“There are some things a husband doesn’t need to know,” he scoffed, and pushed the box closer to me. “It’s an innocent gift. How do you say? Scout’s honor.”
So there. Boundaries set. I gave myself a mental pat on the back and leaned forward, trying not to smile as I pulled at the red velvet bow elaborately tied on the front of the box. It was too big for jewelry, the wrong size for a book.There are some things a husband doesn’t need to know.
So true. I pulled back the wrapping paper and opened the lid of the box.
Inside was a fact-a-day desktop calendar, the sort where you tear off a page each morning, and I glanced up to see the teasing curve of his lips. “You got me a calendar?”
“Well, I figured you didn’t have one.”
I laughed. “Interesting assumption.”
“You mentioned that your favorite kind were the fact-a-days. I would have brought flowers, but thought this was a safer, less assumptive gift.” He grinned at me. “Both informativeandcompletely devoid of romance.”
“It is rather unsexy,” I admitted. “I actually got this exact same one for my mailman.”
It was a lie, but one he appreciated, his head dropping back in another contagious laugh, and I crumpled up the wrapping paper and tried to squash the warmth that was spreading through me every time our eyes met.
It was a ten-dollar item. It shouldn’t have affected me, but it did.
Our to-go cups in hand, we walked down the dock, past dinghies, sailboats, and houseboats, my steps slowing occasionally to read the name printed on the back of each boat. The dock was active, people passing, dogs running, crews working on the big yachts ahead of us, an easy camaraderie on the salty air. Several people called out a hello to David as we passed, and I eyed him over the plastic lid of my cup. “Come here often?”
“I should. My second home is ahead on the right.” He pointed down the dock.
“You stay on the boat?” I asked, surprised. When he’d mentioned keeping a boat here, I’d thought he meant for fishing, or skiing, or whatever sporty people did on the waters outside Los Angeles.
“I do.” We moved to the side to let a group pass, and his hand made contact with my lower back, guiding me around a cleat, and then stayed there. “I try to be here two weeks of the month. The boat is my hotel of sorts, one I can take out if the urge hits me.”
“So your business—you can do that from anywhere?” His business card had listed a textile company’s name. A quick internet search had revealed the business to be a chain of screen-printing shops that stretched across several states.
“Yep.” He pointed to a white two-level boat on the right. “That’s me.”
It was calledLost Buoy, and a portable set of steps led to the back of the boat. He offered me a hand and gestured me forward.
I paused. “Wait, we’re getting on it?”
“The coffee deck is on the top. Best view in the marina.”
“The coffee deck?” I asked skeptically.
“Well, it’s the tequila deck, normally—but I’ll make an exception for you.” He grinned, and there was a dimple hidden in the scruff of his blond beard.
His hand was still extended, waiting—the courtly gesture of a livery attendant, waiting to help the damsel into the carriage. I took it, climbed the three plastic steps up, and then stepped over a gap of water and onto the teak deck of the boat.
Three steps but they felt pivotal. Inside my chest, a callus began to grow around my feelings for Mike.
CHAPTER 22
LILLIAN
I was jobless for less than forty-eight hours because David had a solution. The position wasn’t prestigious, challenging, or with the trappings of things like benefits, but it was available and it paid under the table, in cash. I was now a marina concierge, which was a dignified title for running errands for the yacht owners. I joined a crew of three that included a pimple-faced teenager Jacob’s age (Kyle), an old drunk (Shawn), and a bubble gum–popping lesbian (Jenn). There were no assigned hours, no hourly wage, and I clocked in by picking up a walkie-talkie from the harbormaster and clipping it to my shorts.
It was perfect.
The marina was divided into classes by the size of the slips. The farther out you went, the bigger the slips, with the yachts and megayachts on the far end. Concierge service was for the sixty-footers and up, which was around eighty boats, only half of which were being used. I was boat-dumb and couldn’t pick a catamaran out of a lineup, much less tell the bow from the stern. But the job didn’t need any sort of marine know-how. Our tasks were simple—the radio would crackle, a boat owner would request something, and one of us would jump into action.
Literally, jump. Even Shawn hustled down the dock, his liver-spotted arms pumping, breath wheezing. I asked Kyle what the rush was for,and he said that tips were always better the faster you were. He was right. Twenties became fifties when I delivered bags of ice within two minutes, and a box of tampons from the nearest convenience store within five. The only time meandering was beneficial was during dog walks—we had twelve pups on-site—or when the owners wanted to chat.
The evening of my first day, David delivered on his promise and cooked me fresh-caught lobster on his upper deck. I stretched out on his lounger, sipped ice-cold champagne, and listened to the faint sounds of steel drum music, playing from the adjacent hotel pool. We hadn’t kissed—we hadn’t done anything that violated the terms of my marriage—but there was an electric wire between us, one that held a flame under the thin string of my self-control. The break was coming, and the anticipation of it was vibrating through my chest.