Page 16 of A Christmas Harbor

Paul was partly correct. David couldn’t imagine time as a fluid thing. Time was an omnipresent and reliable tool. It measured tasks getting done, and all of those tasks put together made up a life.Hislife, at least. Though maybe that was the problem.

“I don’t need to have ever felt that way to believe thatyoufeel that way. If you say it’s this…unmoored experience—forgive the nautical metaphor—I’ll take your word for it. We don’t have to think the same in order to…”

Paul swayed in his step to nudge his shoulder against David’s. “In order to what?”

“To connect.”

Paul moved a few steps ahead and walked backward so their eyes could meet. “Good.”

The street opened up into the Annapolis City Dock area, where despite the holiday lights, the harbor was even deader than when David had walked through earlier on his way to the bar.

It was also windier. He pulled his gray knit cap from his pocket and put it on, tugging it to cover the tips of his ears. “This little inlet is called Ego Alley, for obvious yacht-related reasons.”

“At least they’re self-aware.” Paul gaped at a forty-foot flybridge cruiser docked in one of the bigger slips. “Is yours anything like that?”

“Mine’s a lot smaller and humbler. But also cuter.” He pointed toward Spa Creek beyond the inlet. “Every December there’s a boat parade out there with a holiday lights contest.”

“I bet that’s cutthroat. But pretty.”

“Correct on both counts.”

As they walked along the edge of the inlet, the mere presence of water made David’s pulse turn slow and steady. Or maybe he was just sobering up.

“What’s this?” Paul stopped in front of the Kunta Kinte-Alex Haley Memorial, where the bronze sculptures of three children sat in rapt attention before a sculpture of the author, seated on a low concrete wall with a book in his lap. “Oh wow, the guy who wroteRoots.” He read aloud one of the plaques on the stone pillar beside the sculptures. “‘To commemorate the arrival in this harbor of Kunta Kinte, immortalized by Alex Haley inRoots, and all others who came to these shores in bondage and who by their toil, character, and ceaseless struggle for freedom have helped to make these United States.’ Huh. That’s really…”

Instead of prompting, David waited for him to finish the sentence.

“I don’t know,” Paul said, “it’s just good to see one of these charming colonial towns actually acknowledge the people who made them rich.”

“Well, when one of the world’s most famous enslaved persons was sold on your docks, you pretty much have to.” David shook his head. “Not that there wasn’t opposition. The original version of that plaque was stolen two days after it was installed. It’s never been found.”

“Bastards.” Paul went to the other side of the pillar and read the other plaque to himself.

Across the street near the sparkling two-story-tall Christmas tree, the empty flag pole sounded the dull, arhythmic clang of a snap hook swinging on its halyard against the metal rod. That noise of absence always seemed to find a hollow place inside of David, a place where it could echo without end.

He cupped his freezing hands around his mouth and exhaled hard, the heated air making him shiver.

“Did you forget your gloves?” Paul asked.

“More like deliberately left them at home. Didn’t think it would be so cold tonight.” He tried to tug his shirt cuffs down past his wrists, but they wouldn’t stretch to cover his fingers.

“May I?” Paul made a gallant bow in his direction, extending a gloved and very warm-looking hand.

“Oh.” David glanced around at the empty harbor. Not a human or any other creature was in sight, but someone could be watching through a window.

Paul straightened up. “Or not.”

“Sorry—”

“No, I’m sorry. I constantly overstep boundaries. I don’t try to be a dick, I just…can’t help it sometimes.”

“It’s fine.” David walked past him, offering a brief touch to Paul’s arm. It was the best he could do.

Paul trotted to catch up. “Will we get to watch the drawbridge go up?”

“Doubt it. On holidays it raises on the hour and half-hour, but only if a boat needs to pass under it. Not much river traffic this time of night—or this time of year, for that matter.”

As they headed down the street toward the drawbridge, the storm strengthened again, making it harder to hear each other’s words. But the silence felt companionable rather than awkward.

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