Dear Peter,

You an Aiden are asleep now, so I have time to finish my story. God, your mother is the only person who could make a trip to Stop & Shop last three hours.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Cuban pirates.

So, the captain of The Encantador is a man named Rosario Araya. He's nothing like James, both as a captain and a person. He kills indiscriminately, takes prisoners, and won't even spare women and children. In fact, he seeks them out and imprisons them.

That's how Heath (James' first mate, now my roommate, who's pissed at me for the time being because I inherited the ship instead of her) and I ended up as hostages on The Encantador. It was horrible, Peter. Worst week of my life, easily. I won't go into detail, but it wasn't pretty.

On the ship, Heath and I made a friend. His name is Rosario, just like the captain (Who's actually his uncle) but everyone calls him Robin. He hatched a plan to help us escape.

Well, I won't go into detail about that, either. In summary: James and the crew of The Fina arrived, killed most of The Encantador's crew, and took prisoner those who weren't slain, Araya among them. We thought we'd won.

Hm, the rest of it's too painful to talk about the specifics. Bottom line is, Araya and his lackies broke out and killed James.

He died in my arms. He's in heaven now, Peter. Or at least, I hope he is.

    I love you xoxo

           -Aunty Olive

XXX

Heather stiffened. She looked Peter up and down, her gaze now cold and calculating, and turned away. "Go home, kid."

"Wait," he called after her. "Olivia Reece. Ramsey, whatever it was. You knew her, didn't you?" Peter watched her shake her head, walk toward the building. Amelia, who was still lying on the ground, looked up at him with groggy eyes.

"Leave me alone," Heather said. She produced a key from the pocket of her jeans and unlocked the door, looking for a second as if she were about to slam it behind her. Peter rushed forward, and stuck his foot in the door. She scowled. "I'll call the police."

"No you won't," he said, aware of the reckless boldness of this statement. The woman's eyes flashed with anger. Deciding that he needed a different tactic, Peter let his face melt into an expression that showed how he was feeling just then: tired, afraid, and grieving, but hopeful at the same time. "Please," he begged. "I know it might be hard for you to talk about, but it's even harder for me, not knowing. You have to help us."

Heather glared at him, then at his foot. "Look, kid. I'm not a mushy gushy person, so I can assure you that isn't the reason." Then she promptly slammed her foot down on Peter's, and pulled the door shut.

Amelia was on her feet now. She gave Peter an apologetic giving-up look.

"Then what is the reason?" Peter shouted through the door. To his great surprise, it was wretched open again.

Heather stuck her head outside, scowling at him. "I'm not a pirate anymore, okay?" She said. "I put that all behind me. I have a husband that loves me and a kid to raise, and I don't need you two trapezing along to ruin it all, okay? So leave. Scram."

Mel looked confused. "We're not trying to ruin anything," she promised.

"I don't care what you're trying to do," she shot back. "Where are your parents?"

"We ran away," Peter told her.

Frowning, she squinted at him. "You ran away?"

"Yup. We came all the way down here from Santa Fe to find you." Peter gave her his best puppy dog eyes. As if on cue, his stomach growled.

Heather rolled her eyes, but she pushed the door open. Exchanging a look of triumph with Amelia, Peter stepped inside.

It smelled like the sea: salty, clean, fresh. And it looked that way too. The walls were painted a calming sea blue, trimmed with white like sea foam. The walls were lined with shelves, chock full of trinkets and treats: sea salt and caramel candies, blue lollipops swirled with white, necklaces with shells for charms, keychains with shiny shells hanging from them, pens and spoons and forks all plaited with sea glass.

The bigger objects were spread on shelves and racks around the store. There were t shirts and jeans with pictures on them: ships, shells and pirates. On other shelves sat blue and green glazed pots spattered with sea glass and shells, blankets woven with the colors of the sea, journals with shell prints pressed on their covers, and boxes made from stone and wood, decorated with bits of shells and sea rocks.

There were buckets of big shells (two for three dollars) and buckets of small shells (fill a bag for a dollar). Same went for sea glass and the shiny rocks tumbled by the ocean.

Next to these was a display: row after row of ships in bottles. Each was different, and named with its own title. Looking at them, Peter found himself transfixed: each one was more beautiful than the next.

"Peter, look!" Amelia whispered in his ear. She dragged him over to the corner of the store, where he had neglected to look.

He gasped. I'm not a pirate anymore, he heard Heather saying to him. Well, in this corner of her little shop, she was. There were leather boots and eyepatches, spy glasses, bottles of whiskey, and more. On the shelf by the wall were dozens of tiny model ships, no bigger than Peter's palm.

"Stop lollygagging," Heather called. "Get in here, and don't touch anything. I don't care if you're broke, you break it, you buy it."

Amelia smiled. She tugged him away from the corner, lead him to the back room where Heather was waiting for them with an impatient frown on her face.

"Did you make all that stuff?" Amelia gushed.

Heather shrugged. "Most of it. We get the candy from a supplier, and the t shirts, obviously. But I design them and print 'em myself." She shrugged again. Motioned for them to follow her.

She lead them into a pretty little room, simple but cozy. There was a couch, an arm chair, a little throw rug. A tiny kitchenette. A sign above the couch, painted on driftwood, read "All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by".

"That's from Sea Fever by John Masefield," Amelia informed him, pointing.

Peter elbowed her. "Nerd."

But Heather nodded her approval. "You like that poem?" Mel nodded. "I think I had it memorized when I was about your age. How old are you, by the way?"

Peter took notice of how she talked to Amelia instead of him. "Thirteen, Ma'am," she answered.

Heather nodded, opening her mini fridge. She began to unload the paper bag she was holding, but then thought better of it. "You hungry?" She asked.

Mel nodded. Heather tossed her an apple. Just barely catching it, Mel turned it over in her hands. It was perfectly smooth, deep red and crisp-smelling. She took a bite, closing her eyes. "Maybe it's just cause I'm really hungry, but that is a good apple."

"Got 'em from the farmers market," Heather said in a tone of agreement. "Expensive, but delicious." She didn't offer one to Peter.

Heather took an apple and placed the last one in the fridge with a small container of what looked like yogurt. She walked back over and plopped herself down in the armchair, sinking her teeth into the fruit. "Sit down," she instructed.

Amelia threw herself onto the couch, dropping her backpack onto the floor. After sleeping on the dry Texas ground for two hours, that couch probably felt like heaven to her. Peter, however, hadn't slept a wink. He was beginning to feel more and more on edge. He took a seat next to Mel, absently fidgeting with a loose thread on her shirt.

"Thanks," Amelia said. "For the apple. And for letting us in."

She shrugged. "No problem. You just have to get out by . . ." She glanced at the clock (Impressively, also bordered by sea shells) "Eleven thirty."

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. "Why?"

"My husband and my son are coming for lunch."

"You can just tell them we're applicants for the job opening," Peter suggested. "We won't say anything, I swear. Right, Mel?" Amelia nodded.

"That's your name?" Heather asked. She nodded again. "Short for Amelia?" Another nod from Mel, who was digging her way through that apple at warp speed. "Alright," Heather sighed. "We'll see."

"We'll sea," Peter said. Heather smiled, but quickly turned away.