Chapter 20 #2
He ran his palm over the varnished wheel.
“This feels familiar.”
“The boat?”
“Being here.”
He pressed his right foot against the dead throttle pedal.
“I know how far it moves before the cable catches.”
“That linkage always had play.”
“I know.”
He looked toward the bow.
“There’s a compartment beneath the forward cushion. The latch sticks.”
“Yes.”
“I keep spare fuses in a jar under the port seat.”
“You do.”
His hand tightened around the wheel.
“I don’t remember rebuilding her.”
“No.”
“But I know where the weight shifts when someone steps off the stern.”
“That may be procedural.”
“I don’t care what it’s called.”
A smile reached him.
“It feels like mine.”
I climbed the ladder and stepped onto the deck.
The boat shifted slightly on her supports despite the chocks.
Noah adjusted before he could think.
He shifted his balance and corrected his grip on the wheel.
He laughed.
His laughter rang through the open bay.
“You felt that,” I said.
“Yes.”
He looked down at the faded blue seats.
“Did we take her far?”
“Up the river. Around the islands. Once to Alder Cove.”
“Did Marlowe come?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“He jumped overboard after a seal.”
Noah’s eyes widened.
“Did he catch it?”
“No. He discovered the ocean was cold.”
“I wish I remembered.”
“I know.”
He turned his face toward the strip of harbor visible beyond the yard.
“Could we take her out again?”
“When you are cleared.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Of the boat?”
“Of anything with speed.”
My honesty silenced him.
“I won’t ask today.”
“Thank you.”
He looked at me.
“But one day.”
“One day.”
Noah stood carefully.
I moved closer without touching.
He shifted toward the ladder, then stopped.
“How am I getting down?”
“That is an excellent question.”
“I may have planned only the first half.”
“You used to do that too.”
“Did you always rescue me?”
“Frequently.”
I went down first, then stood on the second rung from the top.
“Turn toward me.”
Noah did.
His left arm remained weak, so I positioned my hands at his waist while he lowered his right foot.
The boat moved beneath him.
His grip tightened.
“I have you.”
“I know.”
He came down one rung.
Then another.
At the bottom, his injured hip stiffened. He lost the angle for the last step and leaned into me.
I closed my arms around him.
His feet reached the floor, but neither of us moved away.
Noah looked up.
“You could be annoyed.”
“I am.”
“You’re hiding it.”
“I’m choosing not to make fear your punishment.”
His gaze softened.
“That’s an irritatingly good answer.”
“I practiced while you were on the ladder.”
His hands rested at my sides.
“Are you still angry?”
“Yes.”
“Would kissing help?”
“No.”
His mouth curved.
“Liar.”
I touched his jaw.
“Ask properly.”
“Kiss me, Cal.”
The private name changed the air.
I lowered my mouth to his.
Noah met me halfway.
The kiss was warm from the first contact, his lips parting beneath mine with less uncertainty than the week before. His right hand slid up my chest and curved around the back of my neck.
I held his waist.
The workshop smelled of cedar, metal, and salt. Sunlight crossed the floor. Somewhere beyond the yard, a halyard struck a mast in an uneven rhythm.
Noah kissed me as if testing whether the familiarity aboard the boat extended to this.
It did.
His tongue touched mine.
A low sound escaped him.
My restraint tightened.
He pressed closer, and the hard response of my body became impossible to disguise.
Noah felt it.
His breath caught.
I started to step back.
He held me.
“Don’t.”
“You’re tired.”
“I’m not.”
“You climbed onto a boat.”
“I kissed you. Different system.”
I laughed against his mouth.
He smiled.
The movement turned the kiss gentler.
When we separated, his eye remained half closed.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make everything quiet.”
I brushed my thumb over his cheek.
“You’re the one who kissed me.”
“Technicality.”
“Do you still want the retired-person outing?”
“Yes.”
“You need rest first.”
He sighed.
“I hate that you know.”
“I know.”
We left an hour later.
I packed the thermos, bread, pears, two blankets, medication, water, and enough emergency supplies to survive a modest shipwreck. Noah accused me of overpacking until I reminded him he had once brought three flashlights on a daytime picnic.
The drive to Bellweather Point followed the old coast road.
Noah watched the passing neighborhoods with open curiosity. Some he recognized. Others were built during the missing years and seemed to offend him by existing.
“That used to be a tire shop.”
“It closed four years ago.”
“And now it sells expensive soap.”
“Yes.”
“This town has declined.”
“You bought soap there last Christmas.”
“No.”
“Six bars.”
“For whom?”
“Leah.”
“That seems plausible.”
Traffic thinned beyond Greyhaven.
The road climbed through spruce and wind-bent pine. Sunlight flashed between trunks. At one turn, an oncoming logging truck filled the opposite lane.
Noah went rigid.
I slowed without braking hard.
His hand found the door grip.
The truck passed.
The sound faded behind us.
“You all right?”
He nodded, but the answer took too long.
“Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Breathe.”
“I am.”
“Not well.”
His gaze fixed on the road ahead.
I gave the whistle softly.
Two short notes.
One long.
His shoulders lowered.
“Again,” he said.
I did.
He released the door.
“Keep driving.”
Bellweather Point had once been a coastal signal station. The tower was gone, but the stone keeper’s cottage remained behind a fence, and a line of concrete paths crossed the grass above the cliffs.
Wind swept most visitors toward warmer places.
We found an empty bench inside the lee of a low wall.
I spread one blanket beneath us and another across Noah’s legs. The powered chair waited nearby, though he had walked from the car with my arm around his waist.
The bay opened below.
Gray-green water reached toward the horizon. Fishing boats moved like dark marks beyond the harbor mouth. Farther south, the white curve of Greyhaven’s waterfront followed the shore.
Noah closed his eye and tilted his face toward the sun.
The wind lifted his hair.
For several minutes, he said nothing.
I poured chowder into insulated cups.
He accepted one and held it beneath his nose.
“Bacon?”
“Generously.”
“Then this was worth leaving the apartment.”
We ate slowly.
A gull landed on the wall and watched us with criminal intent.
Noah tore off a piece of bread.
“Don’t,” I said.
“He’s hungry.”
“He is a thief.”
“So is Marlowe.”
“Marlowe has legal residence.”
Noah ate the bread himself.
The gull looked betrayed.
After lunch, we sat with our shoulders touching.
Noah asked what had changed in the world during the missing years.
I gave him the larger events he had missed and the absurdly small ones he cared about more.
A favorite musician retired and then returned.
The ferry authority replaced the green boats with blue ones.
The old cinema closed.
A storm damaged the north pier.
A local politician was arrested for stealing decorative shrubs from a public garden.
Noah laughed at that until the headache reminded him not to.
He asked which films he had seen, what books he had bought, whether we had ever gone to Canada.
“No.”
“You said we wanted to.”
“We do.”
“Still?”
“Yes.”
He looked across the water.
“What else did we plan?”
“Yard expansion. A trip through Nova Scotia. Another dog when Marlowe slowed down.”
“Marlowe would object.”
“He objects to rain.”
“What about the wedding?”
My breath paused.
“We had not planned one.”
“The ring.”
“We talked about marriage. Nothing was scheduled.”
“Would you still want it?”
The question arrived quietly.
I turned toward him.
Noah watched the sea.
“I would never ask you to honor a decision you don’t remember making.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
He waited.
“Yes,” I said. “I would still want it.”
His fingers moved beneath the blanket until they found mine.
“Not now,” he said.
“I know.”
“But the answer matters.”
“I understand.”
We stayed like that, joined by our hands and nothing else.
Then Noah asked, “How bad is the insurance situation?”
The wind suddenly felt colder.
I had known the question would return.
“Not as bad as it was two weeks ago.”
“That’s not a number.”
“No.”
“Tell me enough.”
I looked at our hands.
“The wage reimbursement came through. The ferry contract is helping. The yard is operating.”
“And the van?”
“Still unresolved.”
“The equipment?”
“Same claim.”