Summer Harbor by Susan Wilson

picked up the laminated menu to feign activity as he stared at Grainger’s reflection in the mirror behind the counter, his face framed between a cardboard ice cream cone and the chalked daily specials.
    The face reflected there was a little bristly, with an unshaven Saturday look. His eyes were on his menu, never looking up. When Grainger removed his cap, setting it on the stool between them, Will saw that his hair was darker than the gray showing had suggested. Grainger kept his eyes down for so long that Will was startled to see him suddenly looking directly at Will’s own reflection, a similar curiosity on his face. Will ducked his eyes, but couldn’t keep a flush of guilty surprise from coloring his cheeks.
    “Large coffee, Donna, and a piece of apple pie. To go.” Grainger handed the girl the menu.
    “And you?” Donna moved down to where Will sat.
    “Umm, a chocolate cone. I guess.” Will fished around in his pockets to see if he had enough money.
    The waitress made Will’s cone first, so he went out the door and positioned himself on a bench across the street from the coffee shop. In a few minutes Grainger came out. Anticipating that Grainger would go to his truck, Will stood up, still licking the rapidly melting homemade ice cream into a controllable ball. Instead, Grainger crossed the quiet main street and walked up to him, then sat down on the bench, throwing one arm casually over the back of it. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.” Will felt childish, standing there, six feet tall and licking an ice cream cone like a kid.
    “You’ve been following me.”
    Will coughed, the ice cream suddenly too cold. “I’m not following you. Are you, like, paranoid or something?”
    “A little. Sit down.” Grainger’s voice was firm but not frightening, something like his basketball coach’s voice. A little gravelly and deep, the voice of a man who spoke only to say something useful. “What’s your name?”
    “Will. Will Harris.”
    “Harris.” Grainger took a deep breath. “What do you want, Will Harris?”
    Will stayed standing. The July sun, tempered only by the faithful southwesterly breeze, licked at Will’s bare neck, and he twisted his Cornell baseball cap around to shield his neck with the bill. “I was, like, wondering if you can give me sailing lessons.” Will stuffed the end of his cone into his mouth. He was pretty proud of himself, coming up with a plausible cover story so quickly, thanks to the “Egan’s Boat Works, Repairs, Hauling, and Lessons” painted on the side of Grainger’s truck.
    Grainger said nothing, just stared out into some middle distance, which might have been the sliver of harbor visible between the facing buildings, or the street, or someplace behind his eyes. At the prolonged silence, Will finally sat beside Grainger on the green park bench.
    “Why don’t you ask your mother to give you lessons?” Grainger’s voice cut through Will’s nervous embarrassment at having been caught out. His tone was half contemptuous, half curious.
    Will had tossed out the idea of sailing lessons only to save himself, but now he was annoyed that Grainger hadn’t immediately said yes. In habitual contrariness, Will met the argument. “We don’t have a boat.”
    “Yes, you do. It’s in my boatyard.”
    “Oh. Well, Mom’s busy.” Will was nonplussed to have such easy confirmation this stranger knew his mother.
    “I’m expensive.”
    “I have a little money. Enough for a couple of lessons, I’m sure.”
    “Why do you want to sail?”
    “It’s sort of in my blood. My grandfather’s told me about how he sailed in races. I’ve just never had the opportunity to learn.” Although he’d grown up listening to Pop talk about his glory days, detailing every race buoy by buoy, he’d never given sailing lessons a thought until this minute. Suddenly he could believe that this was a lifelong ambition, now that he’d spoken