Chapter 11 #2
Then the Q&A. The usual questions at first. How did he get started, what was his favorite boat, did he have any advice for young fishermen. Ron answered them all with the same gruff honesty, dismissing the sentimental ones, leaning into the practical.
Near the end, a woman in the front row raised her hand.
"Captain Bosco, after all this time on the water, what keeps you going back?"
Ron was quiet. The patio hushed, even the breeze dying down. Someone coughed.
"You want the real answer?" he asked.
"Yes."
He looked out at the crowd, and his expression changed. Less performer, more the man underneath.
"The sea's the only place I ever felt like myself," he said.
"Everything on land, the marriages, the money problems, the ways I've let people down, it all goes quiet out there.
It's just me and the water and whatever's going to happen that day.
And I know that sounds like I'm running away from something.
Maybe I am. But it's also where I run to.
Where I've always run to." He shrugged. "That's the best I can do. I hope it's enough of an answer."
The woman nodded. The crowd applauded. John stepped forward to close things out, thanking Ron, reminding everyone that copies of the memoir were available at the table near the barn and that Ron would be happy to sign them, though Ron's expression suggested "happy" was a strong word.
People started to move. Chairs scraped back. The energy changed, audience becoming mingling crowd. Lori stayed where she was, watching people stream toward the signing table, the wine, each other.
The couple beside her stood up and headed for refills. Lori thought about doing the same, then thought about slipping out before the crowd thinned enough to make her visible.
Then John appeared at the end of her table.
"What did you think?" he asked, sliding into the empty seat beside her.
"I think I need to buy that book."
"I have a copy in my car. Consider it a gift."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He smiled. "Ron would give them away for free if I let him. Says he didn't write it to make money. He wrote it because the stories needed to go somewhere before he forgot them."
Lori glanced over at Ron, who was shaking hands with someone. "He's something."
"He's the real thing. You don't find that very often."
The crowd was thinning now. People drifting off to their cars, to the last glasses of wine, to whatever came next. The globe lights grew warmer as the sky darkened.
"I should let you—" Lori started, gesturing vaguely toward the cleanup that was beginning to happen around them.
"Stay," John said. "If you want. The vineyard doesn't close for another hour, and I could use the company."
"Okay."
They moved to a table at the edge of the patio, the one farthest from the cleanup crew now stacking chairs and collecting glasses.
John brought a bottle of red and poured them each a glass.
The last of the audience members had either left or were clustered around Ron, who was still signing books with the air of a man serving a sentence.
"He hates this part," John said, following her gaze. "The talking-to-strangers part. He'd rather be on a boat."
"Then why does he do it?"
"Because I asked him to. And because somewhere in that crusty exterior, he actually wants people to read what he wrote. He just can't admit it."
The wine was different from what she'd been drinking earlier. Darker, fuller, a red that made you slow down. Lori took a sip and settled in.
"How did you find him?" she asked. "The book, I mean."
"Estate sale, if you can believe it. A woman in Avalon passed away, and her family was selling off her library.
I bought three boxes of books without looking too closely.
Ron's memoir was buried at the bottom of one of them.
" He shook his head. "No idea how it ended up there.
She must have bought it at one of the craft fairs where he was selling copies out of a cooler.
But I took it home, started reading, and couldn't stop. "
"And you just—called him?"
"His number was in the back of the book.
Self-published, remember. He put his personal phone number in the author bio like it was nothing.
" John laughed. "He answered on the second ring and asked if I was trying to sell him something.
When I told him I wanted to host a reading, he was quiet for so long I thought he'd hung up.
Then he said, 'You're serious?' And I said, 'Completely.
' And he said, 'Well, I'll be.' And that was that. "
Across the patio, Ron was finally free of the signing line. He caught John's eye, raised a hand in farewell, and headed toward the parking lot without looking back.
"He's not coming over to say goodbye?" Lori asked.
"Ron doesn't do goodbyes. He just leaves." John watched him go. "We've been fishing together a few times since I found that book. He barely talks, but I feel like I've known him for years."
"I think I like him."
"Most people do, once they get past the gruffness." John reached for the bottle. "More?"
"Better not. I'm driving."
"Probably wise. Unlike hiding behind your friend at Ocean Drive."
Lori groaned. "You saw that."
"Hard to miss." He was grinning. "For what it's worth, my sister thought it was charming. She also told me I should ask you out, but that felt like something a teenager would do."
"And yet here we are."
"Here we are."
He topped off his own glass and set the bottle aside. "You mentioned friends, kids, a summer rental, but that's the brochure version. What's the real reason you're here?"
She'd been giving the brochure version since June. The rental house, the friends, the kids. The easy answer that fit into small talk.
"Honestly?" She turned her wine glass in her hands. "I'm figuring some things out."
"What kind of things?"
The safe version was on her tongue again. But John was looking at her with that focused attention she'd noticed the first time they'd talked, like he actually wanted to hear the answer, not just fill the silence.
"My marriage ended three years ago," she said.
"My ex-husband is getting remarried in a few weeks.
To someone who was—around—before things ended.
My son is seventeen and angry about all of it, and I'm trying to help him without making it worse.
Some days I feel like I'm finally figuring out who I actually am.
Other days I feel like I'm just pretending until the next thing falls apart. "
The words came out faster than she'd intended. She took a breath.
"Sorry. That was more than you asked for."
"No," John said. "That was exactly what I asked for."
The staff had moved inside now, their voices muffled through the barn doors. The patio was nearly empty except for the two of them, the vineyard stretching dark beyond the tables.
"I understand the figuring-things-out part," John said. "I was married for eighteen years. Divorced for almost ten now. It took me a long time to stop defining myself by the failure of it."
"When did that change?"
"I told you I burned out on corporate life.
But I didn't tell you the moment I knew.
" He traced the rim of his glass with one finger.
"I was sitting in a meeting about quarterly projections, and I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd read a book for pleasure.
The last time I'd done anything just because I wanted to.
That was the day I started planning my exit. "
"And everyone thought you were crazy."
"My ex-wife called to tell me I was making a mistake.
My kids thought I'd lost my mind." He shrugged.
"They've come around. My daughter brought her husband down last summer and spent the whole weekend browsing the shelves and telling me she was proud of me.
My son still thinks I should have kept the consulting job, but he also asks for book recommendations now, so I count that as progress. "
Someone inside the barn turned off a light, and the patio grew dimmer. The stars were visible now, scattered across the sky in a way they never were back home.
"Can I ask you something?" John said.
"Sure."
"Why did you come tonight? I mean, I'm glad you did. But you could have stayed home, or with your friends. You could have been anywhere."
Lori met his eyes. "Because you invited me," she said. "And I wanted to see you again."
John was quiet. The patio had emptied around them. A breeze stirred the vines.
Then he stood up.
"Come with me," he said.
He led her past the last of the tables, to where a low stone wall separated the flagstones from the vineyard beyond. They walked along the wall for a few yards until they reached a gap, a pathway between the rows of vines.
"The owners don't mind if you walk through," John said. "I've done it a hundred times."
They moved into the vineyard, the vines rising on either side, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The path was narrow enough that they had to walk close together. Lori was aware of his shoulder near hers, the sound of his footsteps on the packed earth.
They emerged on the other side into a small clearing, a bench overlooking a pond she hadn't known was there. The water reflected the stars, doubled and scattered across its surface. Fireflies blinked in the grass along the edges.
"I come here sometimes," John said. "When I need to think. Or when I need to stop thinking."
They sat on the bench. The night sounds surrounded them. Crickets, the distant hum of the highway, a bullfrog somewhere near the water.
"I need to say something," John said. "Before I lose my nerve."
Lori looked at him. The starlight caught the silver in his hair, the lines around his eyes, how he was watching her—nervous and hopeful and trying not to show either one.
"I've been thinking about you," he said. "More than I probably should."
"How long?"