“She was right.” He glanced at her again. “Though you look beautiful in anything. I've thought that for years.”
“Years?”
“I first noticed you in school, but then I remember you at the harbor festival eight years ago. You were helping your father with his booth, selling those wooden boats he used to make. You were laughing at something he said, really laughing, and I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.”
Kate didn't know what to say. Eight years ago was right before Mom got sick, before everything fell apart. She barely remembered that festival, that version of herself who could still laugh freely.
“I almost asked you out then,” Ben continued. “But Tom told me you were seeing someone from Portland.”
“David,” Kate said quietly. “We broke up when Mom got sick. He couldn't handle the drama.”
“His loss.”
The restaurant he'd chosen was perfect: elegant but not pretentious, with a view of the Piscataqua River and soft lighting that made everything feel intimate. They sat by a window, city lights reflecting on the dark water.
“This is beautiful,” Kate said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I guess I expected pizza or burgers. Something casual.”
“I told you it was a real date. I wanted to do it right.” He paused. “You deserve to be courted properly.”
“Courted? That's an old-fashioned word.”
“I'm an old-fashioned guy. I believe in doing things right, taking time, making sure.”
The waiter came, and Ben ordered wine after asking her preference. Kate found herself actually looking at the menu for what she wanted, not what was cheapest.
“The lobster risotto looks good,” she said.
“Then get it.”
“It's thirty-two dollars.”
“Kate.” He put down his menu. “Order what you want. Please. Let me do this.”
It was such a small thing, but Kate felt tears prick her eyes. When was the last time someone had told her to just want what she wanted?
“Sorry,” she said, blinking quickly. “I don't know why that...”
“You're not used to being taken care of. I get it.” He reached across the table, covered her hand with his. “But maybe you could try to get used to it?”
Dinner was lovely. They talked about everything and nothing: the inn renovations, his current projects, town gossip, books they'd read. Ben told her about learning carpentry from his grandfather, about the satisfaction of creating something solid with his hands.
“My ex-wife never understood that,” he said. “She saw it as lack of ambition, not moving to Boston, not expanding into development. She wasn't wrong to want more. We just defined 'more' differently.”
“What's your definition?”
“More time for things that matter. More satisfaction in work well done. More moments like this.” He gestured between them. “What about you? What's your 'more'?”
Kate thought about it. “I don't even remember how to dream.”
“Maybe you could learn again.”
They were sharing dessert, a lemon tart Kate had wanted despite the price, when her phone rang. Amy.
“I'm so sorry,” Kate said. “It could be about Pop.”
