Romance on the Edge 01 - Hooked

the Savonskis’ extended family ever since.
    “I made the mistake of sharing family stories,” Sonya said. Sonya filled Wes in on their mother naming her and Peter after characters in the Russian fable “Peter and the Wolf.” Wes, who was always quick to laugh, didn’t disappoint.
    They reached the nest of cabins dotting the tundra. The main cabin housed their grandparents. Rustic and weathered, the cabin was completely shingled to help withstand the intense Bering Sea weather battering its walls all year long. It consisted of one room, a kitchen with a table and benches, and a built-in bed used for extra seating during the day and curtained off at night. A loft provided extra storage and sleeping quarters if necessary.
    The bunkhouse stood behind the main cabin along with the gear room and an outhouse. Running water was a luxury that had yet to manifest itself this far from the village of South Naknek.
    They dropped off the bags, and Wes and Peter returned to the beach to mend nets. Sonya decided it must be up to her to start dinner. She grabbed three mammoth cans of beef stew and opened them, dumping them into a pan, and lit the propane stove with a match. Then she set a box of saltines on the table. That was about as good as she could do without a microwave and a take out menu. Grams would take over cooking now, much to everyone’s relief.
    While the stew simmered, Sonya rang the come-and-get-it bell hanging from the eves on the small covered porch
    Peter was the first to traipse in. “Stew again?” he whined, wrinkling his nose.
    “You want something different, you volunteer to cook.” Sonya brought the pot of stew to the table, plunking it down on a hot pad.
    “Smells great,” Wes said, following behind Peter. They took their seats as Grams and Gramps entered.
    “That climb gets steeper every year.” Grams pressed a hanky to her forehead. “It’s good exercise for my legs.”
    “And mighty fine legs they are, Maggie May,” Gramps said with a grin. He turned to Sonya. “After dinner, I want a tour of that new boat of yours. I figured that’s her out there anchored off shore.”
    “Yeah, that’s her.” Sonya scooped a bite of stew and felt a shiver of uncertainty. Last summer, Gramps had turned the fishing operation over to her, stating it was about time for a younger generation to step up.
    Boy, had she stepped up.
    She just hoped that step didn’t send them all tumbling. She’d sunk what money they had into buying the boat and drift permit, and mortgaged the rest. If her gamble didn’t pay off, winter would be lean and the chance for Peter to go to college in the fall, iffy.
    After dinner, she and Gramps outfitted themselves in chest waders and traipsed down to the beach. Across the creek, she noticed activity. The Hartes had arrived, which meant Aidan was there. She tried to put that thought out of her head. Aidan was the past. A mistake.
    The differences between the neighboring fish camps were night and day. The Hartes embraced their helter-skelter attitude while Margaret Savonski wouldn’t hear of anything out of order on her place. The serene quiet of the fish camps would end now with the Hartes in residence.
    Sure enough, Earl hollered over the creek, “That’s a funny-looking boat anchored out there, Nikolai.”
    His brother, Roland, added his two cents, “That’s what happens when you let a woman start running the operation.”
    Gramps turned and acknowledged the two old men in rusty lawn chairs, lazing away the afternoon on their sagging porch. “Earl. Roland. Hope you had a good winter.”
    Earl couldn’t see the shiny side of a gold coin and Roland’s good fortune always ended up being someone else’s misfortune.
    “Hey, Sonya. Aidan’s been looking forward to seeing ya,” Earl called out with a cackle.
    Sonya stiffened her shoulders and kept on walking. Last summer’s unfortunate fling with Aidan Harte was over. While the match between the two of them had made sense in theory, it had quickly paled in reality.
    Live and learn.
    Together, she and Gramps pulled the running line with two of their set netting skiffs tied to it, bringing the boats into shore. Set net fishing had been a way of life for the Savonskis since the 1950s when the first Savonski, Great Grandpa Slava, began fishing these profitable waters. Since then, the family had purchased three more coveted set net sites. They now owned four of the most profitable sites on the beach, much to the envy of