“From the upper deck. Beautiful sightlines. You can see the whole marina from up there. Every slip. Every piling. Every man who jumps into the water fully clothed to rescue a stuffed elephant.”
Harold coughs. It’s not a real cough. It’s the kind of cough a man produces when he’s trying not to laugh and losing.
“I don’t know what you —”
“Emma.” Grandma Hensley gives me the look. The one that saysI have been alive for eighty-seven years and I did not survive this long by being fooled.“I watched the whole thing. Harold watched the whole thing. The jump. The rescue. The shirt situation.”
“The shirt —”
“Don’t play coy, dear.”
She’s right. My brain has been replaying that particular moment on a continuous loop for the last twenty minutes and shows no signs of stopping.
“He jumped in for Stomper,” I say, focusing on the grilled cheese like it requires brain surgery. “It was a nice thing to do.”
“It was more than nice. That man didn’t hesitate. He didn’t calculate. He didn’t check the water temperature or take off his boots or do any of the things Paul Spencer normally does before making a decision. He just jumped.”
“Because Aidan was upset.”
“Because Aidan isyours.” She says it simply. Like it’s a fact she’s been observing for months and has only now decided to state aloud. “That man treats your children like they’re his own. He’s been doing it since you docked here. And today he proved it in front of the entire marina—or at least in front ofme and Harold, which is functionally the same thing.”
Harold nods from the doorway. “She’s not wrong.”
“You don’t have to back her up on everything.”
“I’m not backing her up. I’m corroborating. Ask any fisherman—two witnesses makes it fact.” He winks at Grandma Hensley. She ignores the wink with composure like she’s been ignoring Harold Spencer’s winks for longer than I’ve been alive.
“And then,” Grandma Hensley continues, because she is not finished and will not be finished until she is good and ready, “there was the matter of the first aid.”
“I put a bandaid on a scrape.”
“You put a bandaid on a shirtless man while standing close enough to share a heartbeat. I may be eighty-seven but my eyes work fine. Neither of you moved for a solid thirty seconds afterward.”
The grilled cheese is burning. I should flip it. I don’t.
“Grandma Hensley. It was a cartoon whale bandaid.”
“The whale is irrelevant. What matters is that you two stood on that dock like the rest of the world had disappeared.” She leans forward. “Harold had to physically stop me from applauding.”
“You were watching the whole time?”
“Harold brought binoculars.”
I look at Harold. Harold shrugs. “I keep them on the boat for birdwatching.”
“You werebirdwatching.”
“There was a pelican.”
Grandma Hensley pulls out her notepad—the one that saysDetective Notesin sparkly gel pen on the cover—and flips to a page that already has today’s date written at the top.
“I’m documenting this for the record,” she says. “Paul Spencer. Jumped into ocean for child’s stuffed animal. Removed shirt on dock. Subject and Emma Mills stood motionless for approximately thirty seconds post-bandaid application. Status: progressing.”
“Please don’t write that down.”
“Already written.” She closes the notepad. Tucks it into her purse. Pats my hand across the table. “Sweetheart. I’ve been watching people fall in love in this town for sixty years. I know what it looks like. And I know what it looks like when someone is too scared to admit it.”
Her voice shifts. Not teasinganymore. Tender. The way she sounds when she talks about her late husband, or about Mads, or about the baby that’s coming.
