For 100 Days(73)

“It’s all right. Call me old-fashioned, but I like the sailboats best.”

His brows rise. “A woman after my own heart.”

His easy smile is devastating and his casual remark makes the air seem a little warmer, a little more electric. I take a sip of my coffee and try to pretend he’s not turning me on just by sitting across the table from me. “So, you like to sail, Nick?”

“I’ve puttered around from time to time,” he says. “When’s the last time you were out on the water?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, a long time ago. And never on anything like these boats. My grandpa had a Sunfish on the lake where they used to live. He’d take me out on that when I was little, and taught me a bit about sailing.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

I nod. “It was. Sometimes he’d let me help turn the sail. Mostly I just liked being out on the boat with him.” I release a slow sigh, reflecting on the time when things were different for me back home. When things were good. “It’s been a long time since I thought about those days.”

“Your grandfather doesn’t sail anymore?”

“He died when I was in my teens.” I could leave it at that, and probably should. But the wound is still fresh even after all this time and the words leak out of me in a quiet voice. “He’d been drinking late one night and made the mistake of getting in his car. He hit a tree on one of the back roads by the lake. Fortunately, no one was with him or on the road when he had the accident.”

“Jesus.” Nick’s face grows solemn as I speak, almost stern. “I’m sorry you had to lose him like that.”

“It was a hard blow for all of my family. One of many,” I admit, knowing I can’t go any further with this memory than I already have.

I can’t tell Nick that my grandfather’s alcoholism came on the heels of losing his cherished daughter to the Pennsylvania prison system on a life sentence for murder. I can’t tell him that after my mother was convicted and my grandpa was dead, the only person I had left was my grandmother—a woman whom I know wanted to care for me, but couldn’t because of her sorrow for the daughter she’d been forced to watch be taken away.

I can’t tell him about the deeper secrets that have been eating away at my soul for nearly a decade. Secrets that are like poison, eroding me from within the longer I keep them, but certain to destroy me if I ever let them out.

Our server comes to my rescue again, bringing our check and presenting it to Nick with a smile that seems less about winning a big tip than catching his eye. If he notices the attractive girl’s attention, he handles it with the same cool confidence that he handles everything else that comes his way.

Discreetly placing a large bill inside the check wallet, he hands it back and politely tells her to keep the change.

“Want to take a walk?” he asks me, training the full measure of his smile on me alone.

“I’d love to.”

We head out onto the boardwalk and begin a leisurely stroll along the docks to look at the rows of flashy, large-engined speedboats with groan-inducing names like Pier Pressure and Liquid Assets and Feelin’ Nauti. A few minutes into our tour of the marina, I spot the futuristic looking gray yacht from earlier. When I snort out loud, Nick turns a curious glance at me.

“What’d I tell you?” I gesture to the name emblazoned on its stern. “Double-Oh-Heaven.”

He laughs, too, then takes my hand and we begin making our way over to the quieter area of the marina where most of the sailboats are docked.

As we walk, my phone rings in my purse. I don’t have to guess who’s calling. Given that my mother wasn’t able to reach me last night, she’s using precious time during her lunch break to try again. As much as I don’t want anything to intrude on the nice time I’m having with him, I hate leaving my mom to wonder or worry about me.

Nick pauses. “Do you need to get that? Go ahead, if you want. I’m going to run over to the marina shop and get us a couple bottles of water.”

Although I’m certain it’s only a polite excuse to give me privacy, as soon as he steps away I reach into my bag and swipe the screen to answer. “Yes, I accept,” I quietly tell the automated collect calling message. “Hi, Mom.”

We fall into an easy conversation, picking up right where we left off a few days ago. After assuring me that her parole board interview is still on track with no anticipated snags, she happily informs me that she’s finished the mystery novel she was reading when we last spoke and has now started a juicy romance about a vampire, of all things. She tells me how glad she is that spring is coming and how pretty the blossoming trees look outside her cell’s window.