His concern became visible. The second Saturday, they inspected the sales. Clare found a small tear before Evan did and spent the next hour mentioning it. I have good eyes. You're a photographer.
So, you agree they're professionally good? I agree. You found one tier before you? Yes. I want the record accurate.
There is no record. Clare tapped the yellow notebook. Evan stopped arguing. By the third Saturday, Blue Heron's radio played weather clearly. Baseball poorly and music only when the knob was held slightly left. Clare found an oldie station and turned it up.
Evan reached for the dial. She slapped his hand away. My boat. My radio. That radio belongs to nobody.
It has rejected civilization. Clare sang louder over the crackling speaker. Evan went below deck. You're hiding. I'm checking the engine.
It's not running. That makes this ideal. Lunch became part of Saturdays without either of them deciding it would. Sometimes Clare brought sandwiches. Once Evan arrived with two crab cakes and claimed he had bought too many.
There are exactly two, Clare said. The restaurant has aggressive portions. You bought one for me. I anticipated a logistical problem. You are a deeply romantic man.
He nearly dropped the napkins. That word has not been authorized. Clare opened her lunch. We need rules. That sentence has never improved a Saturday.
She raised one finger. Rule one, this is not dating. Strong start. Rule two, no advice about each other's love lives. I wasn't planning any.
You made a face when I mentioned my last boyfriend. He owned a motorcycle he couldn't start. It was vintage. It was broken. Clare raised a third finger.
Rule three. You are not allowed to call this our boat. I don't. You did this morning. I said our dock lines are embarrassing.
Exactly. That was grammar. Rule three stands. What's the penalty? Clare handed him a sanding block.
The starboard locker. Evan looked at the narrow strip of gray teak. That feels vindictive. It's maritime law. You invented maritime law over lunch.
I'm the owner. My boat has become a dictatorship. Clare smiled. Evan froze. She pointed at him.
That was a grammatical accident. Starboard locker. An older woman from the neighboring slip walked past carrying a canvas bag. Her name was Ruth, and she had already shown an impressive ability to hear conversations that did not involve her. She looked at Evan holding the sanding block, then at Clare eating his crab cake.
"You two married?" "We're not," they said together. Ruth stopped. You answered that awfully fast. She kept walking.
Clare stared after her. She's very intrusive. Extremely. His phone rang. Evan checked the screen and groaned.
Emergency? Clare asked. Worse, Daniel. The friend with the cousins. He has expanded beyond cousins.
Evan answered. No, tonight doesn't work. I'm busy. He looked at the half-sanded locker, the open toolbox, Clare sitting barefoot in the cockpit, and the yellow list taped inside the cabin. Daniel said something that made Evan rub his forehead.