Chapter 8 Duck Tours and Revelations #2
“That,” Dylan said, gesturing toward it with a flourish, “is our chariot. Or should I say, our quacking chariot.” He grinned, eager to see her reaction.
Julia was very curious about this; her eyes noticed the details of things.
A cheerful crowd was milling around the boarding area. But since Dylan had already bought their tickets, they were directed by a friendly attendant toward the boarding area.
“See those? Dylan said, pointing to the large tires. Great on the road. But the real fun starts when we drive straight into the Charles.”
Julia laughed, the novelty of the situation starting to win her over. “Drive into the river? You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dylan said.
As they climbed aboard the quirky vehicle, they settled into open-air seats next to each other, occasionally brushing hands. Neither resisted. When they splashed into the Charles River, the spray of water brought them closer still, both laughing at the unexpected jolt.
“This is so beautiful,” Julia said, looking at the sailboats. “So different from Savannah.”
“What was it like, growing up there?”
Julia squinted. “The pace is … slower, I think. Definitely steeped in history, but in a different way. Spanish moss hanging from ancient oaks, the scent of gardenias in the air. Summers are long and humid, fireflies in the evenings. Growing up, we spent a lot of time near the water. But the water is very different—marshy, tidal creeks instead of a wide river like this one.” She told Dylan about the horse-drawn carriages, the antebellum architecture, and the taste of sweet tea on a porch swing.
“Sounds like a place that would never let you go,” Dylan said softly. “Would you ever leave, do you think?”
“There’s a weight to Savannah, for sure. But there’s also a certain languor, a slower pace that sometimes feels …”
Her gaze drifted towards the Charles River, the sunlight glinting on the water.
“That’s a good question … I’ve thought about it from time to time.
” She turned back to him. “It’s home, you know.
The sound of cicadas in the summer, those things are ingrained.
But there are other things, too; a chance to build something new, maybe …
” Her voice trailed off, her eyes meeting his.
Dylan’s breath hitched slightly. He was from Rhode Island, a place close enough to Boston to feel like a possibility, a bridge. The way Julia talked about Savannah, though, made the place feel impossibly far away. “What kind of new?” he asked, his voice low over the rumble of the boat engine.
Julia was about to say something, but didn’t get a chance. The duck boat rumbled back, and the tour guide’s voice announced the return to land.
Dylan hopped out, landing with surprising agility for his height.
Then, turning back to Julia, a playful glint in his eyes, he reached out, his hands finding her waist. In a swift, unexpected move, he lifted her as if she were lighter than a leaf.
Her surprised gasp was lost in the breeze.
For a moment, suspended in the air, her eyes locked with his and she felt her world had shifted a little.
As they disembarked, Dylan’s hand found hers naturally, their fingers intertwining as if they’d done this hundreds of times before. Julia felt a small thrill at the contact—the warmth of his palm against hers, the gentle pressure of his thumb occasionally brushing her wrist.
They wandered down Charles Street, stopping occasionally to browse in shops—an antiquarian bookstore where Julia found a rare volume on colonial architecture that made her eyes light up, then a small art gallery featuring local artists’ interpretations of Boston landmarks.
Their eyes met every now and again, as if verifying the other was still there.
“My uncle would have loved this place,” Dylan said, as they left the bookstore.
“Dylan,” Julia said gently as they continued walking, “I know this is difficult. But I think you owe me an explanation.”
His stride faltered slightly. “About what?”
“About your uncle. About why you couldn’t give me straight answers when I asked about The Black Tulip.” She stopped walking, turning to face him.
Dylan’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Julia thought he might deflect again. Instead, he looked around, spotting a small park overlooking the Charles River. “It would probably be better if we sat down for this.”
They found a bench facing the water. Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead.
“You’re right,” he started. “I do owe you an explanation.” His voice was low, strained. “Uncle Tobias didn’t just die, Julia. The circumstances were . . .” He swallowed hard. “They were suspicious.”
Julia arched her back. “Suspicious how?”
“He was in Istanbul, chasing a treasure he’d been obsessed with finding for the past six years—a first edition of ‘The Black Tulip’ by Alexandre Dumas—that’s what our shop is named after—so this collector claimed to have not just any first edition, but one that had belonged to Dumas himself.”
“And?”
“My uncle called me the night before he was supposed to meet this collector. He was so excited, Julia. Said it was finally happening, that he could feel it.” Dylan’s voice cracked slightly. “But tomorrow never came. The next day, they found him dead in his hotel room.”
“Oh my God, Dylan,” Julia leaned forward and gave his forearm a gentle squeeze.
“But here’s the thing—the collector vanished. No record of any meeting. No trace of the correspondence that had brought my uncle there. The hotel staff gave conflicting stories about whether he’d had visitors.”
Dylan straightened and faced Julia, his blue eyes glistening. “I flew to Istanbul right away. But the authorities had already closed the case. American businessman, advanced age, natural causes.”
“And that’s not what you think happened?” Julia said.
“I don’t know what to think anymore. This has been consuming in a way that is hard to explain.
I haven’t slept through the night for a while.
” Dylan’s voice was low and raw. “Maybe it was just a heart attack. Maybe the collector was real but got spooked. Or maybe . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Julia tried searching for the right words. But none came.
“The worst part is not knowing,” Dylan said.
“This isn’t just about The Black Tulip. Uncle Tobias was everything to me—mentor, business partner, father figure.
He raised me after my father died. And I’ll never know if his obsession with that damn book got the best of him, or if I’m just imagining conspiracies where there are none.
You can see why this is not something I want to talk about. ”
Julia felt tears prick her eyes. “Yes.”
“Especially to you.”
“To me?”
“I joined the wine forum as a distraction. For a while, my uncle’s death was all I could think about.
It was pretty rough. Then you came along.
From your very first post, I just knew. I knew you were someone who could matter too much.
You don’t have to read through a lot of threads to know what’s what.
And I loved that about you. I loved that you believe that every scrap of metal, every crumbled brick and dusty pipe could be rearranged into something beautiful.
And for a little while, I allowed myself to believe that happiness was possible. ”
Julia’s heart ached for him. She looked at him – the grief that had settled on his features the only barrier to his strikingly handsome face.
“Dylan,” she said softly, “I’m so sorry. For your loss, for pushing you when you weren’t ready.”
“Don’t be,” he said, softly. “Julia, you’re so much more than I had ever hoped for.” His touch was gentle when he lifted her chin. Though they had been looking at each other all day, Julia felt this was the first time she felt the full impact of his eyes on her.
“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Julia said.
“I’m glad I did,” Dylan replied. He brought her hand to his lips and started kissing each fingertip slowly, gently, one by one, one at a time, his eyes closed.
Julia, too, closed her eyes and thought that if there was a reason to be alive, it was on the chance you’d get to experience a moment like this; a moment where you could feel every feeling: sadness, joy, heartache, hope, relief, and the feeling that the person sitting next to you found you so hard to believe, so much greater than they had ever imagined.
She was happy. She was hopeful. Julia thought she might weep.
They left the park, their steps weaving a silent rhythm through the softening light of dusk, hands interlaced as they walked towards Julia’s hotel.
The world around them was dissolving, slowly, into hues of gold, and with each shared breath, Julia felt their connection growing.
When his fingers tightened around hers, a comforting warmth traveled through her.
Life, she thought, was undeniably complex, much of it uncertain.
Yet, at this moment, she was grateful to have risked her heart on someone like Dylan Gilbert.
He was generous and kind, and more real than she had allowed herself to imagine.
They must have decided at the same time: that they didn’t want this day to end. So they slowed down the pace, holding hands, neither talking for a long while.
Eventually, they reached her hotel. Dylan turned to face Julia, his expression soft in the faint street light.
“Thank you for today,” he said, caressing her cheek. “For taking a chance on meeting me.”
“Thank you for being exactly who I hoped you were,” Julia replied, surprising herself with her candor.
Dylan’s lips approached hers slowly, a question mark in his eyes.
But as Julia responded, the kiss deepened, his hand cradling her face with exquisite tenderness.
Time seemed to hold still as the connection between them transformed yet again; this time, into something deeply intimate.
Julia felt slightly breathless, her heart racing with a mixture of desire and wonder, a soft flush rising to her cheeks.
Dylan’s eyes were darker now, his gaze intense.
“Dinner tomorrow?” he asked.
“I wish,” Julia replied. “I have an early flight.”
He ran the back of his finger tenderly across her cheek once again, a gesture so affectionate it made Julia’s heart ache. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke.
“This isn’t the end, Julia,” he whispered, his breath sending a shiver through her.
She nodded, a smile breaking through the disappointment of their farewell.
He drew her close for another kiss, a tender, lingering embrace that made Julia wish they could stay here forever.
As she watched him walk away into the lamplit night, a feeling close to hope came to her, something she hadn’t experienced in the longest time.
Whatever happened next—however they navigated the complexity of distance and separate lives—the connection they had formed was beautifully real.
Tomorrow would bring new possibilities, new discoveries.
But tonight, with the warmth of Dylan’s kiss lingering on her lips, Julia allowed herself to dream again.
On the way to her room, she played a conversation game inside her head.
She wouldn’t necessarily have guessed the words that would come tumbling out of his mouth. It should not be too hard to guess.
“Is that really how you two met?”
“More or less,” he’d say, a private smile on his lips.
“More, or less?” Julia’s voice echoed.
“Well,” he’d say, a twinkle in his eye, “It certainly wasn’t over a candlelit dinner. Or going after the same lemon at the market.”
“I don’t know anymore,” her imagined self would say.
“Neither do I,” he’d agree, his gaze meeting hers across the table. “All I remember is . . . it was definitely a vintage year.”
“A very good vintage,” she’d say. And someone at the table would finally piece it together, “So, it was a wine thing then?”
“More or less.”