Dolly All the Time(55)

“Hi,” I say, taking him in. He’s in a pale blue shirt and dove-gray pants.

“Happy,” Stewart says, and I smile. He shakes his head. “Sorry. It was a compliment just taking shape. You look happy.”

“It’s the pants, thank you,” I say.

He extends a hand to me and I hesitate. That hand is a gateway drug to something more, I know this now. But we are in public, and this is the deal, so I take it. We stand there for a second and I let myself feel it, the initial sliding of fingers and the soft press of his palm against mine. I must be the best teacher in the world.

We find Busy already seated in a hot-pink tunic with green trim around the neck. “Gorgeous,” she says by way of greeting and kisses me on the cheek.

“Thank you, hi,” I say. Stewart doesn’t drop my hand and Busy notices.

“Wow, nice touch,” she says to him. “Who knew you had a little PDA in you.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he says, and shoots me a quick look that makes my face go hot. We are in the little galley kitchen, all mouths and breath.

Michael, the club manager, stops by our table. “Sunset cruises, lunch breaks. Busy, who is this man?”

Stewart nods at him. “Who knows what I’ll do next?” Michael laughs and walks off.

“Sunset cruises?” Busy asks. “Is he kidding?”

“No. It was a quick trip,” Stewart says. “For the sunset.”

Busy leans back in her chair. “You did what, now?”

“Dolly had the conn,” Stewart says, offering me the basket of bread without meeting my eyes. “She likes the conn.”

I decide to play along. “It was quite cold,” I say. “Stewart made tea.”

“I did,” he says. His eyes stay on mine for a moment too long.

I open the white napkin and close my eyes as the steam comes out and surrounds me with pure sourdough goodness. I spread a pat of seashell-shaped butter on my bread and salt it perfectly.

The waiter comes by, and they each order a Nicoise salad, so I do too.

When he’s gone, Busy takes each of us in like we’re a tennis match. “What’s going on here?”

“We had a lot of fun,” I say.

“Fun,” Busy repeats. “This is just unreal. I haven’t seen Stewart have fun since Grant got sprayed by a skunk.”

“That was very fun,” he says. “Ellen left his clothes in the laundry room, but I took them and hid them under his mattress.”

“But then there was the kitten incident in the front hall,” Busy starts. “A case of mistaken identity.”

Stewart holds up a hand to stop her. “She’s heard it. And you weren’t even born.”

“My dad brought that up this morning,” I say. “Said it reminded him of how Pepé Le Pew was always pretending to be a cat. Thought it was an honest mistake.”

Stewart bows like he’s redeemed by this, and I’m glad things are easy between us.

“Because you know her dad?” Busy asks. She’s leaning back in her chair, sizing us up.

“Yes, Freddie Brick,” Stewart says, ending that line of questioning.

He gets a text and smiles at it. Stewart is not the kind of person who spends a lot of time smiling at his phone. I am hot with jealousy, and I think I might have imagined him smiling this way during our late-night chats.

Busy notices too. “Who are you right now? Who’s texting you?”

He finishes sending his reply and looks up. “Gus,” he says. And then to me, “I texted him this morning about sailing this afternoon. He just woke up.”

“Gus, your son?” Busy asks.

“Stewart’s going to give him a sailing lesson this afternoon,” I say.

“Okay, wow,” Busy says, tossing her napkin onto the table. “Tell me you’re taking the whole day off and I might drop dead right here.”

Stewart shakes his head. “Not to worry. I was up at four to make this action-packed Saturday happen.” My face falls. “It’s fine. I wanted to.”

Our salads come, and we tuck in. Stewart asks for another basket of bread without looking at me. I’m wondering where they get their tuna, and I’m hoping it’s from us, because it’s delicious.

Stewart goes into the locker room to change for the sailing lesson, and Busy and I sip iced tea at a tall table overlooking the marina’s launching area. A small single-masted sailboat waits at the shore. It looks beautiful sitting there, so much potential waiting for the right wind.

When Stewart walks onto the sand, Gus is with him. They’re both in Red Sox caps, and they’re walking in lockstep. Stewart points up to where we’re sitting, and Gus waves.

“I can now say for sure that I’ve seen everything,” Busy says.

“It’s very nice of him,” I say, and sip my tea.

“It’s more than that,” she says. “This past month, with you, it’s been really good for him. He seems lighter. I think Audrey was just going to let him work himself into the ground.”

“I don’t think that’s on Audrey. He puts a lot of pressure on himself.”

Busy raises an eyebrow at me. “You’ve really gotten to know him.”

And I have. I want to tell her that I know everything about Stewart. I know his eyes go unfocused during a panic attack, and that fingers on his palm will calm his heart rate. I know that his mouth tastes even better than it looks and that there are ghost peppers running through his bloodstream.