But I notice he ordered Grandma Hensley's refill without asking her what she drinks. Which means he already knows. My father knows her coffee order.
I file that away.
“Black, twosugars,” I tell Michelle, because at least one person at this counter should be ordering normally.
“Paul Spencer.” Caroline has appeared at my elbow with the energy of a woman powered by espresso and enthusiasm. “I've been meaning to talk to you about the marina.”
“What about it?”
“I'm putting together a coastal resilience proposal for the county. Sustainable infrastructure for working waterfronts. Your marina is one of the best examples of a mixed-use facility on this stretch of coast, and the county has grant funding for waterfront preservation. I could put together a profile that might qualify you for infrastructure money. New posts, dock repairs, electrical upgrades.”
Electrical upgrades. My chest catches on those two words.
“I'll think about it,” I say.
“I'll email you. What's your address?”
“I don't check email.”
She stares at me. “How often do you check it?”
“When I remember it exists.”
She pulls out her phone. “I'll text you.”
I give her my number because she's not leaving until I do, and because the marina could use infrastructure money. The posts on C dock havebeen on my list for two years. The electrical system needs work I've been putting off because the budget doesn't reach.
“Paul, you should come to the next town council meeting,” Mads calls from the table. “They're discussing the waterfront preservation plan.”
“I don't go to town council meetings.”
“You should start. You'd be surprised how much gets decided about your dock when you're not in the room.”
She's got a point. I don't say so.
Hazel leans forward. “Paul, how's your father doing? He seems to be in good spirits.”
“He's always in good spirits. It's a character flaw.”
Hazel laughs. Grandma Hensley, who has been watching this entire exchange without saying a word—which is unusual enough to be alarming—finally speaks.
“Paul Spencer. Sit down.”
Not a question. Not a request. The woman has been directing traffic in this town longer than I've been alive. You don't argue with it. You sit.
I sit.
She studies me the way she studies everyone—like she's reading a book she'salready figured out the ending to and is waiting for the characters to catch up.
“You look tired,” she says.
“I run a marina.”
“You look tired in a way that has nothing to do with work.”
I hold her gaze because looking away would be admitting too much. “I'm fine.”
“I didn't ask if you were fine. I said you look tired.” She sips her cup—almost empty, the one Harold is about to replace. “Your father tells me Emma's doing well. Building her business. The kids are settling in.”
