Chapter 5 #2
He hangs back, giving me time to explore the exterior, snapping the lighthouse from different angles in search of the best shots.
When I eventually lower the camera to my chest, Chaz takes out his phone and insists on pulling me close for a few selfies.
I’d rather be on the other side of the camera, but being tucked against him as he snaps away isn’t the worst thing.
“Are we able to go inside?” I ask when he’s done.
“Yep.” He gestures toward the entrance. “It’s open to the public, and it’s off-season, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”
“Do you know much about its history?” The red and white stripes of the tower draw my eyes to the lookout at the top.
“What kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t?
” He flashes a grin. “It was built in the late 1800s to guide ships into the harbor. There’s a legend, though,” he says, dropping his voice theatrically.
“A sailor coming to shore in search of his lady love vanished. And in true Romeo-and-Juliet style, she jumped off the ledge, unable to live without him. Now their ghosts are said to haunt the tower.”
I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “That’s creepy.”
“Not a romantic?” he teases.
“Dying for love? Nope. The Broadway show & Juliet is more my thing,” I say. “The plot twist is Romeo drinks the poison as planned, but Juliet changes her mind and goes on to live her best life.”
“That’s savage.” He laughs heartily, making me laugh too.
“So, do you believe the tower’s legend?” I ask as he unpacks the snowmobile.
“Naw, but as kids, my best friend Dice and I did. We used to dare each other to do the dumbest things. In this case, he bet I’d be too scared to climb to the top at midnight and ring the bell”.
“Did you do it?”
“Damn straight.” He chuckles. “He was so sure I’d chicken out that he put up his Ultimate Spider-Man #1—the first issue of the Ultimate Marvel series. Big stakes for a twelve-year-old. We were comic book geeks,” he adds proudly. “We still collect.”
That unexpected insight into him has me smiling. I wouldn’t have pegged Chaz as having a nerdy side, but it makes him more endearing. “So, what happened with your climb?”
“Well, we snuck out of our houses in the pitch black and made it over here on our bikes. I got to the top easy enough, determined to win that grail.”
“Grail?” I ask.
“It’s a term for a special edition or unique comic book—as in the holy grail.”
“Ah, I see. Go on. You get to the top . . .”
“Yeah, and the bell was massive and rusted. It probably hadn’t been rung in years. I gave it a hard tug, but the clapper was loose. The momentum knocked me back, and I whacked the side of my head on the metal railing. Blacked out.”
“Oh, no.” I gasp, covering my mouth.
“Woke up in the hospital with a concussion and three stitches right here,” he points to a small scar bisecting his right eyebrow.
“It adds character.” I tease. “A bit rakish, like a pirate.”
“I do have ear piercings. Just need an eye patch and a beautiful maiden to kidnap.” He winks, and heat flushes my face despite the bitter cold.
“Did your friend give you the comic book?”
“Yep, to his unending grumbling. It’s worth a mint now.” He pulls a small cooler from the snowmobile. “Dinner.”
“You’re feeding me, too?”
“Full service.” He grins, which seems to come naturally to him. Then, slinging the bag over his shoulder, he leads the way down the snow-crusted path.
Inside, the air is damp and cold, filled with a sense of history.
The narrow staircase creaks as we climb.
Chaz checks on me every few steps, showing me more of his caring and attentive side.
When we reach the top, I put on my hat and step onto the ledge bordered by a protective rail.
The wind is brisk, but the view is breathtaking.
The sunset paints the sky in strokes of dark purple and vibrant orange, and the town below twinkles like stars scattered along the shore.
“You weren’t exaggerating. It’s spectacular.”
“Glad you’re pleased.”
Once I’ve gotten my fill of photos and the cold drives us inside, Chaz lays out a blanket and turns on the portable heater.
We remove our jackets and snow pants and hang them on a rail to dry.
I try not to ogle him in his Dri-fit tights as I settle cross-legged on the blanket in my leggings and sweater.
“Warm enough?” he asks.
“Quite,” I say as the toasty stream of air unthaws my hands. My phone vibrates, and I peek at the message from Jordyn. She informs me that her security expert fiancé, Stiles, ran a criminal check on Chaz.
Jordyn: Your sexy singer is clean as a whistle and ready to be blown!
I know my face must be flaming red when Chaz asks, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, trying to put Jordyn’s text out of my mind. “What’s on this evening’s menu?”
“I’ll start us off with some white wine.” He retrieves a bottle from the cooler. “You strike me as a woman who would enjoy a fine Pinot Grigio. It’s not too sharp or too dry, just slightly sweet, but still well-rounded.”
“You’re very astute and know your wines.”
“I was taught by the best—Val Vargas. I worked in his restaurant and learned about wine and food pairings.”
“Vargas, as in Bitsy’s family?”
“Yep.”
“You’re close to them?”
“Val and his wife, Eva, are like family to Sophia and me. They have been since we lost our mother fifteen years ago. My father was already gone by then, too, so we didn’t have anyone else.”
He would still have been in his teens, and Sophia was just a child when they found themselves parentless. “I’m so sorry, Chaz.”
“Me too. These tattoos are for them,” he says, showing me the side of his wrist inked with two doves.
I raise my gaze back to his eyes, seeing the grief there as he sits with it for a moment. I want to offer comfort, but his affable mood quickly returns.
He uncorks the wine and takes out two stemless goblets, filling each partway. “To more surprises,” he proposes, clinking his glass against mine.
“How many more are there?”
“We’ve only just started.” Chaz unveils a wooden charcuterie board featuring an assortment of cheeses, cured meats, grapes, olives, crackers, and bread. “Any allergies?” he inquires, unwrapping the plastic covering.
“None,” I say as he retrieves more from the bag—napkins, a couple of butter knives, and a Tupperware dish—and adds them to the board. I resist the urge to arrange everything in an orderly fashion.
“This is crab paté à la Delgado.” He spreads the contents on a stone wheat cracker and brings it to my mouth.
I hesitate before taking a bite, my lips touching his skin. Warmth crawls up my face. “Sorry,” I mumble around my hand.
“Don’t be.” He pops the rest into his mouth. “How is it?”
I manage to swallow without incident. The delicate crab is slightly sweet with subtle hints of lemon and dill. “So good.”
“The menu has much improved since the last time I was here on a date.”
I want to remind him this isn’t a date, but that might seem like I’m protesting too much. “When was that?”
“The summer after my sophomore year of high school. Back then, it was Selena Rodrigues, a bottle of Pepsi, and cheese sandwiches.”
“Romantic,” I say, smiling into my wine. “Whatever happened to Selena?”
“I got thrown over for a quarterback with excellent pocket management.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it sounds like Selena made a poor choice.”
“She did. The quarterback cheated on her with a cheerleader.”
“How cliché. I hope that’s not why you stopped bringing dates here.”
“Nope. Once I got my driver’s license, I realized making out in my backseat was far superior.”
I laugh, growing more relaxed in his company. “Tell me about your music,” I ask, curious about him. “How did you get started?”
“My dad. He bought me my first guitar when I was five and taught me how to play ‘Samba Pa Ti.’” He sings a few bars in Spanish, his voice melting over me like butter. “Carlos Santana was his idol—both of them were wicked guitarists from Tijuana.”
“Is that why some of your music has a Latin influence?” I add prosciutto, Havarti, and fig spread to a couple of round pieces of bread. I hand one to him.
“It shaped me early on,” he says, polishing it off in two bites. “My dad and I would jam together. Those are some of my favorite memories.”
“How long has he been gone?”
The smile in his eyes fades. “Twenty-two years. I was twelve. My mom was pregnant with Soph.”
“That must have been really hard.”
“Still is, to be honest.” His gaze drifts, lost in the past. “Like most immigrants, he wanted to give us a better life. He worked long hours as an Account Executive—weekends, through vacations—so he could give us the nice house, the car, the neighborhood with good schools. But I would’ve traded it all for more time with him.
” Chaz lets out a heavy exhale that hits my chest with an aching blow.
“My mother begged him to slow down, but he wouldn’t—couldn’t.
He’d say, Un hombre afrolatino no puede tomárselo con calma—An Afro-Latino man cannot take it easy.
He worked ten times as hard, and his bastard of a boss just kept pushing and pushing until he collapsed at work.
A heart attack. At forty. He died on the way to the hospital.
I didn’t even get to say goodbye. Damn.” Chaz drags a hand over his face as if trying to rub away the memory.
The rawness of his grief clings to me. I fall silent, the quiet pressing around us. I try to find the right words, but they all feel small compared to the enormity of his loss. “Your dad sounds like he was a good man and father, deeply committed to his family.”
“He was,” Chaz replies, his expression solemn, his voice rough. After a brief pause, he clears his throat, then asks, “What about your family? Do you still have your parents?”
“Yes,” I nod, a knot of guilt tightening in my gut. Here he is, missing his folks, while I’m desperate to escape mine. “They live in Chicago.”
“You don’t get along with them?”