Tomorrow Matt flies home. Tomorrow the space I asked for becomes the space I live in, and I’ll have to decide whether I want to keep living in it or walk ten feet down the dock and knock on a hull.
Ten feet. That’s all it is. Ten feet of weathered wood between the wrong choice and the right one.
I go inside. I don’t sleep either.
TWENTY-FOUR
PAUL
The yacht is wearing more flowers than I’ve ever seen on a non-floral surface.
Delilah has been aboard since five a.m., and the result is staggering—garlands of white roses and eucalyptus draped along every railing, arrangements of dahlias and peonies lining the grand salon, greenery woven through the staircase banister in a way that makes the whole yacht smell like a garden. The altar—if you can call it an altar when it’s positioned on the bow of a mega yacht—is a wooden arch wrapped in magnolia branches and twinkle lights.
Twinkle lights. The same kind Emma has on her houseboat. Of course they are.
I’m standing in the marinaoffice in the one suit I own—the same one I wore to Holly’s funeral, which is a thought I’m choosing not to dwell on. I had it dry cleaned. It still fits, mostly. The shoulders are tight in a way that suggests I’ve been doing more physical labor than suit-wearing in the past decade.
“You clean up decent,” Justin says from the doorway. He’s in khakis and a button-down, looking approximately as comfortable as a man wearing a costume.
“This is ridiculous.”
“You’re a guy who owns one suit. It’s fine.”
“Same thing.”
He almost smiles. Today must be special.
The marina ischaos in its finest clothing.
Guests are arriving by car, by boat, and in one memorable instance, by helicopter—Levi’s manager, who apparently believes that ground transportation is for civilians. The parking situation alone would make a city planner weep. I’ve got boats double-parked at slips, a valet team that’s never valeted in a marina before, and Aubrey Wheaton—the wedding planner from Maple Creek—directing traffic with a clipboard.
“Paul.” Aubrey materializes beside me. Red hair pinned up, white blouse impossibly crisp despite the humidity. “The string quartet can’t find their staging area.”
“Port side of the main deck. Second door past the galley.”
“And the caterers from The Salty Pearl need access to the auxiliary kitchen.”
“Amber knows where it is. She did the walkthrough yesterday.”
“And there’s a man in a kayak with a camera.”
“Again?”
“Different kayak. Different man. Same camera.”
I grab the radio. “Dawson, we’ve got another one. Port side, near slip six.”
It crackles. “On it, Dad.” A pause. “Finch says this guy has a telephoto.”
“I don’t care about his equipment. Just move him away from the yacht.”
“Copy that.”
I watch through the office window as Dawson’s boat—a seventeen-foot center console that has never looked more official—cuts through the harbor toward the kayaker. Finch is standing at the bow with his arms crossed, sunburned and serious. The kayaker takes one look at him and starts paddling backward.
The kayaker retreats. Dawson gives a thumbs up.
This is my life now. A marina manager in a suit commanding a teenage naval defense force against paparazzi in recreational watercraft.
