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The Seahorse, Halloween Jack, and George’s Place are fictional. Any resemblance to real motels, roadhouses, or bands is entirely coincidental.


So, I’m in the kitchen of The Seahorse Bed and Breakfast, prepping baskets of shrink-wrapped muffins and mini-cartons of O.J. and milk from the local dairy, when Lynnie bursts in.

Let me back up a minute.

My mom owns The Seahorse, here in Rockaway Beach, Oregon. Fifty years ago, it was nothing more than a beach cabin motel like you see all over the coast here. The baskets, in what surely constitutes the world’s greatest triumph of marketing over reality, are how Mom can call the joint a bed and breakfast. I deliver them every morning, after which I do the billing and so on. This is what I’m qualified to do, thanks to a two-year degree in hospitality services from the thriving institution of Oregon Coast Community College.

At least, if you ask my mom. She grew up at The Seahorse, taking it over when Gran’s health got too bad to run the motel. Gran’s in a home and not doing well.

Gramps passed away before I was born. My old man left no forwarding address.

Me? I’m Joe.

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