“Ahh, one of our favorites. What time?”
“Thirty minutes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into the restaurant parking lot. The Boathouse Diner sat near the edge of Main Street, tucked between a bait shop and a kayak rental company. Its weathered white siding and cobalt-blue trim had held strong against wind, salt, and sun for over three decades. The diner had started as an actual boathouse, owned by a retired fisherman named Billy Bob Armstrong, who had decided one day that he’d spent enough of his life hauling nets and wanted to serve up food instead.
Billy kept the original structure, reinforcing the walls with reclaimed ship planks, and he added a dining room in the back to serve more patrons. Rumor had it the brick fireplace in that room, my favorite part of the place, came from the home of Jeremiah Johnson, one of the town’s earliest settlers and entrepreneurs. Tourists often stopped at the diner because of their clam chowder, which had been awarded one of the best in the state. But the locals came for Billy, a master storyteller who loved sharing his seafaring tales.
I exited the car and saw that Giovanni had parked a few spots down. Inside, the diner bustled with the late lunch crowd, and a jukebox was playing oldies near the bar area. The pleasant aroma of fresh cherry pie drifted through the air.
Billy stood behind the register, polishing a brass bell with a cloth. He was dressed in his usual sea-captain ensemble: navy peacoat, wool cap, trimmed white beard, and a posture that suggested he’d once spent more time on water than land.
He looked up and pointed the cloth at me like it was an extension of his hand.
“Ahoy, Georgiana, it’s nice to see you.”
“And you, Billy.”
“It’s been a while.”
“We’ve been meaning to stop in. I believe Giovanni’s already here?”
Billy motioned toward the back room. “By the fire, your favorite spot. Take a seat, and we’ll catch up in a jiffy.”
I nodded and walked past the main dining area, entering the back room, where the old brick fireplace framed the far wall. A small fire crackled in the hearth, giving off warmth that seeped into the wooden floorboards. Giovanni sat near the window. We embraced, and I joined him, my attention turning toward the kitchen as I studied the movement inside.
Pots clanged.
A spatula flipped something I couldn’t see.
And every so often, a large silhouette moved in front of the stove.
“You seem to be watching the kitchen with intention,” Giovanni said.
“I am.”
He tapped a finger against my arm. “Are you going to tell me why?”
“In a minute.”
The chef, a large man everyone called Bear, worked with a precision that surprised people when they first saw him. His shoulders were broad enough to block the kitchen doorway, and his thick, muscular arms looked as though he chopped firewood every morning before breakfast.
But that wasn’t the reason I studied him.
Our waiter, a young teen who’d been hired several months earlier, approached with menus. “Welcome back. Can I get any drinks started for you?”
“Two iced teas,” Giovanni said. “Unsweetened.”
The waiter nodded and walked away with a promise to return in a moment to take our order. Billy entered the room and walked over, brushing flour off his coat as he approached.
“Well, look at you two,” he said with a smile. “Haven’t seen you for a couple of months. Thought you ran off to Europe or someplace fancy.”
Giovanni laughed, patting Billy on the shoulder. “I apologize we haven’t been in for a while, my friend. We’ve been busy.”
Billy leaned both hands on the edge of the table. “Busy is overrated. But I’m happy you’re here. Got a new batch of sourdough today. I’ll get your waiter to bring you some bread and butter in just a minute.”
“Wonderful.” I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
