Chapter 1: Wild Nights, Empty Pockets

It was the purest year of my life—the year I picked up a drifter and made him my husband.

Looking back, it feels almost reckless. The sort of impulsive thing you only do when you’re young and desperate for something—or someone—to shake up the kind of emptiness you can’t talk about. I can still remember the sharp, salty air the day I met him, the way he grinned like he owned the world, even though he didn’t have two nickels to rub together.

He was full of wild energy, always pulling me into restless nights—until my legs could barely hold me up. I swear, sometimes I thought I'd just collapse.

It wasn’t just the physical part—though, Lord knows, the man had stamina for days. He’d drag me out onto the porch to dance barefoot under the stars, or insist we drive out to the edge of town just to watch the moon rise over the marsh. There was a hunger in him—like he was chasing something he couldn’t name, and he wanted me to chase it too.

He wanted good food and nice clothes, so I worked three jobs—exhausted, always grumbling.

I’d come home with my arms aching, smelling like fish and bleach. I’d sigh and drop my bag, and there he’d be, sprawled on the couch flipping through glossy magazines, pointing out silk ties and ribeye steaks he wanted to try. Sometimes I’d mutter under my breath, but mostly I just kept moving, because if I stopped, I might fall apart.

One afternoon, while delivering fresh fish to a downtown bistro, I overheard someone call him ‘Young Lord’—a joke of a nickname:

I was about to head out. The place was buzzing with the lunch crowd, waiters darting back and forth, and the clatter of plates echoing off the tiled walls. As I handed off a crate of snapper, I caught a familiar voice drifting down from the balcony above. “That fisher girl gave you her whole heart, ‘Young Lord.’ If you just up and leave, she’ll probably cry herself to death.”

"She’s got a wild streak, but after three years of fun, I’m done."

Garrett Morgan grinned, flipping his hair back, smug as ever.

He was leaning back in a chair, legs kicked up, the kind of confidence that comes from never having to worry about consequences. The way he flashed that smile, you’d think he was some kind of prince slumming it for fun.

His words hit me like a cold wave, but there was no surprise. I’d seen the writing on the wall for a while now. The only thing I felt was a strange, hollow relief, like I’d finally exhaled after holding my breath for years.

Funny thing is, when I heard that, I was more relieved than anything. I turned, packed my things, and bought a Greyhound ticket heading south to Savannah.

I didn’t even stop to think about it. Just walked out with the fish scales still on my hands, heart pounding, and headed straight to the bus station. The ticket clerk barely looked up as I slid my last crumpled bills across the counter. Savannah—just the sound of it felt like freedom.

They say men down there are gentle and polite. Maybe, just maybe, they know how to treat a woman right.

Folks at the docks always talked about Savannah like it was some kind of promised land—old trees, sweet tea, and men who opened doors and tipped their hats. Maybe it was just a story, but after Garrett, even the hope of something softer was enough.

“Lucy Harper, you look pale. Up before sunrise to fish again?”

Miss Loretta from the bait shop hollered across the market, her voice carrying over the squawk of gulls. I just nodded, forcing a tired smile, not wanting to get into it with anyone.

“That little husband of hers can’t even lift a crate, but he wants to drink the best wine from The Magnolia Room every day.”

Old Mr. Dorsey chimed in, shaking his head like he pitied me. The regulars at the pier always had something to say about my so-called marriage. I felt my cheeks heat, and wished I could disappear into the crowd.

I didn’t have the energy to answer their snide remarks. I just wanted to settle up quick, since I still had to buy Garrett’s favorite Southern Belle Chardonnay from The Magnolia Room.

I kept my head down, counting out coins with shaking fingers. The Magnolia Room was the fanciest place in town, all white tablecloths and jazz on Friday nights, and I felt out of place just thinking about it.

Thirty bucks a bottle. I swear, I’d have to fish for half a year to pay for just one. To save up, I’d been fishing and doing odd jobs for seven days and nights straight.

Every dollar felt like a small victory, even as my hands cracked from the cold and my back ached. I’d pick up shifts at the diner, wash laundry for Mrs. Fields, anything to scrape together enough. Sometimes I’d stare at the wine behind the bar, wondering if it was really worth it.

But the waiter at The Magnolia Room wouldn’t even let me in. He looked me up and down, nose wrinkling, blocking the door with his arm. “We don’t serve your kind here, ma’am,” he said, voice low so the diners wouldn’t hear. Shame burned in my cheeks, but I didn’t budge.

Just as I was about to beg him, I saw Garrett lounging on the second-floor balcony, hair slicked back, Rolex on his wrist, dressed to kill.

He looked like he belonged there. Laughing with a table full of folks in tailored suits and sparkling dresses. I barely recognized him, all cleaned up and shining, as if the grime of our life together had never touched him at all. My chest tightened, and I pressed myself further into the shadows.

The people beside him kept calling him ‘Young Lord’—their private joke.

The nickname sounded strange in that southern drawl, but they said it with a kind of awe, like he was the star of the show. I shrank back into the shadows, not wanting him to see me like this.

“That girl’s still out there hauling nets just to buy you wine, but you, ‘Young Lord,’ pour Southern Belle like it’s water.”

I watched as one of the men nudged him, gesturing down toward the street. “She’s busting her back for you, man.”

“You’re not still putting the tab on her, are you?”

A woman with red lipstick laughed, swirling her own glass. “That’s cold, even for you.”

Garrett poured himself a glass, looked up, and smirked.

He raised his glass in a mock toast, eyes glittering. “Of course it’s on her. Watching her bust her ass for a few hundred bucks—it’s hilarious.”

“Let’s call it my parting gift.”

He clinked glasses with the man beside him, everyone at the table roaring with laughter. I felt invisible, like a ghost pressed up against the glass.