You make sailing sound hostile to beverages. He went below and returned with it. The cabin door slammed behind him. Clare winced. That needs adjusting.
Your boat needs therapy. My boat has character. Your boat has deferred maintenance. Around 1, Clare handed him a sandwich. I brought lunch.
I remember the bribe. It wasn't a bribe. You offered food after I said no three times. That's hospitality with persistence. They sat in the cockpit while Blue Heron moved steadily south.
Evan looked at the sandwich, then at Clare. This is suspiciously close to a picnic. Clare took a bite. Picnics require a blanket. That seems arbitrary.
It's the law. So, this is not a date. She looked at him. Were you worried? No. Good.
Were you? No. They both became very interested in their sandwiches. 10 minutes later, the wind shifted. Blue heron healed harder and a loose sheet snapped across the deck. Evan stood.
Clareire, ease the man. I've got it. Red line. She corrected immediately. Another gust hit.
Evan reached for the helm, then stopped himself. Hold this heading. Clare nodded. Tell me what you need. Two turns on the winch, then trim.
She did. The sail settled. The boat found her balance again. For 30 seconds, there were no jokes, just short instructions, quick answers, and two people moving as though they had practiced together before. When the wind eased, Clare looked at him.
That was fun. That was preventable. You had fun. I experienced successful problem management. She laughed.
Evan did too. They reached Eastport without hitting anything expensive. Clare secured the stern line and stepped onto the dock. Evan checked the knot. She noticed.
Don't. He removed his hand. Clare smiled. You're free now. Evan looked at Blue Heron.
The blue hull rocked gently against the dock. The stubborn cabin door swung open by itself. He looked at it a little longer than he needed to. Thursday, he said. Clare blinked.
What? That door needs fixing. Her smile came slowly. My boat. Evan sighed.
For now. Thursday morning, Evan received a photograph of a puddle. Clare's message underneath it said, "One small repair." He stared at the screen. The puddle was inside Blue Heron's cabin.
Evan typed the number of a marine mechanic he trusted, then deleted it. He enlarged the photograph. The water was directly below the port window, but the streak along the bulkhead started higher than it should have. He called her. Define small.
The puddle is small. That is not the repair. I knew you'd focus on the negative. 25 minutes later, he was walking down the dock carrying a toolbox. Clare looked at her watch.
You said you weren't coming. I said I was giving you a number. You gave me yourself instead. For 20 minutes. Of course.
Evan stepped into the cabin and pressed two fingers against the damp wood. Clare crouched beside him with a yellow notepad. What's that? A list. That concerns me.