"I have a copy in my car. Consider it a gift."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to." He smiled. "Ron would give them away for free if I let him. Says he didn't write it to make money. He wrote it because the stories needed to go somewhere before he forgot them."
Lori glanced over at Ron, who was shaking hands with someone. "He's something."
"He's the real thing. You don't find that very often."
The crowd was thinning now. People drifting off to their cars, to the last glasses of wine, to whatever came next. The globe lights grew warmer as the sky darkened.
"I should let you—" Lori started, gesturing vaguely toward the cleanup that was beginning to happen around them.
"Stay," John said. "If you want. The vineyard doesn't close for another hour, and I could use the company."
"Okay."
They moved to a table at the edge of the patio, the one farthest from the cleanup crew now stacking chairs and collecting glasses. John brought a bottle of red and poured them each a glass. The last of the audience members had either left or were clustered around Ron, who was still signing books with the air of a man serving a sentence.
"He hates this part," John said, following her gaze. "The talking-to-strangers part. He'd rather be on a boat."
"Then why does he do it?"
"Because I asked him to. And because somewhere in that crusty exterior, he actually wants people to read what he wrote. He just can't admit it."
The wine was different from what she'd been drinking earlier. Darker, fuller, a red that made you slow down. Lori took a sip and settled in.
"How did you find him?" she asked. "The book, I mean."
"Estate sale, if you can believe it. A woman in Avalon passed away, and her family was selling off her library. I bought three boxes of books without looking too closely. Ron's memoir was buried at the bottom of one of them." He shook his head. "No idea how it ended up there. She must have bought it at one of the craft fairs where he was selling copies out of a cooler. But I took it home, started reading, and couldn't stop."
"And you just—called him?"
"His number was in the back of the book. Self-published, remember. He put his personal phone number in the author bio like it was nothing." John laughed. "He answered on the second ring and asked if I was trying to sell him something. When I told him I wanted to host a reading, he was quiet for so long I thought he'd hung up. Then he said, 'You're serious?' And I said, 'Completely.' And he said, 'Well, I'll be.' And that was that."
Across the patio, Ron was finally free of the signing line. He caught John's eye, raised a hand in farewell, and headed toward the parking lot without looking back.
"He's not coming over to say goodbye?" Lori asked.
"Ron doesn't do goodbyes. He just leaves." John watched him go. "We've been fishing together a few times since I found that book. He barely talks, but I feel like I've known him for years."
"I think I like him."
"Most people do, once they get past the gruffness." John reached for the bottle. "More?"
"Better not. I'm driving."
"Probably wise. Unlike hiding behind your friend at Ocean Drive."
Lori groaned. "You saw that."
"Hard to miss." He was grinning. "For what it's worth, my sister thought it was charming. She also told me I should ask you out, but that felt like something a teenager would do."
"And yet here we are."
"Here we are."
He topped off his own glass and set the bottle aside. "You mentioned friends, kids, a summer rental, but that's the brochure version. What's the real reason you're here?"
