Chapter 8 Duck Tours and Revelations
Duck Tours and Revelations
Wisteria Café occupied the ground floor of a restored brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue, its bay windows streaming late morning sunlight onto marble-topped tables.
Julia had chosen it deliberately—public enough to feel safe, charming enough to be memorable if things went well.
She arrived fifteen minutes early, selecting a corner table with a view of both the entrance and the street, where blooming magnolias softened the elegant architecture of Back Bay.
She smoothed her emerald silk blouse, second-guessing her outfit choice for perhaps the tenth time that morning. The blouse, dark jeans, and ankle boots had seemed the right balance of casual and polished in her hotel room, but now she wondered if she should have worn something more distinctive.
The server, a young woman with intricate braids and wire-rimmed glasses, approached with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Wisteria. Can I get you started with something?”
“Sparkling water for now,” Julia replied. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“I’ll bring that right out.”
Julia checked her watch. Five minutes to their agreed time—11 a.m.
The bell above the door chimed, and Julia looked up.
Dylan walked in. He was taller than she expected, his dark hair freshly tousled from the spring breeze.
He wore a blue shirt that hugged broad shoulders, jeans, and boots that had been broken in through actual wear, rather than artificial distressing.
For a moment he stood framed in the doorway, scanning the café until his eyes found hers. The growing smile that transformed his serious expression made Julia feel a little less self-conscious. Still, her throat felt dry. Despite weeks of intimate conversation, Julia was suddenly shy.
Dylan moved toward her table with purpose, navigating between chairs with the fluidity of someone comfortable in his physical space.
“Julia,” he said, in a rich, deep voice. Those blue eyes she’d seen in photos were sharper in real life, crinkled slightly at the corners when he smiled.
“Dylan,” she said, standing to greet him, not sure of the appropriate gesture. A handshake seemed too formal, a hug might be too much. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face, highlighting the smattering of freckles across her nose.
He took her in, then touched her forearm gently, a gesture that bridged the gap between formality and intimacy. “I’m glad you came. It’s so great to finally meet you in person.”
“You too,” Julia said, surprised by how genuinely she meant it despite her reservations.
They sat, both feeling awkward as they managed the adjustment to the reality of physical presence after weeks of digital connection.
“This is strange, isn’t it?” she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “After all our chats, I’m suddenly tongue-tied.”
“Same here,” Dylan said. “I had this whole mental list of things I wanted to tell you, and now I can’t remember any of them.”
“Maybe we should start with something non-threatening,” Julia smiled. “Like . . . how was your train ride?”
Dylan laughed—a rich sound that sent an unexpected flutter through her. “The train was fine, though I spent the entire ride wondering if you’d actually show up.”
“I almost didn’t,” Julia admitted. “I’ve been second-guessing this decision since I sent that message.”
“And now that you’re here?” Dylan asked, his eyes searching her face.
Just then, the server returned with her sparkling water and turned to Dylan. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Do you have French press coffee?” he asked.
“Medium or dark roast?”
“Dark, please,” Dylan said. “And I’m ready to order if you are?” he added, looking at Julia.
“I’ll need another minute,” she said.
Once the server walked away, Dylan leaned forward. “I have a confession to make.”
Julia’s guard went up. Here it comes, she thought. “Oh?”
“I was so nervous about meeting you that I forgot to eat breakfast,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Now I’m both starving and trying to play it cool.”
His admission disarmed her. “That makes two of us,” Julia said. “I had coffee in my hotel room but couldn’t manage anything else.”
“Presentation nerves on top of everything else?”
“Actually, the presentation went well yesterday,” Julia said. “Really well, in fact. There was more interest in the warehouse project than I had expected.”
“I’m not surprised,” Dylan said. His eyes were attentive, with the right amount of intensity. “Congratulations.”
They ordered—avocado toast for Julia, a breakfast croissant for Dylan.
The late-morning light streamed through the large windows, painting the exposed brick walls in a warm glow.
“Beautiful place,” Dylan said, looking around at the pressed tin ceiling, the antique botanical prints on walls painted a soft sage and the marble countertops.
“I thought you might appreciate it,” she said. “The owners preserved most of the original architectural elements when they renovated.”
She was grateful for architecture. Objects were so easy to talk about. Julia had many questions for Dylan but decided to wait. They had a whole day ahead of them. Time enough to determine if the man sitting across from her was what he seemed.
When their food arrived, Julia took a bite and said it was the perfect avocado.
Across from her, Dylan began to meticulously dissect his croissant.
“You look like you’re performing surgery on that croissant,” Julia said, smiling.
Dylan looked up. “Achieving the perfect bite is an art form.”
“A messy art form, in this case,” Julia teased, nodding towards the small pile of crumbs accumulating on his plate.
At that moment, a harried-looking server, balancing a precarious tower of dirty plates, bumped into their table. Dylan’s ice water glass teetered and then, with agonizing slowness, tipped over, sending a small wave of water across the table. It landed squarely on Julia’s lap.
“Oh, no! I am so, so incredibly sorry!” the server gasped, his eyes wide with horror.
Julia yelped. “Whoa! That’s … “ She blinked down to look at the dark, spreading wetness on her jeans. It was pooling uncomfortably. It was also cold.
Dylan shot up right away and grabbed a handful of napkins from their table. “Are you okay?”
Dylan, who could identify a Bordeaux by its terroir and had once coaxed a stubborn red wine stain out of a cream-colored rug using a combination of salt and club soda, approached the spill cautiously.
Secretly, he was waging a small war—to rub, or not to rub.
When it came to red wine, the key was not to rub, (which would only spread the stain), but to apply firm, direct pressure.
But water on a live body was different. How to help without encroaching on Julia’s jeans?
“Here,” he said, handing her the extra napkins. “Tactical blotting is key.”
His touch was … unexpectedly nice, Julia thought, for a quick second.
“Tactical blotting?” she smiled, taking the napkins.
He was now standing beside her, careful to maintain a safe distance from her lap. A few nearby patrons were now observing the situation.
For her part, Julia was trying to discreetly absorb the water with the napkins, without calling attention to her inner thigh. “Wet jeans are a fashion statement,” she said, looking up at Dylan.
“Wetly distressed,” he smiled.
The server, having mopped up the worst of the spill, offered profuse apologies and a complimentary pastry. Julia and Dylan both waved him off, their attention back on each other.
“So,” Julia said, picking up her fork again, “About tactical blotting.”
“It’s all about knowing when not to rub,” he said, smiling.
“When not to rub,” she smiled back.
“You have to be gentle,” Dylan said, locking eyes with her.
“Exactly.”
“And patient.”
“Yes,” said Julia. “Patience is key.”
“It’s all about textile preservation.”
“I know what you mean,” she said.
Despite the sobering splash and the many unanswered questions, Julia felt a subtle shift in her. The day was still unfolding and something like hope was growing inside her.
Outside, Commonwealth Avenue stretched before them, lined with trees just beginning to leaf out. Julia was grateful for the late morning sun. The dark patch on her jeans looked less stark as it started to dry. Dylan, a head taller than her, moved with an easy stride along the bustling sidewalks.
“Where are we off to now?” Julia asked, stopping at the corner.
“Do you trust me?” Dylan asked, stopping next to her.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Close your eyes and give me your hand,” he said.
He reached into his shirt’s pocket, placed two tickets on her hand and said, “You can open them now.”
Julia looked at two bright yellow tickets and raised an eyebrow. Then her lips curled into an amused smile.
Dylan made a sweeping gesture toward the city. “I thought we should go to a place where we could see Boston from a whole new perspective . . . both on land and, quite literally, on water. We’re going on a Duck Tour.”
“A duck tour?” Julia shook her head and looked up at him. His blue eyes glinty under the sun.
“A true Boston rite of passage,” Dylan said.
They walked for a leisurely fifteen minutes, the city unfolding around them like a living history book.
The air hummed with the sounds of traffic, the distant clang of a trolley bell, and snippets of conversations in a multitude of accents.
The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from an open bakery door.
As they rounded a corner near the New England Aquarium, the yellow and green of the Duck Boat came into view.
It was an odd contraption, its tall, sturdy wheels giving it the height of a bus, but its rounded hull and open top hinted at its aquatic capabilities.
Playful cartoon ducks were painted along the sides, adding a whimsical touch to the military-esque vehicle.