngest member of the chapter by a solid forty years, I tended to take on the more physical tasks like setting up and taking down chairs and tables and posting flyers for our meetings and events all around town. It’s not that the other guys couldn’t do it. They could, but it made me happy to help out. Plus, it kept me from fretting about one of them getting hurt. Honestly, I was more worried one of the older men I counted as my closest friends would slip and fall on a patch of ice this time of year than any of them were, so I was glad to help stack chairs and set up tables if only because it gave me one less thing to worry about when it came to them. Besides, they liked to sit around gossiping, drinking coffee, and eating whatever Marvin’s wife, Clara, had baked until all that was left in the industrial coffee pot were the dregs. In my opinion, they’d earned it. Almost all of them had been career commercial fishermen, and that kind of life isn’t easy. It took a toll on the body and relationships, and it made me smile to know they were making up for lost time in retirement.

George patted my arm in a grandfatherly way. “You’re a good kid, Kris.” I watched carefully as he made his way back toward where everyone else had settled around the large round table we congregated at after our official KELPS business was done.

I just nodded and stacked two more chairs against the stage.

“Hey, Kris.” Stan waved from where he was standing by the meeting room door. “Lainey just dropped off the flyers. That’ll save you a trip to the printer.” Stan’s granddaughter, Lainey, was a senior in high school and worked part-time at the local print and copy center. She wanted to go into graphic design, so we let her practice on our chapter logo, website, and any promotional material we needed. She was already epically talented, and I hoped when she went off to college, no doubt in some big city far away from our tiny town in Maine, that she’d still manage our social media. If not, I’d have to be the one to do it, and I had a hard enough time managing my own.

I put away the last couple chairs I’d set up for the meeting area and joined everyone else at the table where Stan had opened the box and passed flyers around for everyone to look at.

“That Lainey’s got real skill.” Joe tapped a finger against the flyer in front of him. “This looks great.”

“Yeah, a flyer like this is definitely going to entice people to come.” Abe nodded to himself. “I bet we get three new members.”

I bit back a smile. The flyer was really nice, very professionally done, and printed on festive red paper, but our organization, the Kraken Enthusiast and Lore Protection Society, was a bit…niche. Not to put too fine a point on it, but there weren’t too many people interested in discussing local kraken sightings—of which there hadn’t been a confirmed sighting in Lifeboat, Maine, since the mid-eighteen hundreds—international folklore surrounding the kraken—of which there was a ridiculous amount—or squabbling over whether the mighty kraken was more octopus or squidlike in body type—of which we would never be able to agree on an answer. Oh, and there were even fewer people keen on giving up two Saturdays a month to devote to these noble pursuits. On the first Saturday of the month, we met for kraken watching or to review archival information about the history of kraken sightings along the eastern seaboard, while the third Saturday of the month was reserved for our monthly meeting where we planned our next outing and handled any chapter business.

As though he’d read my mind, Pete spoke up. “I’d be happy if we got one new member. Our chapter is the smallest of the five international chapters. Even one new member would prove our reach is growing.”

There were murmurs of assent around the table. Stan collected the flyers he’d passed around and put them back into the box and slid it across the table to me.

“You sure you have time for this?” Abe asked, looking at me over the top of his gold wire-rimmed glasses. “Things are ’bout to get real busy for you up at the farm.”

I rolled my eyes and lowered into a chair. “Don’t remind me.”

“Aw, c’mon, Kris. The holidays are a wonderful time of year.”

At the risk of sounding whiny, which wasn’t a good look on anyone, I said, “You say that, and it’s probably true for anyone not named Kris Kringle from a family of Christmas obsessed Kringles who own a Christmas tree farm and Santa’s workshop immersive experience.”

A chorus of sympathetic ohs followed my mini rant.

“The kids love the workshop. It was my kids’ favorite thing to do during the holidays.” Bill smiled fondly at the memories. “Can’t wait to take the grandkids this year.”

Several of the other guys offered similar sentiments.

While I understood people got all warm and gooey during the holidays, I didn’t. And with a name like Kris Kringle from the aforementioned Santa’s workshop and tree farm Kringle family, it probably meant I was missing a crucial Christmas-loving gene, but the holiday did nothing for me. Maybe it was because Christmas was my family’s business and their obsession, but I was missing the marshmallow center that made the holidays feel special.

While my family lived for the holidays, the things that made my heart race were maritime history and nautical cartography. I taught online classes in both subjects as well as several specialty topics in history, including a course on nautical folklore, for several universities around the country. My interest in all things nautical was piqued when I was in high school and started working on Marvin’s fishing boat over the summer. I’d loved the open water and the work and the fish tales, which is how I found myself becoming a card-carrying member of KELPS.

“They’re opening the workshop the Saturday after Thanksgiving this year.” I choked down the sigh that threatened to escape.

“That’s early. I’ll tell Louisa so she can make the reservations.” Bill slid his readers off his forehead and pulled his phone out of his pocket to send a text to his wife.

Abe, Stan, and Pete all did more or less the same.

“Shame my kids are too far away. I’d love to take them just for the nostalgia.” George looked down at his phone’s lock screen where a picture of his grown children lit up the device.

“Are they going to be in town for the holidays at all this year?” Pete asked.

Conversation turned to everyone’s plans for Thanksgiving next week, and I tuned out the conversation. I was on break from the university for the week, but I hadn’t shared that tidbit with my parents. I really didn’t want to get roped into all the preseason prep beyond what I was already responsible for when it came to the tree farm. And I would be pulled in to help, whether I wanted to be or not, on Thanksgiving day.

The Kringle family Thanksgiving dinner had been the same for as long as I could remember. Up at the literal ass crack of dawn to tend to the trees, then breakfast and maybe a total of ten minutes spent watching the Macy’s parade, then right out to the workshop to put together workshop kits for the kids and to transform the old barn from my mom’s offseason wine and paint studio into a slice of the North Pole. At some point, we’d order food from Mizu Mizu, the Asian fusion restaurant in town that was the only restaurant open on the holiday, and eventually, usually around midnight when I’d gotten too surly for them to stand, they’d unlock the iron shackles and let me go home.

But my shackles weren’t actually iron. The weight of family expectations and obligations just made them feel that way, which was why, even though I loathed the holidays, I still showed up and still, mostly, did what I was told, even if I wasn’t happy about it.

Well, that and the fact that my mom and siblings would drag me out of bed—literally—if I tried to skip out. Tried it once. Won’t make that mistake again.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, inwardly groaning when I saw it was a new message in the Kringle family group chat.

Mom: Holiday planning meeting tomorrow at 2. I’ve already made the eggnog!

I rolled my eyes and stuffed my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the persistent buzzing as my siblings responded, no doubt excited to kick off the season.

For me, it was too early for eggnog and holiday cheer. They could forcibly drag me from bed on Thanksgiving, but until then, I was content to keep my holiday cheer meter firmly locked in the off position.

I tuned back into the conversation between the KELPS members just in time to hear them mention something that finally grabbed my attention.

“Hey, Pete, what did you just say?” Eight pairs of eyes swung my way.

“You haven’t heard?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Abe leaned forward. “Some young guy bought the old Ferguson Hardware building on Main.”

The building had been empty for the last year after the Fergusons had moved to a larger location on the edge of town. Ever since, there had been a lot of speculation about what would happen to the prominent storefront.

More interesting was the fact that someone new had moved to town.

“What’s he doing with the store?”

Glances and shrugs were exchanged around the table.

“I’m not sure.” Joe looked at Tom, who owned the pet store across the street from the old hardware store. “Do you know?”

Tom shook his head. “Not sure, but a big ole truck showed up on Tuesday. Took them half the day to unload. The young man is mighty handsome, I will say that.” Tom looked straight at me as he dropped that grenade into the conversation. “Tall, light brown hair, around your age or so. Reminds me a little of my Paul when he was young.”

Marvin patted Tom’s arm. Tom’s husband, Paul, had passed away three years ago. He’d been the one to bake us treats for our Saturday meetings. We all missed him, his warm welcoming personality, and his cherry strudel. Clara’s was good, but it just wasn’t the same.

Again, every face in the multipurpose room turned my way, making me feel like a bug under a microscope. I knew exactly what they were all thinking, and I hated it. At one point or another they had each tried to hook me up with every man-loving man in their family tree, and it hadn’t worked out well the two times I’d let them meddle.

But Tom never said anyone was as handsome as his late husband, and the comparison made me a little curious, though I tried not to let it show on my face. With this group, given an inch, they’d take a mile, and I knew better.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shook my head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“But, Kris—” Stan started, and I held up a hand.

“No. No matchmaking.” I met every gaze around the table. “You are all worse than my aunt Karen, but at least she stopped bugging me about settling down years ago.”

Pete smirked. “Who said a damn thing about settling down?”

“Yeah. A little holiday fling to get you in the spirit is all you need.” Abe winked.

“Hard pass. I do not need a fling to get me in the spirit of anything.”

A chorus of dissenting noises echoed around the table.

“And on that discordant note, I think it’s time I get going.” I picked up the box of flyers from the table and stood.

“You let us know if you change your mind.” Joe smiled warmly.

“I will, but I can assure you I won’t.”

They grumbled good-naturedly as I shrugged into my jacket and tossed my scarf around my neck, and by the time I walked out the door, the conversation had veered from my love life to other town gossip.

Even though I wasn’t interested in letting the KELPS members meddle, I couldn’t deny my interest was a little piqued. A new person my age in town? Of all the places in the world, why would they choose Lifeboat?

There was only one way to find out.

And since I had a box of flyers to hang around town, I had a handy excuse to pop in to meet the new business owner.

Might as well make the old hardware store my first stop.

When I pulled up in town, I understood why the guys had been so fascinated by the newcomer, whoever he was. A new sign had replaced the old Ferguson Hardware sign, and it stood out, a bold beacon on a street where most of the storefront signs were the same style, blending one into the next. A cartoon kraken had its tentacles wrapped around a vinyl record that said Kraken Vinyl in blocky, bright blue letters. A new coat of paint the same shade of electric blue had been applied to the facade of the building and through the plate glass windows, I could see rows of shelves half full with records.

To say I was intrigued was an understatement, and as I pushed through the door, a bell tinkling as I stepped into the space, an odd sense that my life was about to change thrummed in my chest.