"And then what happened?"

Jeb Blake leaned over his cup of coffee, speaking in a raspy voice. Nearly seventy, he was lean and tall-almost too thin-and his face was deeply wrinkled. The thinning hair on his head was almost white, and his Adam's apple protruded from his neck like a small prune. His arms were tattooed and scarred, covered with sun spots, and the knuckles on his hands were permanently swollen from years of wear and tear as a shrimper. If not for his eyes, a person would think he was frail and sick when looking at him, but in truth he was far from it. He still worked almost every day, though only part-time now, always leaving the house before daybreak and returning around noon.

"Nothing happened. She got into her car and drove away."

Rolling the first of the dozen cigarettes he would smoke a day, Jeb Blake stared at his son. For years his doctor told him he was killing himself by smoking, but because the doctor died of a heart attack at sixty, his father didn't put much faith in medical advice. As it was, Garrett assumed the old man would probably outlive him as well.

"Well, that's kind of a waste, isn't it?"

Garrett was surprised by his bluntness. "No, Dad, it wasn't a waste. I had a good time last night. She was easy to talk to, and I enjoyed her company."

"But you're not going to see her again."

Garrett took a drink of coffee and shook his head. "I doubt it. Like I said, she's here on vacation."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask."

"Why not?"

Garrett reached for another packet of cream and added it to his coffee. "Why are you so interested, anyway? I went out sailing with someone and had a good time. There's not much more I can say about it."

"Sure there is."

"Like what?"

"Like whether you enjoyed your date enough to start seeing other people again."

Garrett stirred his coffee thinking, So that was it. Though he'd grown used to his father's interrogations over the years, he wasn't in the mood to cover old ground this morning. "Dad, we've gone over this before."

"I know, but I'm worried about you. You spend too much time alone these days."

"No, I don't."

"Yes," his father said with surprising softness, "you do."

"I don't want to argue about it, Dad."

"I don't, either. I've already tried that, and it doesn't work." He smiled. After a moment of silence, Jeb Blake tried another approach.

"So, what was she like?"

Garrett thought for a moment. Despite himself, he'd thought about her for a long time before finally turning in for the night.

"Theresa? She's attractive and intelligent. Very charming, too, in her own way."

"Is she single?"

"I think so. She's divorced, and I don't think she would have come along if she were seeing someone else."

Jeb studied his son's expression carefully as Garrett answered. When he finished, he leaned over his coffee again. "You liked her, didn't you."

Looking his father in the eyes, Garrett knew he couldn't hide the truth. "Yeah, I did. But like I said, I probably won't see her again. I don't know where she's staying, and for all I know, she could be leaving town today."

His father watched him in silence for a moment before asking the next question carefully. "But if she were still here and you knew where she was, do you think you would?"

Garrett looked away without answering, and Jeb reached across the table, taking his son's arm. Even at seventy his hands were strong, and Garrett felt him applying just enough pressure to get his attention.

"Son, it's been three years now. I know you loved her, but it's okay to let it go now. You know that, don't you? You've got to be able to let it go."

It took a moment for him to answer. "I know, Dad. But it's not that easy."

"Nothing that's worthwhile is ever easy. Remember that."

A few minutes later they finished their coffee. Garrett tossed a couple of dollars onto the table and followed his father out of the diner, toward his truck in the parking lot. When Garrett finally got to the shop, a dozen different things were going through his head. Unable to concentrate on the paperwork he needed to do, he decided to go back to the docks to finish working on the engine he had started repairing the day before. Though he definitely had to spend some time in the shop today, at the moment he needed to be alone.

*  *  *

Garrett pulled his toolbox from the back of his truck and carried it to the boat he used when he taught scuba diving. An older Boston Whaler, it was large enough to carry up to eight students and the necessary gear needed for underwater dives.

Working on the engine was time-consuming but not difficult, and he'd made good headway the day before. As he removed the engine casing, he thought about the conversation he'd had with his father. He'd been right, of course. There wasn't any reason to continue feeling the way he did, but-as God was his witness-he didn't know how to stop it. Catherine had meant everything to him. All she'd had to do was look at him and he'd feel as if everything were suddenly right in the world. And when she smiled . . . Lord, that was something he'd never been able to find in anyone else. To have something like that taken away . . . it just wasn't fair. And more than that, it just seemed wrong. Why her, of all people? And why him? For months he had lain awake at night, asking himself "What if." What if she'd waited an extra second before crossing the street? What if they had lingered at breakfast for another few minutes? What if he'd gone with her that morning instead of going straight to the shop? A thousand what ifs, and he was no closer to understanding the whole thing than he had been when it first happened.

Trying to clear his mind, he concentrated on the task at hand. He removed the bolts that held the carburetor in place and removed it from the engine. Carefully he began to take it apart, making sure nothing was too worn inside. He didn't think that this was the source of the problem, though he wanted a closer look just to make sure.

The sun rose overhead as he worked steadily, and he found himself wiping the sweat as it formed on his forehead. Yesterday at about this time, he remembered, he'd watched as Theresa walked down the docks toward Happenstance. He'd noticed her right away, if for no other reason than she was alone. Women who looked as she did almost never came down to the docks alone. Usually they were accompanied by wealthy, older gentlemen who owned the yachts that were moored on the other side of the marina. When she stopped at his boat, he'd been surprised, though he'd expected her to pause for only a moment before moving on to her final destination. That's what most people usually did. But after watching her for a little while, he realized that she had come to the docks to see Happenstance, and the way she kept pacing around made it seem as if she were there for something else as well.

His curiosity aroused, he'd gone over to speak with her. At the time, he didn't notice it, but when he was closing up the boat later in the evening, he realized there was something odd in the way she had first looked at him. It was almost as if she recognized something about him that he usually kept buried deep within himself. More than that, it was as if she knew more about him than she was willing to admit.

He shook his head then, knowing that didn't make any sense. She said she'd read the articles in the shop-maybe that's where the strange look came from. He thought about it, finally deciding that had to be the case. He knew he'd never met her before-he would have remembered something like that-and besides, she was vacationing from Boston. It was the only plausible explanation he could come up with, but even now there was some thing that didn't sit quite right about the whole situation.

Not that it mattered.

They'd gone sailing, enjoyed each other's company, and said good-bye. That was the end of it. As he'd told his father, he couldn't reach her again even if he wanted to. Right now she was probably on her way back to Boston, or she would be in a few days, and he had a hundred things to do this week. Summer was a popular season for diving classes, and he was booked up every weekend until late August. He had neither the time nor the energy to call every hotel in Wilmington to find her, and even if he did, what would he say? What could he say that wouldn't sound ridiculous?

With these questions rolling through his mind, he worked on the engine. After finding and replacing a leaking clamp, he reinstalled the carburetor and the engine casing and cranked the motor. The engine sounding much better, he freed the boat from its lines and took the Boston Whaler out for forty minutes. He ran it through a series of speeds, started and stopped the engine more than once, and when satisfied, returned the boat to its slip. Pleased that it had taken less time than he'd thought it would, he collected his tools, returned them to his truck, and drove the couple of blocks to Island Diving.

As usual, there were papers stacked in the in-box on his desk, and he took a moment to review them. Most were order forms, already filled out, for items that were needed in the shop. There were a few bills as well, and settling himself in his chair, he worked quickly through the stack.

Just before eleven, he finished most of what he needed to do and headed toward the front of the shop. Ian, one of his summertime employees, was on the phone when Garrett walked up and handed him three slips of paper. The first two were from distributors, and from the short messages scrawled, it seemed likely there had been a mix-up with some of the orders they had placed recently. Another thing to take care of, he thought, starting back toward the office.

He read the third message as he was walking and stopped when he realized who it was from. Making sure it wasn't a mistake, he entered his office and closed the door behind him. He dialed the number and asked for the proper extension.

Theresa Osborne was reading the paper when the phone rang and picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, Theresa, this is Garrett. There's a message here that you called."

She sounded pleased to hear from him. "Oh, hi, Garrett. Thanks for returning my call. How are you?"

Hearing her voice brought back memories of the evening before. Smiling to himself, he imagined what she looked like as she sat in her hotel room. "I'm fine, thanks. I was just going through some paperwork and I got your message. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I left my jacket on the boat last night and I was wondering if you found it."

"I didn't, but I really wasn't looking that closely. Did you leave it in the cabin?"

"I'm not sure."

Garrett paused for a moment. "Well, let me run down there and take a look. I'll call you back and let you know whether I found it."

"Is that too much trouble?"

"Not at all. It should just take a few minutes. Will you be there for a little while?"

"I should be."

"Okay, I'll call you right back."

Garrett said good-bye and left the shop, walking quickly back to the marina. After stepping aboard Happenstance, he unlocked the cabin and went below. Not finding the jacket, he turned and glanced up the deck, finally spotting it near the stern, partially hidden under one of the seat cushions. He picked it up, made sure it wasn't stained, then returned to the shop.

In his office again, he dialed the number written on the slip. This time Theresa picked up on the first ring.

"This is Garrett again. I found your jacket."

She sounded relieved. "Thanks. I appreciate your looking for it."

"It wasn't a problem at all."

She was quiet for a moment, as if deciding what to do. Finally: "Could you hold it for me? I can be down at your shop in about twenty minutes to pick it up."

"I'd be glad to," he answered. After hanging up the phone, he leaned back in his chair, thinking about what had just happened. She hasn't left town yet, he thought, and I'm going to get to see her again. Though he couldn't understand how she could have forgotten her jacket since she'd brought only a couple of things with her, one thing had just made itself abundantly clear: he was definitely glad it had happened.

Not, of course, that it mattered.

*  *  *

Theresa arrived twenty minutes later, dressed in shorts and a low-necked sleeveless blouse that did wonderful things for her figure. When she entered the shop, both Ian and Garrett stared at her as she glanced around. Finally spotting him, she smiled and called out, "Hi," from where she was standing, and Ian raised his eyebrow at Garrett, as if to ask "What haven't you been telling me?" Garrett ignored the expression and moved toward Theresa with her jacket in hand. He knew that Ian would scrutinize everything he did and badger him about it later, though he wasn't planning on saying anything.

"Good as new," he said, offering it to her when she stepped close enough to take it. While she was on her way, Garrett had washed the grease off his hands and changed into one of the new T-shirts his store offered for sale. It wasn't spectacular, but it was better than the way he'd looked before. At least now he looked clean.

"Thanks for picking it up for me," she said, and there was something in her eyes that made the initial attraction he'd felt the day before begin to rise again. Absently he scratched the side of his face.

"I was glad to do it. I guess the wind must have forced it from plain view."

"I guess so," she said with a slight shrug, and Garrett watched as she adjusted the shoulder of her blouse with her hand. He didn't know if she was in a hurry, and he wasn't sure he wanted her to leave yet. He said the first words that came to mind:

"I had a good time last night."

"So did I."

Her eyes caught his as she said it, and Garrett smiled softly. He didn't know what else to say-it had been a long time since he'd been in a situation like this. Though he was always good with customers and strangers in general, this was completely different. He found himself shifting his weight from one leg to the other, feeling as if he were sixteen again. Finally it was she who spoke.

"I feel like I owe you something for taking the time to do this."

"Don't be ridiculous. You don't owe me anything."

"Maybe not for picking up my jacket, but for last night as well."

He shook his head. "Not for that, either. I was glad you came."

I was glad you came. The words rolled through his head immediately after he spoke them. Two days ago he couldn't have imagined himself saying them to anyone.

In the background the phone rang, and the sound of it broke him from his thoughts. Buying time, he asked: "Did you come all the way down here just for your jacket, or were you going to do a little sight-seeing as well?"

"I hadn't really planned on that. It's about lunchtime, and I was going to get a quick bite to eat." She looked at him expectantly. "Any recommendations?"

He thought for a moment before responding. "I like Hank's, down at the pier. The food is fresh, and the view is out of this world."

"Where is it, exactly?"

He motioned over his shoulder. "On Wrightsville Beach. You take the bridge over to the island and turn right. You can't miss it-just look for the signs to the pier. The restaurant is located right there."

"What kind of food do they have?"

"Mainly seafood. They have great shrimp and oysters, but if you want something other than seafood, they have burgers and things like that as well."

She waited to see if he would add anything else, and when he didn't, she glanced away, looking toward the windows. Still she stood there, and for the second time in a couple of minutes, Garrett felt awkward in her presence. What was it about her that made him feel this way? Finally, gathering himself, he spoke.

"If you'd like, I could show you the place. I'm getting kind of hungry myself, and I'd be happy to take you there if you want some company."

She smiled. "I'd like that, Garrett."

He looked relieved. "My truck is out back. Do you want me to drive?"

"You know the way better than I do," she replied, and Garrett pointed the way, leading her through the shop and out the back door. Walking slightly behind him so that he couldn't see her expression, Theresa couldn't help but smile to herself.

*  *  *

Hank's had been in business since the pier was built and was frequented by locals and tourists alike. Low in ambience but high in character, it was similar to the pier restaurants they had on Cape Cod-wooden floors scraped and scuffed by years of sandy shoes, large windows offering a view of the Atlantic Ocean, pictures of trophy fish on the walls. Off to one side was a door that led to the kitchen, and Theresa saw plates of fresh seafood loaded on trays, carried by waiters and waitresses dressed in shorts and blue T-shirts emblazoned with the name of the restaurant. The tables and chairs were wooden, sturdy looking, and decorated by the carvings of hundreds of former visitors. It wasn't a place that required more than casual beachwear, and Theresa noticed that most of the people there looked as though they had been lying in the sun most of the morning.

"Trust me," he said as they were walking to a table. "The food is great, no matter what this place looks like."

They took their seats at a table near the corner, and Garrett pushed aside two bottles of beer that hadn't yet been cleared. The menus were stacked between a series of condiments including ketchup, Tabasco, tartar sauce, and cocktail sauce in squeeze bottles, as well as another sauce labeled simply "Hank's." Cheaply laminated, the menus looked as though they hadn't been replaced in years. Glancing around, Theresa saw that nearly every table was occupied.

"It's crowded," she said, making herself comfortable.

"It always is. Even before Wrightsville Beach got popular with tourists, this place was kind of a legend. You can't even get in here on Friday or Saturday nights, unless you're willing to wait for a couple of hours."

"What's the draw?"

"The food and the prices. Every morning Hank gets a load of fresh fish and shrimp, and you can usually get out of here without spending more than ten dollars, including the tip. And that's with a couple of beers."

"How does he do it?"

"Volume, I guess. Like I said, this place is always crowded."

"Then we were lucky to get a table."

"Yeah, we were. But we got here before the locals come in, and the beach crowd never lingers. They just pop in for a quick bite and head back out into the sun."

She looked around............