Page 10 of Every Beautiful Mile

“I was so scared to go on stage, so Dad stood with me backstage. When it was my turn to go out, he just hoisted me on his shoulders and danced with everyone else." She laughs. "All the parents were so shocked, and the other ballerinas were giggling, but I felt like a queen up there.”

Her hands are over her head as she finishes talking. She looks every bit like the six-year-old girl who twirled on top of her daddy’s shoulders.

“I remember how pissed that mom sitting next to me was that he was stealing the show from her daughter.” I say over the rim of my wine glass, making them both laugh.

“Finny, your turn! Tell us something good.”

Marin takes a bite of her burger while she stares at her brother like he’s about to reveal the secret of life.

“When I was fifteen, I got invited out to the sandbar with some friends, but Mom said no because she didn’t trust them.” His eyes meet mine, but shockingly, there’s no contempt in them. “Dad knew everyone was going to be out there, even Emily, who you know I was convinced I was in love with.” He wipes his hands on his napkin. “Anyway, Dad felt bad I couldn’t go, so he took me up in the seaplane and landed near where everyone was, letting me get out and swim for a little bit. Boats are a boring way to arrive at any party, he told me. And then we flew home and never told anyone about it. On Monday, nobody could stop talking about it. Even Emily. Who I wasn’t even in love with, apparently.”

He smiles again, and my heart expands and collapses with the grotesque beauty of it all.

“God, that sounds like your dad. And he had a knack for finding loopholes when I told you guys no, didn’t he?” I smile, shaking my head.

“Your turn, Mom!”

I wouldn’t be surprised if Marin’s enthusiasm had an actual pulse.

“Hmm….”

I have a collection of encyclopedias worth of stories I can tell, but I know, in my heart, all the good ones start at the beginning. I set my wine down and lean back in my chair.

“I was home from college, working at the bar, of course.” I smile as I say the words, feeling like I’m there again.

I’m twenty-one without a care in the world, working at my dad’s bar for the summer. I can smell the fish and feel that sticky dryness of my skin that only happens after way too much time in the ocean. I can see the pelicans that line the docks as they wait impatiently for whatever scraps the fisherman will throw their way.

“I was behind the bar at the time of day the fisherman and day drinkers started trickling in, and in he walked, taking a seat on a stool and ordering a beer. I noticed him, but I knew better than to think beyond him buying beer. I chatted with him the way I did with all the customers, teasing and swatting my bar rag at him, trying desperately not to get lost in those gray eyes of his. But he stayed on that barstool all afternoon, flirting relentlessly. When he finally stood to leave, he asked my name. Nel, I told him. He smiled his crooked smile, laid cash down, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, ‘Well Nel, I bet you break the hearts of all the men on this island when you’re behind that bar.’”

They both look at me—almost fascinated—as a wet sheen forms over my eyes.

As bad as it hurts to relive the memory, it feels good. So good. They knew we met at the bar, of course, but they had never heard the story of why he always said ‘Well Nel’ at the end of every day.

In this moment, I desperately don’t want to feel sad. I’m so damn sick of sad, it’s suffocating. I want the magical spell of happiness we had cast over the table for the first time since he left us to stay.

So, I reach for it.

Spinning my wedding band around my finger, I blink back my tears and lean against the table.

“And then we made out on the dock where they unload the fish after I got off my shift.”

My grin is so big it hurts my face.

Finn shakes his head and rolls his eyes while Marin snorts and throws her napkin at me.

“Way to ruin it, Penelope.”

I laugh—both at the use of my name and the reaction.

I don’t bother telling them what happened a few weeks later on their grandpa’s boat. I figure some stories would always be just ours.

***

As Marin and Finn do the dishes after dinner, I open my computer to finish the work my dad derailed me from earlier. Opening my email, I’m shocked to see there’s already a response from the restaurant owner in Maine.

Penelope,

Thanks for the message. I’m no expert, but I’m flattered by the question and happy to help. Ask away.

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