I decide to mention it to Danny, but I don’t think it’s enough to go on—it’s not really a theory or even evidence at all. I walk the papers into Dad’s office, thinking. Danny walks around the corner as I’m coming out and his face breaks into a wide, handsome smile when he sees me.
“Hi,” he says, stopping in front of me.
“Hey,” I say, stepping back into Dad’s office and motioning for Danny to follow me.
“What’s going on?” he asks. His t-shirt is tight, clinging to his muscles, and it’s so hard not to stare.
“That busboy from last night, Michael?” I say, “I don’t know if it’s anything, but I just heard him on the phone telling someone he’d have something for them soon and sounding scared.”
“Scared?” Danny asks, frowning.
“Really scared. I know that doesn’t make sense. He’s just a kid, but I thought you should know,” I say. Danny nods.
“Thanks. I’ll keep a close watch on him. I think it’s all I can do for now,” Danny says.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. Danny frowns again but then catches my eye and smiles at me, broadly.
“I’m glad you’re here. I was going to call you later,” Danny says.
“About the investigation?” I ask. Danny shakes his head.
“I was actually wondering if you’d like to go out on my boat with me tonight. It has to have been years since you were on a boat, and it’s supposed to be a perfect night,” Danny says. I bite my lip. A night with Danny on his boat sounds incredible—and decidedly romantic. I think I should say no. But I don’t want to.
I tell myself to calm down. It’s just a night on a boat, not a marriage proposal or sex in the kitchen (again). I can go on his boat with him, just us, on a beautiful night, and be his friend.
(I know I can’t. I know that Danny and I aren’t really friends, that whatever has been between us since the day I got back is only getting stronger. I think we both know it.)
“I would love to,” I say.
I think to myself that Catherine would have loved this story, a man like Danny taking me out on a moonlight boat ride. She would have said he’s sweeping me off my feet.
Maybe he is.
Chapter Eighteen - Danny
I haven’t had anyone on my boat in years. Having Charlotte here seems so right, so fitting. She looks beautiful—stunning, really. She’s wrapped in a peacoat and scarf, and the water and moonlight on her face keep taking my breath away. Her hair is falling around her face and then blowing in the wind, and it looks soft like it’s begging me to touch it, like all of her is.
“Are you warm enough?” I ask, glancing over at her. I’m taking the boat out to one of my favorite spots where we can anchor and have an amazing view of the stars and the bridge.
“The air feels great,” Charlotte says, beaming at me. She looks so natural out here on the water, and I can’t stop looking at her.
“It does,” I agree. It’s an ideal night for this: not too cold, not too windy, no rain or snow in the air.
“Thanks for this,” Charlotte says. “I haven’t been out on the bay in a long time, and never on a private boat.”
“Never?” I ask, surprised. It’s not uncommon for people around here to own their own boats. I know Hank never has, but I would have assumed Charlotte had friends who did.
“Mom always said small boats were more likely to sink. I wasn’t allowed to as a kid, and by the time I was a teenager, people had stopped inviting me,” Charlotte says. I frown.
“This town and your mom never were a good fit,” I say, shaking my head as a drop anchor and walk over to sit by Charlotte.
“She’s much happier down south,” Charlotte says. She smiles at me and pulls out the wine we’ve had chilling.
“That’s good,” I say, reaching into my pocket for the corkscrew. It’s a small bottle of wine, enough to split and feel like tonight is an occasion without it being enough to get either of us drunk. I try not to drink heavily at all these days, finding it’s just not worth it.
“Sorry to bring it up. I know you two know never got along,” Charlotte says.
“She was never my biggest fan,” I admit, pouring the wine. I know what Hank’s wife thought of me, and I know there was a time when I completely deserved it. “But I brought a lot of that on myself.”
“It seems like a long time ago now,” Charlotte says, sipping her wine.
“It was,” I agree.
“You’ve really changed so much since then,” Charlotte says, with a rise in her voice almost like it’s a question.
“I’d like to think I have,” I say, thinking of the angry young man I’d been back then, afraid I’m feeling him rise back up inside of me as I do.
“Can I ask you about it?” Charlotte asks, eyes fixed on me.
“About what?” I ask.
“You. About how you changed so much . . . what happened,” Charlotte says. I take a long sip of my wine before I answer, figuring out how to best phrase everything.
“My dad was a drunk,” I tell her. “He used to fight with me all the time. My house was full of shouting every day, all day while I grew up. He’d drink more and more, and shout at me more and more, and as I got older, I started shouting back and I started drinking myself. I figured, at the time, that was all there was. That I’d get some dead-end job and be poor and angry forever. So I dropped out of high school and started working at the pizza shop where I met your dad,” I say. I don’t like to tell this story, but I feel like Charlotte deserves to hear it.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte says, frowning and grabbing my hand.
“I was in a low place, but for some reason, your dad wanted to be my friend. He stayed my friend even though I was like that for years: fights and drinking and women. Hank helped me, though, kept me from getting fired more than once, and helped me get my GED. Then . . . ” I stop and take another sip, deciding how to best frame what I want to say next, taking Charlotte’s hand as I do.
“So what happened?” Charlotte asks.
“Then my dad died. He wasn’t even fifty yet, and he died. And all I could think was that I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want that to be me. So I did what your dad had been saying for years, and I got my life together. Joined the Navy, learned to cook—really cook—and I’ve spent every day trying to be better than that. To be a better man than that,” I say. Charlotte scoots in closer to me.
“Well, you’re doing that, you know. Every day,” she tells me.
“I have to,” I say, “because the thought of not doing it fucking terrifies me.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Charlotte says, squeezing my hand. “And you are. I remember you from back then, and I think of you now, the man I’ve gotten to know these past few weeks, and it’s amazing to me what you’ve accomplished.”
Her face is inches from mine, and she’s looking at me with so much emotion that I reach out and put a hand on her face.
“That means a lot,” I say, and mean it.
“Thank you for telling me, Danny,” she says, sliding her legs even closer to mine. I feel her skin against mine, see the way the water bounces off her hair, and I lean down to kiss her again, unable to stop myself. She kisses me back, leaning all the way into me, so close I can feel her heart racing. We’re both breathing heavy when we pull back, and her skin is flushed in a way I can’t look away from.
“I’m,” I start, then pause, sliding my hand to her neck to feel her pulse before I go on. “I’m glad you came home.”
“I’m really glad to be here,” she says breathlessly, leaning in and kissing me again, like she wants more. Like she’s feeling this all just as strongly as I am.
“Charlotte—will you come to the Naval Ball with me, as my date?” I ask when we pull back again, unable to keep the question in. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend that evening, or any other, with. She smiles at me again, her face still so close I can feel her eyelashes flutter.
“Yes,” she says. �
�Yes, I’d really like that.”
“I’d like it, too,” I say, pulling her in by her neck to kiss her again. I don’t know what changed her mind about just being friends, about me, but I’m glad it happened. I’m falling for her, hard and fast, in a way I never have before, for anyone.
That angry young man I once was falls away the more I kiss Charlotte, like every touch of her lips and brush of her fingertips is pushing him away, so distant it feels like an entirely different life from being here with her tonight.
Chapter Nineteen - Charlotte
Catherine’s daughter comes by to get the last of her mother’s belongings and fill out a few last forms. She’s sitting with a social worker, but she flags me down as she’s leaving.
“Hey,” she says, “you’re Charlotte, right? I know Mom was really fond of you in her last days.”
“Your mother was a fantastic woman,” I say. “I didn’t know her for long, but she really made an impression on me.”
“Mom was that way,” she says, smiling fondly with a little sadness in her voice. “Always had a story. It was a gift she had – that she could talk so often about the dreams she used to have, but somehow she never made me feel like she blamed me for those things not happening,” Catherine’s daughter says.
“She was very proud of you and your daughter,” I say, thinking of the day I’d met Catherine and of her stories of how hard it had been to have a baby so young. When she was just a kid.
And as soon as I think it, I feel something click in my brain.
She was just a kid—like that scared busboy, who had sounded so desperate. It’s a wild hunch, a completely out-there theory, but all of a sudden, I think I might have figured out our restaurant mystery.
“She told me all the time,” Catherine’s daughter says, smiling. “Thank you for taking care of her.”
“Meeting her was a blessing,” I say. Catherine’s daughter pulls me into a quick hug and I hug her back, thinking about both Catherine and my theory all at once. I want to text Danny right away, but I decide to wait to tell him in person.
Last night had been incredible, the most romantic evening of my life. I keep thinking about it, remembering Danny’s words and how it had felt when we kissed. I keep thinking about what my mom would say if she knew—but then about what Catherine would say if she could hear about it. I’m more and more convinced by the minute that Danny is a good man, that maybe I shouldn’t let him get away.
Catherine’s daughter leaves, and I think again about what I’d said to Danny the other night, about meeting Catherine for a reason, like maybe I’d needed her wisdom in my life right now in more ways than one. After my shift ends, I head to the Dock’s End, still thinking about Danny, about Dad, about Catherine, about everything going on right now. It all feels connected, like something is coming together.
In the side parking lot, I see Michael, that same busboy, talking to a very heavily pregnant teenage girl, and I immediately feel a sureness wash over me. The girl looks frantic and upset, and he’s kissing her and holding her hands like he’s trying to calm her down.
I head in and find Danny right away, pulling him aside.
“Danny,” I say, urgently. He’s smiling at me, that smile that makes want to do nothing but kiss him, but I don’t, not right now, because this is far too important.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I have a real theory,” I say, pacing. “Michael’s girlfriend. It all makes sense now. And what Catherine said, and—”
“Slow down,” Danny says, grabbing my hand.
“She’s pregnant,” I tell him, starting over. “Michael, our busboy—his girlfriend is pregnant. I just saw them together out in the parking lot. And before she passed away, my patient, Catherine, told me about her own teenage pregnancy, and I know we’ve got nothing to prove anything, but I think they might just be desperate and scared enough to steal money.”
“That sort of thing would certainly make a kid scared enough for action,” Danny says, nodding like everything I’m saying makes sense.
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s not proof, but it would make sense.”
“Yeah, yeah, it would,” Danny says. He pulls his notebook out and glances at it. “It looks like he’s on shift tonight.”
“Now what?” I ask. I feel certain I’m right, but I don’t know quite what to do about it. It’s not like I can accuse a teenager of theft simply based on hearing a phone call and a conversation in the parking lot.
“Well, he needs to be around cash if they’re desperate. He might be bold enough to take it on the spot,” Danny says.
“Can you have him clear a table of someone who pays with cash, or leaves a big tip on it, so there is cash out?” I ask, thinking of times when I’ve gone out to eat and been in a hurry, just leaving enough cash for the bill and a tip without waiting for a receipt.
“That’s a really good idea,” Danny says, giving me an impressed smile. “Whitney always makes huge tips, normally in cash. I can talk to her.”
“And then just watch him?” I ask.
“Like a hawk,” Danny says, shaking his head. Then he smiles at me again. “Thanks, Charlotte.”
“I promised I’d help,” I say, feeling that now-familiar quickening of my pulse under his gaze. I know I should go since Danny has to work and catch a thief, but part of me wants to stay right here, maybe pull him into a corner and kiss him for hours, feel his hands on me again.
It still all feels connected, like maybe out there somewhere, somehow, Catherine is still talking to me, helping me catch a thief and follow my heart all at the same time.
Chapter Twenty - Danny
At 7:00 p.m., while the dinner rush is still booming, it happens: I catch Michael slipping two fifties off one of Whitney’s tables into his back pocket.
Charlotte was right.
I walk up to him, trying to be discreet enough to not alert the customers.
“Want to explain what I just saw?” I ask.
Michael freezes. He looks at me and all the color drains from his face.
“I’m,” he starts but doesn’t finish. He clearly knows he’s been caught.
“Come to the back with me,” I say, “now.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael says, voice shaky, following after me quickly. I take him back to Hank’s office where Hank is writing out holiday schedules.
“What’s going on?” Hank asks.
“Empty your back pockets,” I say to Michael. I’m trying to stay calm and in control of the situation, to not let my old temper flare up. Michael pulls the cash out of his pockets, hands trembling.
“I’m so sorry, sir, I am. I was going to put it back, I was, honest. I was going to pay it back when I could, all of it, even add some extra for interest, but then I just kept needing more and more and didn’t have enough,” Michael says. His eyes are watering, and he looks like he feels sick.
“You’ve been stealing money from the restaurant?” Hank asks, face getting red.
“I’m sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry,” Michael says, voice breaking.
“How much?” I ask. I hear the anger mounting in my own voice, but I hold myself back from shouting, fighting the old urges to let the situation escalate.
“A few thousand,” Michael admits, crying in earnest now, and I have to hold my hand up to stop Hank from a few furious interjections at that. “But it was for rent and doctor visits, I swear it was, nothing just for me. I had to, I had to. The food too. We needed it, but I was going to pay it back. Honest, I was. I thought you wouldn’t notice, that I could have it back before you noticed anything.”
“Doctor visits?” I ask, thinking about what Charlotte had observed earlier. Hank looks like he’s shaking with rage.
“My, my girlfriend—she’s pregnant. Her folks kicked her out when they found out, so it’s just us trying to take care of things, and I’m trying so hard to make it all work, to be there for her, but I—I'm so sorry,” Michael says, trailing off in tears.
; “You stole from this restaurant? From what, if I remember right, is your first job ever?” Hank asks, and his voice sounds like it’s about to boil over. Michael nods miserably.
“I thought I could pay it back,” Michael says again. “We were gonna get evicted, in a week, and have to go to court and everything—”
“I don’t care about your excuses. That doesn’t give you the right—” Hank starts, but I put a hand on his arm to cut him off. I don’t think what this kid need is a lecture.
“Go wait right outside the office while we decide what to do,” I say to Michael, opening the door and pointing to a chair. “If you make a run for it, you can be sure we’ll call the cops.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael says, still crying.
“If he runs? If he runs?” Hank shouts once the door is closed. “You’d better believe me I’m calling the police right now!”
“Hang on, Hank,” I say, thinking.
“Hang on? For weeks you’ve wanted me to call the police about this, and now we have a confessed thief, and you want me to hang on?” Hank says, incredulous.
“He was trying to take care of the mother of his child. He didn’t set out to steal from us,” I point out. I keep thinking myself at that age, about the second chances I’d been given.
“Precisely how the hell does that matter?” Hank asks.
“Hank, you remember—at his age, I didn’t care about anyone but myself, and look how many second chances you gave me,” I tell him.
“Oh, come on. That was different,” Hank says, waving a hand.
“You’re right, it was. Because if I had been stealing it, it would have been for myself. Probably for beer money or something. Michael has a baby on the way and he’s trying to do the right thing,” I say. In a lot of ways, I think Michael is far more responsible than I was at his age, even if he’s going about demonstrating it all wrong.
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