won’t be hot, thank
God.”
The evening pressing its summer weight upon
Brogan’s Point was definitely not air conditioned. Just walking
down the street to his car dampened Caleb’s brow with a layer of
perspiration. If his dinner with Meredith had been a hot date, he
would have made a quick detour home to shower and change into fresh
clothes. But it wasn’t a date, he reminded himself, then wondered
why he needed the reminder.
His Audi had a fine climate control system,
but he opted to turn it off and open the windows instead. Cruising
down Atlantic Avenue, he wanted to smell the ocean. The wind was
humid and fragrant, lifting off the water, sweeping across the
beach and flinging itself into his car, where it tangled through
his hair and evaporated the dampness from his skin. Some people
didn’t like the scent of the ocean. He loved it. Growing up on Long
Island, he’d head to the beach every chance he got, even if he had
to cut school to do it. He’d worked summers in an arcade on the
boardwalk in Long Beach, just to be near the water. When Niall had
contacted him at the Boston law firm where he’d been doing document
reviews and scrambling to accumulate billable hours, and invited
him to move up to Brogan’s Point to join the practice he was
creating with their law school classmate, Heather, Caleb had been
tempted by the opportunity to quit doing scut work for senior
partners, to be his own boss, and to create a firm with his
friends. But the fact that Brogan’s Point was a seaport had
clinched the deal.
He found a parking space near the dock where
the Lobster Shack was located, put up his windows, and locked the
car. This absolutely couldn’t be a date, he told himself, because
if it were, he’d have mopped his face and combed his hair before
entering the humble warehouse-like building that served the
freshest seafood on the North Shore, straight off the trawlers that
docked within sight of the restaurant’s kitchen.
He stepped inside—and there she was,
standing by the hostess station, her gaze fixed on the door. A
glimpse of the clock on the wall behind the hostess assured him he
was right on time. Meredith Benoit had arrived early.
If he’d been more clear-headed, he would
have noted that he was overdressed. She’d changed into skinny jeans
that displayed those long legs of hers, a soft white shirt which
tied in a decorative knot above her left hip, and flat leather
sandals that displayed her dainty polished toenails. He felt
something start burning inside.
Stupid song. Stupid lyrics. Nothing was
burning inside. The restaurant was refreshingly cool. So was
Meredith’s smile as he approached the hostess. “Here we are,”
Meredith said, half to him and half to the hostess.
A minute later, they were seated facing each
other at a table midway between the entrance and the rest rooms.
The restaurant’s interior was as unpretentious as its exterior:
butcher paper on the tables, rough paneled walls, paper napkins and
plastic laminated menus. “Did you have to wait long?” he asked once
they were seated. “I’m sorry. I came straight from a meeting.” He
gestured at his apparel, then shed his jacket and yanked his tie
free from his collar. He opened the top button of his shirt, rolled
up his sleeves, and belatedly shoved his hair back from his
face.
“You’re a busy man,” she said gently.
“Representing Brogan’s Point’s boss.”
“Town manager,” he corrected her. “I don’t
think he’s got enough juice to qualify as a boss.”
Her frown was as dainty as her pedicure.
Given her determination to fight a trivial citation, her apparent
devotion to her career—or at least to getting tenure—and her
insistence on taking him out for dinner, he knew she was no
shrinking violet. Yet she exuded femininity in a way he rarely
encountered. Most of the women he socialized with were tough broads
and proud of it. He suspected that Meredith was just as tough. But
she was tough in an
God.”
The evening pressing its summer weight upon
Brogan’s Point was definitely not air conditioned. Just walking
down the street to his car dampened Caleb’s brow with a layer of
perspiration. If his dinner with Meredith had been a hot date, he
would have made a quick detour home to shower and change into fresh
clothes. But it wasn’t a date, he reminded himself, then wondered
why he needed the reminder.
His Audi had a fine climate control system,
but he opted to turn it off and open the windows instead. Cruising
down Atlantic Avenue, he wanted to smell the ocean. The wind was
humid and fragrant, lifting off the water, sweeping across the
beach and flinging itself into his car, where it tangled through
his hair and evaporated the dampness from his skin. Some people
didn’t like the scent of the ocean. He loved it. Growing up on Long
Island, he’d head to the beach every chance he got, even if he had
to cut school to do it. He’d worked summers in an arcade on the
boardwalk in Long Beach, just to be near the water. When Niall had
contacted him at the Boston law firm where he’d been doing document
reviews and scrambling to accumulate billable hours, and invited
him to move up to Brogan’s Point to join the practice he was
creating with their law school classmate, Heather, Caleb had been
tempted by the opportunity to quit doing scut work for senior
partners, to be his own boss, and to create a firm with his
friends. But the fact that Brogan’s Point was a seaport had
clinched the deal.
He found a parking space near the dock where
the Lobster Shack was located, put up his windows, and locked the
car. This absolutely couldn’t be a date, he told himself, because
if it were, he’d have mopped his face and combed his hair before
entering the humble warehouse-like building that served the
freshest seafood on the North Shore, straight off the trawlers that
docked within sight of the restaurant’s kitchen.
He stepped inside—and there she was,
standing by the hostess station, her gaze fixed on the door. A
glimpse of the clock on the wall behind the hostess assured him he
was right on time. Meredith Benoit had arrived early.
If he’d been more clear-headed, he would
have noted that he was overdressed. She’d changed into skinny jeans
that displayed those long legs of hers, a soft white shirt which
tied in a decorative knot above her left hip, and flat leather
sandals that displayed her dainty polished toenails. He felt
something start burning inside.
Stupid song. Stupid lyrics. Nothing was
burning inside. The restaurant was refreshingly cool. So was
Meredith’s smile as he approached the hostess. “Here we are,”
Meredith said, half to him and half to the hostess.
A minute later, they were seated facing each
other at a table midway between the entrance and the rest rooms.
The restaurant’s interior was as unpretentious as its exterior:
butcher paper on the tables, rough paneled walls, paper napkins and
plastic laminated menus. “Did you have to wait long?” he asked once
they were seated. “I’m sorry. I came straight from a meeting.” He
gestured at his apparel, then shed his jacket and yanked his tie
free from his collar. He opened the top button of his shirt, rolled
up his sleeves, and belatedly shoved his hair back from his
face.
“You’re a busy man,” she said gently.
“Representing Brogan’s Point’s boss.”
“Town manager,” he corrected her. “I don’t
think he’s got enough juice to qualify as a boss.”
Her frown was as dainty as her pedicure.
Given her determination to fight a trivial citation, her apparent
devotion to her career—or at least to getting tenure—and her
insistence on taking him out for dinner, he knew she was no
shrinking violet. Yet she exuded femininity in a way he rarely
encountered. Most of the women he socialized with were tough broads
and proud of it. He suspected that Meredith was just as tough. But
she was tough in an
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