Page 53 of The Mistakes I've Made
“Are there really wild ponies?”
He grinned. “No. They’ve been penned since the fifties, but it’s a good story, isn’t it?”
“You’re horrible!”
Hands firmly in his pockets, he shrugged. “I’m ingenious. And see? You almost fell for it, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Yeah, you did. Everyone loves ponies. Especially girls. But, seriously, I’ll take you to see them, if you want?”
I eyed him suspiciously, and his hands went up in front of him.
“Just for the ponies, I swear. You really should see them. They’re stunning.”
Another laugh fell from my lips. “Okay, deal. But that’s tomorrow. Where are you taking me tonight?”
“Tonight?”
I could see that, even in the dim light from the moon, he was thinking it through.
“Oh, I have a good place, but we’ll have to backtrack a few blocks. Come on.” He abruptly grabbed my arm and pivoted around. “We’re going to a cemetery.”
“A what?” I exclaimed.
“It’s just a small one, but that’s not what makes it special.”
“Okay, now I’m interested and a little creeped out. So, what makes it special?”
A knowing smile spread across his face. It was one I recognized well now. It was the smile he used whenever he was about to tell something epic.
“It’s actually on British soil.”
“Wait, what?”
He nodded. “Cool, right?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Back in World War II, several allied ships sank off the coast, and when the bodies washed ashore on the island, the locals buried them here. Great Britain leases the land where they are buried, hence the reason it is British soil.”
“So, I could stand in the cemetery and say I’m in the UK?”
He looked a little dumbfounded. “I mean, I guess you could, but you’d also be standing on the poor soldiers’ graves.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. That’s kind of horrible. Bad idea. Why do you know so much about history, Taylor?”
He shrugged. “You know how you asked if I always wanted to be a fisherman?”
I nodded.
“Well, back when I was younger and the business wasn’t tanking, I was supposed to go off to college and major in history. I guess that part of me never faded.”
“That, and the die-hard tour guide.” I laughed.
“Well, that’s only for special people,” he said, giving me a small side bump. It was a familiar and intimate gesture, one you did with someone you were close with, and I found a giddy smile spreading across my face.
And, to think, just twenty-four hours ago, this man had me so enraged; I thought flames might shoot from my ears.
