Second Chance At Two Love Lane

by Kieran Kramer

  Ella assured Roberta that her other dates with Robert counted as real dates, and she’d been speaking on those just fine. “If you can’t talk on this date, it might be that you’re overcome with an emotion like happiness, not just nerves.” Or a spell. But she wouldn’t say the word “spell” out loud and jinx Roberta back into her old silence. “Being overcome with emotions like happiness happens to everyone.”

  You could also be overcome with emotions like sadness, but Ella knew that she could get through it with the help of her family and friends. She wouldn’t lie to them. She was sad. But she also knew she’d made the right decision to let Hank go, to let him figure out what he really wanted for himself, deep inside, apart from her.

  She thought she’d done a good job of reassuring Roberta, but she wanted to be at the gala just in case her client needed a boost. So when she was in the limo on the way over with Deacon, Macy, Greer, Ford, Miss Thing, and Pete, she was shocked when the limo stopped at a red light and someone opened the door.

  “Miss Ella Mancini?” It was a rough-looking man in bib overalls and a squashed hat. He smelled a bit funny too, like fish. But she didn’t want to say that. He was wearing sunglasses at dusk too, which didn’t make sense. She wasn’t worried that he was a carjacker or anything. He knew her name. And she had Mace in her purse, which she always carried, as well as a whistle, along with the emergency twenty-dollar bill she always kept with a tampon, a condom (useless to her!—she’d never have sex again!), and a peppermint in the side zippered pocket most purses have. She’d been so blue getting dressed, she hadn’t even attempted to choose from among her evening bags to carry to the gala. She was in a scarlet red dress with crisscross straps that boosted her décolletage, and she was carrying her daytime white leather handbag big enough to hold a frozen turkey breast from Harris Teeter, if she needed to. (She’d actually done that the week before; grocery shopping held no joy for her; she bought things willy-nilly and functioned, post-Hank’s departure, mainly on Ritz crackers and pimento cheese.)

  Of course, she wasn’t so depressed that she didn’t wear elegant high heels that bordered on ultra sexy, with rhinestones flashing on the toes. The nonnas had told her she must continue wearing strappy sandals, so she’d made sure she did, although she took no joy in donning them.

  Okay, just a little. Good Italian leather shoes could help carry one through hard times.

  No one in the limo reacted, which Ella found strange. Miss Thing was the only one who looked remotely concerned. Her face was red. She was biting her left thumb too.

  The man took off his sunglasses and grinned.

  She suddenly recognized him! “Carl! What are you doing here?” He was the captain of a local shrimp trawler called the Megan Casey.

  “I’m here to kidnap you,” he said.

  And at that moment, Macy and Greer reached over, pulled on Ella’s hands, and yanked her toward the open door of the limo.

  Ella pulled back. “I’m not going!”

  “Yes, you are,” said Macy, her voice calm and sweet.

  Carl waited with his hand stretched out. “Come on, little missy. We’re not going to let you escape.”

  “No.” Ella dug in. But inch by inch, she was moving toward the door, thanks to various hands pushing and pulling her that way. She might have let a few curse words fly.

  “Come on, Ella,” Greer said. “We wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

  “I know what’s happening,” Ella said, “and it’s a terrible idea.”

  “If you go, I’ll tell you my name!” cried Miss Thing.

  For a split second, everything stilled.

  “Okay,” said Ella quietly.

  “You tell her, Pete,” said Miss Thing, her voice thin.

  “Tatyana,” he said proudly, “but I call her T.”

  And before Ella could register any reaction, Carl grabbed her right hand and finally yanked her onto the street.

  The limo took off.

  “Let’s go, Miss Ella,” he said, and pulled her over the curb, then around to the passenger side of a pickup truck idling there.

  “This is a bad idea, Carl,” she said. “There is no one I want to go on Operation Shrimp Trawler with.”

  She remembered Miss Thing—Tatyana!—referring to it as one of their matchmaking agency’s collection of romantic dating scenarios that they saved for special occasions. Miss Thing (Ella couldn’t imagine calling her Tatyana) had bragged about it in the kitchen at Two Love Lane, when Samantha, Roberta, and Hank had been visiting, and most of them ate Miss Thing’s giant pink cookies with sprinkles.

  “I think you’ll change your mind in a minute,” Carl said.

  “No, I won’t.” Macy and Greer were involved, Ella knew. And Miss Thing. Ever since Hank left, they’d been throwing men in front of her. Which was hard to do since she didn’t want to socialize. But they’d found a way. What if one of them was on the trawler tonight?

  Macy had a favorite: his name was Kevin, and he was really cute and fun. He played the banjo and was on the Spoleto Arts Festival board. Greer’s favorite was Tomás, a Spaniard who’d recently moved to Charleston to study sea turtles with the Aquarium. Ella ruled him out because he’d be at the gala tonight, repping the turtles’ cause. Miss Thing’s favorite was Pete’s youngest brother, who lived in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He was in town staying with Pete for a month because he could afford to leave his local thriving sports store chain at will. He wasn’t going to the gala because he didn’t care for the ocean, he’d told Miss Thing. (Who didn’t care for the ocean? Ella remembered thinking). So no way would Pete’s brother be on the trawler.

  No. It had to be Kevin. Dear God, if he brought his banjo and tried to serenade her with it, she would die! “Please, no banjo,” she said to Carl as they drove over the Ravenel Bridge to Shem Creek, where his trawler was docked.

  He cast her a sideways glance. “Banjo?” And then gave a short chuckle.

  Ella groaned. “It’s Kevin, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not saying a word,” said Carl.

  Ella resigned herself to going to Shem Creek and boarding his trawler and chilling with Kevin. She had a fleeting thought, If only it would be Hank! But she knew it wouldn’t be. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he left, but she did stalk his Twitter page, and as of yesterday he was in Montreal filming Forever Road.

  She knew Operation Shrimp Trawler well. First, the couple would meet up on the trawler—which Carl would clean up, of course. He’d take the Megan Casey out into the harbor; hand the couple an iced bottle of tequila; give them a styrofoam bowl of sliced lemons, a shaker of salt, and two red Solo cups. Then he’d go back to the wheel and circle around the harbor a few times. After a while, a chef belowdecks would bring out a splendiferous meal of boiled shrimp, fried catfish, some of Carl’s incredible cocktail sauce (which had a lot of Tabasco in it), his homemade tartar sauce (which was really sweet pickle relish, dill, and Duke’s Mayonnaise), and bread and butter, and the couple would eat it looking at a nice sunset over the Ashley River Bridges.

  Not at a nice table either. They’d eat their bounty on paper plates. With their hands. And no napkins.

  “It’s primitive,” Miss Thing would always say. “They’ll have to lick their fingers a lot.”

  At this point, the tequila would be kicking in. Carl would cruise up the Cooper River to a sweet little farmhouse stocked with wine, beer, liquor, and breakfast food. It had a fantastic tree house on one side—with a queen-sized bed in it—and a nice pool on the other. When they got to the dock, Carl would give each of his passengers a bag holding a bathing suit and a toothbrush and toothpaste. That was it. And then he’d say he’d return in three hours, unless someone texted him and told him not to. At that point, he’d chug away from the dock.

  Only once out of the four times they’d used Operation Shrimp Trawler had Carl had to go back, and it wasn’t because the couple didn’t like each other. It was because they’d accidentally broken their bottle of tequila when they wer
e climbing up to the tree house and the guy had cut his hand pretty good and needed stitches. That couple wound up getting married. Three out of the four had. The fourth couple settled for becoming best friends and started a Charleston tourism package company together that was going gangbusters—but the ladies of Two Love Lane refused to let them use their Operation Shrimp Trawler idea. They had to sign an agreement not to.

  “Because Operation Shrimp Trawler is worth its weight in gold,” Miss Thing always said.

  And it was.

  But it wouldn’t work on Ella. She wasn’t a big tequila person. She’d eat the shrimp and fried catfish, and before Carl started moving up the Cooper River, she’d tell him to head back to Shem Creek, and she would thank Kevin for being such a lovely dinner companion.

  The end.

  She felt a little better imagining what she would do, so when she walked up the gangplank of the Megan Casey and saw Hank there at the bow, sitting on a chair with his legs spread and his hands between his knees, a game of Scrabble prepped and ready on a table, she nearly fell overboard.

  “You’re in Montreal,” she said.

  “Nope,” said Hank, and stood. “I’m here.”

  Ella shivered. She was in that elegant gown with the thin straps and she was teetering on her heels. It was a balmy evening, but the shock of seeing Hank made her wish for a light wrap.

  Which Carl provided. It was one of her own shawls. “Miss Thing sent this over. Why don’t you take off your shoes, though.”

  She hadn’t taken her eyes off Hank. “Okay,” she said. She leaned against the front of the cockpit housing, a big window behind her, and pulled off her shoes. Carl scooped them up for her and stashed them under his arm.

  She didn’t care if she ever saw those shoes again, honestly.

  All of her attention was on Hank. He was wearing a tux. She just now noticed. What was up with that?

  He stood. “Come on over,” he said. “Take a seat and let’s play some Scrabble.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m not a tequila fan, really. Operation Shrimp Trawler is all about tequila.”

  “I know,” he said. “Your besties told me. We’ve got wine tonight instead.”

  “I like wine,” she whispered. “Operation Shrimp Trawler’s also about seduction. After having a meal that you have to eat with your hands.”

  “We’re sticking with that.” He grinned, and her knees nearly buckled. He was Hank.

  “I hope it’s boiled shrimp and fried catfish,” she said.

  “It still is. Captain Carl doesn’t mess with success. Not unless he’s ordered to by the admirals at Two Love Lane.”

  His smile warmed the cockles of her heart. She didn’t know what cockles were, but Mama sometimes said it when she was extra moved by something, and that expression fit better than any other Ella could think of.

  She barely noticed, but the engine started and Carl cast off the lines.

  “Come sit down,” Hank said.

  So she padded over to the table in bare feet and sat down.

  The bow of the Megan Casey made a sharp left turn, and they headed out Shem Creek and into Charleston Harbor. The salt breeze felt amazing.

  “Thanks so much for coming tonight,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and remembered being yanked out of the limo. She could smile about it now. “I had no choice. I was kidnapped.”

  He winced, but on him, it looked good. All raw man. “You’re right,” he said. “There was some deception involved. I’m sorry if that annoys you. The last thing I want to do is offend you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I think.”

  “You’re a good sport.” He reached across the Scrabble board and took her hand. “You look beautiful.”

  “You don’t look so bad yourself.” She squeezed his hand back.

  He smiled. “The board’s Velcroed to the table. And so are the racks. Captain Carl thought of everything.”

  “Amazing,” she murmured. Scrabble was the last thing on her mind.

  “But the letters might slide around,” Hank said. “Let’s hope we don’t hit rough seas.”

  She laughed. The harbor was calm. The horizon held no clouds. “We’ll be okay.”

  A young man in khaki shorts and a faded Shem Creek Trawling Company T-shirt appeared with two red Solo cups and handed them off to Ella and her unexpected date, which meant they had to release their handclasp. “Enjoy,” he said. “The shrimp and catfish will be up in about ten minutes.”

  Ella took a sip of the mellow rosé and wasn’t sure now she could eat. Her stomach felt nervous. As did the rest of her. What could Hank want? She was sure he’d reveal all. But meanwhile, she wanted to enjoy simply sitting with him, the harbor waters falling away on either side of the trawler, the bow gently moving up and down—and the sun, a melon-colored ball setting behind the Ashley River Bridges.

  “Should we play and talk at the same time?” he asked her.

  “Sure.” They each picked up seven tiles turned blank side up that were clustered in the overturned cover of the board game.

  “You go first this time,” Hank said.

  Ella laid down a harmless word, “hamper.” “How have you been?” she asked him.

  He laid down a boring word of his own, “timer,” crossing her word vertically at the M. “I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching,” he said.

  “You’ve had time for that in Montreal?”

  “I didn’t have to get there until last week. So I had a couple of weeks at home in Brooklyn. I saw my family a lot.”

  They each took sips of wine. It wasn’t awkward, but things felt completely different between them. Ella wasn’t sure why. “That’s nice,” she said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with mine too.” She told him the results of her mother’s paternity test, and how Mama was coping well, considering the shock of having to reframe her personal history.

  “I think not telling Nonna Sofia was a wise call, even if it meant you had to fib to her,” he said. “Maybe someday she’ll want to know, like Nonna Alberta. But obviously, she doesn’t right now.”

  “Yes, it’s kind of awkward. But it’s for the best. When I go to Palermo, I’m just going to tell her Uncle Sal and I are visiting the Sicilian branch of the family. It’s time.”

  “She’ll get that.”

  They’d forgotten about Scrabble. Ella couldn’t stop looking at him, and Hank couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

  She wrapped her shawl closer. “It’s such a nice treat, seeing you.”

  She immediately regretted saying “treat,” which was a Southern woman’s way of describing someone or something utterly delightful in polite company. But Hank was way more than a treat. And he was more than polite company. His presence on the trawler was a gift. A very personal one.

  “I mean to say that you’re coming here means a lot to me,” she said. “More than I can express in words.” She glanced down at the game board. “Sometimes words aren’t enough.”

  “I know what you mean,” he murmured. “But I’m going to give it a shot, if you can bear with me.”

  She nodded, took a sip of wine. So did he. And then he looked out at the horizon for a few seconds. She’d have to be patient. He was clearly trying to get it together. To do this the right way, whatever it was.

  “There’s no right way,” she blurted out. “No matter what you say, or how you say it, I’m always going to”—she took a quiet breath and braced herself—“I’m always going to love you, Hank.”

  Hank’s expression then reminded her of how he used to look when they’d lie on the couch at their old apartment and listen to songs from Les Misérables. It made her sit up, her heart race, and her whole being light up from the inside out. Something big was happening. She sensed an impending earthquake. As Macy and Greer had said, plates shifted, and then, bam—

  You were looking at a whole new world.

  He lowered his chin for a second, then lo
oked back up, his bow tie not even askew. It was a sexy move that also showed how vulnerable he could be. She didn’t doubt for a second that it was authentic. “Thank you for saying that,” he said. “I will always love you too, Ella.”

  They didn’t touch. The purr of the boat engine was almost peaceful. A seagull dove nearby, searching for its supper.

  “I know what I want,” he finally said. He sounded happy.

  Ella couldn’t help but grin. “You do?”

  He nodded. “Apart from wanting you,” he said with exaggerated playfulness, “I want to do something that makes me feel the way I did when I worked at Serendipity 3 as a lowly busboy.”

  “You do?” she practically squeaked.

  “Yep. I didn’t need that job. I was the son of a wealthy man, but Dad made me work all through high school so I could appreciate how hard it is to earn a dollar. I think he wanted me to see, too, how lucky I was to come from a family as blessed as ours. Some of the guys in the kitchen at Serendipity 3 weren’t so lucky. They worked paycheck to paycheck.”

  “I can imagine,” said Ella. She remembered a few times when Papa and Uncle Sal were worried about keeping their own restaurant open and having to lay off employees. Owning a business wasn’t easy. She knew that from Two Love Lane. But being a worker—having no control at all over your future at that business—was an even more precarious position to hold.

  “At Serendipity 3,” Hank said, “I got to see a lot of customers find joy in the little things. In this case, ice cream. You didn’t have to be really rich to come in and enjoy a scoop. I saw families like yours—parents with their kids—pay us a visit and find each other again over a frozen hot chocolate.”

  A sweet tenderness overwhelmed Ella. “Papa and I certainly connected that way. I always felt like a princess.”