Lana didn’t move. She watched as he looked at the faded numbers on the mailbox, then up at her on the porch. She sat serene, a can of Diet Coke in her hand, perched between Beth’s succulent towers as if she were queen of the aloe plants.
Paul rolled down the passenger side window and leaned out to yell.
“Hello? Lana Rubicon?”
She took a sip of soda and ignored him.
She could see Paul weighing his options. His hands fluttered in agitation, pausing over the steering wheel, the horn, his phone. Then he sighed and did exactly what Lana expected of him.
He got out of the car.
He looked halfway decent for a man with an overgrown mullet. Paul was tall and lanky, with bronzed, freckled skin and shaggy blond-gray hair. Lana took in his unshaven scruff, hemp-twine necklace, and cargo pants with a pocket missing on the left side. Some women probably found the lost-puppy look adorable.
As soon as his feet touched the property line, Lana turned on the charm. She hit Paul with a megawatt smile and rose slowly in her four-inch heels. By the time he was up the step, her hand was reaching out to greet him.
“Paul. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She caught him in a handshake that spun him around 180 degrees, sending him back down the stairs with Lana lightly holding his forearm.
“Ms. Rubicon.”
“Call me Lana.” She dropped her voice into a husky register, leaning forward so he could catch a whiff of the perfume she’d applied to her collarbone.
Paul stood up straighter in his flip-flops.
Lana rode his arm down the path like a princess, her jacket crisp, high heels floating over the cracks in the pavement. They did a clumsy dance at the car, her waiting for him to open her door, him opening her door, her looking in the car, her looking at him, him looking in the car, him gathering up beer cans and fast food containers and finding a beach towel to toss over the stains on the seat. Once he’d unfurled the towel and tucked it under the headrest, she threw him another generous smile and lowered herself into the car. As he walked around the hood, Paul spat into his hand and ran it through his hair.
A brief thunderclap of heavy metal shook the car when Paul turned it on. He shut off the radio, and Lana rolled her window down to air out the stench of sweat socks dipped in pine sap. They traveled to the marina in silence, Lana looking out the salt-streaked windshield, Paul sneaking glances at her between stop signs.
“Is there something you’d like to ask me?” Lana said.
“You’re Jack’s grandmother?”
“That’s correct.”
“And she’s fifteen?”
Lana could almost see the wheels turning in his head. She used one manicured finger to smooth down the hem of her skirt where it rode up her thigh.
“Women in my family, Paul,” she said, brushing a speck of nothing off her sheer black stockings, “we have children early. It leaves time for more . . . fulfilling pursuits.”
They arrived at the marina before she had the chance to elaborate.
Paul parked behind the Kayak Shack, in the gravel lot that spanned the short distance between his business and the South Spit Yacht Club. The patio outside the yacht club was flooded in sunshine, packed with sunburned tourists tossing french fries to a crowd of barking harbor seals. Lana ignored the busy picnic tables and swept inside the club, letting Paul hold the door for her and admire her calves as she passed by.
Inside, the dining room was quiet and cool, all dark wood and brocade curtains. Lana took a slow lap around, her eyes adjusting to the faded light, the black-and-white portraits of high-waisted bathing beauties smiling down on her from behind the bar. She could smell the memory of salt in the air. Three long-retired fishmongers sat on bar stools, swaying to Sinatra, their wrinkled hands mirroring the grooves in the mahogany bar.
After a brief conference with the bartender, Lana pointed Paul toward a worn velvet booth in the corner. She slid into the bench with the more flattering light. Paul scrambled to keep up, tripping on his way into his seat. But once he was there, something shifted. He lounged in the middle of the bench, legs spread wide, his arms draped across the table. It was as if Paul had just remembered that he was the local, Lana the interloper.
“Scotty,” he called out, his voice booming across the room. “Heyo. Can we get some service over here?”
The bartender straightened his apron, turned his 49ers cap backward, and stepped out from behind the bar. Where Paul was blond and lean, Scotty was dark-haired and muscular, with thick, curly hair covering his tattooed forearms.
Scotty dropped two menus on the table and handed Paul an already-opened Corona. “Who’s your friend, bro?”