The last time Ella had been to her mother’s house, she’d been crying. Pammy had been there, too, out in the living room with the nonnas, watching their eighties movies. Pammy cried, too, and said Hank was a lost soul, like that maybe-ghost at the carriage house.
And Ella said, “No, he’s not!” And then she cried, and said, “Maybe he is.”
She didn’t know.
“He’s looking for something,” Pammy said, and as she often did when she was agitated, she took her level out of her pocket and put it on the coffee table. “This isn’t level.”
Nonna Boo reminded her that most old houses in Charleston had floors that weren’t quite level, and that they liked it that way. And that life wasn’t level either, and everyone had to deal with it.
Even so, Pammy insisted on quitting the eighties binge movie marathon and going back to the carriage house to be with Hank, but when she texted him to let him know, he texted back that he was already in a taxi heading to the airport. His pilot was willing to take him straight back to New York. He told Pammy he was okay, and he wanted her to keep binge-watching eighties movies and to stay with the Mancinis, who were a very wonderful family. Unless she wanted to wind up at Reggie’s that night. Hank approved. He thought Reggie was a very good guy and an excellent mayor.
Mama put Ella to bed in her bed, the one she used to share with Papa, and assured her that she herself would do fine staying with Nonna Sofia, who didn’t move when she was sleeping. Mama knew this because when Papa had died, she’d flown back to Italy and slept with Nonna Sofia in her tiny apartment, the one she got after she was widowed. Nonna Sofia had had only one bed there. Mama had stayed for two weeks, and by the end of it, she was ready to go back to the States and start again.
But then Ella told Mama she wanted her to sleep with her. And Mama said, “Maybe sleeping with Nonna Sofia helped me too.” So Mama slid into bed with Ella, and Ella wrapped her arms around her, and they fell asleep together.
Ella did that for two weeks. Not just for her, but for Mama. Because in that time, Mama found out her beloved papa—Guiseppe—wasn’t her biological father. The vineyard owner’s son was. They consulted with Nonna Alberta, who told Mama and confessed that as hard as it was to hear, she was relieved to know the truth. Together the three women decided Nonna Sofia wouldn’t be relieved at all, and it might devastate her, probably because Nonna Sofia kept saying over and over, “I will be devastated, daughter, if your papa is not your father.”
So Mama kept the secret of her ancestry hidden from Nonna Sofia but not from Nonna Boo, nor from her brothers and sisters. She also told them the news that Nonna Alberta had held back until she knew the truth—that Mama was heir to a vineyard. Mama didn’t care. But Nonna Alberta said someday she would.
So Mama decided she would send Ella over to check out the new family property in Palermo as soon as Ella felt up to it—“which might be never,” Mama said hopefully. “Who cares?”
But Ella told her mother that while she was there, she would lay flowers on the grave of Guiseppe, Mama’s beloved papa, who would always be Mama’s papa and Ella’s grandfather, no matter what. And she told her mother that it would be nice to have the vineyard, the site of Nonna Sofia’s and Guiseppe’s love story, in the family. She reminded Mama that Guiseppe used to lay grapes and sprigs of marjoram and thyme outside Nonna Sofia’s door.
Mama had softened a bit at that, and Ella booked two tickets to Palermo, which she would visit after the big Aquarium gala with Uncle Sal, who was a rock to her after her own papa’s death and still was.
The night of the gala, Ella was in no mood to go. She hadn’t wanted to socialize since Hank left. She’d thrown herself into her work. Even Jill, her sweet sister who’d arrived back home with her husband Cosmo, couldn’t convince Ella to do anything, not even walk the Ravenel Bridge with her, which was something they’d both liked to do together for exercise.
The only reason Ella was going to the gala was because she had to be there to see Roberta on her date with a fabulous guy she’d met after eating that ten thousandth cheddar penny—which she did at a big “Champagne and Cheddar Penny Party” at Macy and Deacon’s house, where all Roberta’s friends gathered to wish her well and take home boxes of cheddar pennies their friend had packaged and tied with a beautiful ribbon that said TRUE LOVE CHEDDAR PENNIES, the name of her new baking company.
This man wasn’t any of the dates Ella had chosen for Roberta through Two Love Lane. Roberta decided not to go on those dates. Nor was he Pete, who wound up asking Miss Thing if she needed an escort to the gala after Miss Thing ignored him for a week, which was very hard on her because she’d gotten used to drinking her Price Is Right coffee every day, the one where Pete yelled “Come on down!” to whoever ordered it, in honor of Miss Thing’s Double Showcase win.
This date of Roberta’s was the owner of a taco food truck who had used the same commercial kitchen Roberta had. While Roberta was baking her cheddar pennies, he was making taco filling and his homemade salsa on the other side of the kitchen. They’d become fast friends, and Roberta had had no trouble chatting with him while she was mixing, rolling, chilling, slicing, and baking her cheddar pennies.
“Because we were just friends,” she explained to Ella. “It’s easy to talk to someone who’s just friends. I was able to talk to him after he asked me out on a real date because I’d eaten that ten thousandth cheddar penny.”
Ella decided to let Roberta decide for herself why she was talking to her new man, who happened to be called Robert.
“I always vowed never to date a Robert or a Bob,” Roberta said, “and look at me now!”
Yes, things were going well for Roberta, but the real test was tonight. She’d only been out on five dates with Robert, and while they’d gone spectacularly well, she retained a bit of nervousness about the Aquarium event.
“This is the realest date of all,” Roberta told Ella. “Because I’m wearing a gorgeous gown, and he’s in a tux. We’ll be like a prince and a princess, and I have a feeling that after the night’s over, Robert might ask to stay over and maybe say nice things to me.” She blinked a million times. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to speak because I really, really like him. And then he’ll be hurt when I just stare at him, and he’ll go home and never call me again.”
Ella assured Roberta that her other dates with Robert counted as real dates, and she’d been speaking on those just fine. “If you can’t talk on this date, it might be that you’re overcome with an emotion like happiness, not just nerves.” Or a spell. But she wouldn’t say the word “spell” out loud and jinx Roberta back into her old silence. “Being overcome with emotions like happiness happens to everyone.”
You could also be overcome with emotions like sadness, but Ella knew that she could get through it with the help of her family and friends. She wouldn’t lie to them. She was sad. But she also knew she’d made the right decision to let Hank go, to let him figure out what he really wanted for himself, deep inside, apart from her.
She thought she’d done a good job of reassuring Roberta, but she wanted to be at the gala just in case her client needed a boost. So when she was in the limo on the way over with Deacon, Macy, Greer, Ford, Miss Thing, and Pete, she was shocked when the limo stopped at a red light and someone opened the door.
“Miss Ella Mancini?” It was a rough-looking man in bib overalls and a squashed hat. He smelled a bit funny too, like fish. But she didn’t want to say that. He was wearing sunglasses at dusk too, which didn’t make sense. She wasn’t worried that he was a carjacker or anything. He knew her name. And she had Mace in her purse, which she always carried, as well as a whistle, along with the emergency twenty-dollar bill she always kept with a tampon, a condom (useless to her!—she’d never have sex again!), and a peppermint in the side zippered pocket most purses have. She’d been so blue getting dressed, she hadn’t even attempted to choose from among her evening bags to carry to the gala. She was in a scarlet red dress with crisscross straps that boosted her décolletage, and she was carrying her daytime white leather handbag big enough to hold a frozen turkey breast from Harris Teeter, if she needed to. (She’d actually done that the week before; grocery shopping held no joy for her; she bought things willy-nilly and functioned, post-Hank’s departure, mainly on Ritz crackers and pimento cheese.)
Of course, she wasn’t so depressed that she didn’t wear elegant high heels that bordered on ultra sexy, with rhinestones flashing on the toes. The nonnas had told her she must continue wearing strappy sandals, so she’d made sure she did, although she took no joy in donning them.
Okay, just a little. Good Italian leather shoes could help carry one through hard times.
No one in the limo reacted, which Ella found strange. Miss Thing was the only one who looked remotely concerned. Her face was red. She was biting her left thumb too.
The man took off his sunglasses and grinned.
She suddenly recognized him! “Carl! What are you doing here?” He was the captain of a local shrimp trawler called the Megan Casey.
“I’m here to kidnap you,” he said.
And at that moment, Macy and Greer reached over, pulled on Ella’s hands, and yanked her toward the open door of the limo.
Ella pulled back. “I’m not going!”
“Yes, you are,” said Macy, her voice calm and sweet.
Carl waited with his hand stretched out. “Come on, little missy. We’re not going to let you escape.”
“No.” Ella dug in. But inch by inch, she was moving toward the door, thanks to various hands pushing and pulling her that way. She might have let a few curse words fly.
“Come on, Ella,” Greer said. “We wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
“I know what’s happening,” Ella said, “and it’s a terrible idea.”
“If you go, I’ll tell you my name!” cried Miss Thing.
For a split second, everything stilled.
“Okay,” said Ella quietly.
“You tell her, Pete,” said Miss Thing, her voice thin.
“Tatyana,” he said proudly, “but I call her T.”
And before Ella could register any reaction, Carl grabbed her right hand and finally yanked her onto the street.
The limo took off.
“Let’s go, Miss Ella,” he said, and pulled her over the curb, then around to the passenger side of a pickup truck idling there.
“This is a bad idea, Carl,” she said. “There is no one I want to go on Operation Shrimp Trawler with.”
She remembered Miss Thing—Tatyana!—referring to it as one of their matchmaking agency’s collection of romantic dating scenarios that they saved for special occasions. Miss Thing (Ella couldn’t imagine calling her Tatyana) had bragged about it in the kitchen at Two Love Lane, when Samantha, Roberta, and Hank had been visiting, and most of them ate Miss Thing’s giant pink cookies with sprinkles.
“I think you’ll change your mind in a minute,” Carl said.
“No, I won’t.” Macy and Greer were involved, Ella knew. And Miss Thing. Ever since Hank left, they’d been throwing men in front of her. Which was hard to do since she didn’t want to socialize. But they’d found a way. What if one of them was on the trawler tonight?
Macy had a favorite: his name was Kevin, and he was really cute and fun. He played the banjo and was on the Spoleto Arts Festival board. Greer’s favorite was Tomás, a Spaniard who’d recently moved to Charleston to study sea turtles with the Aquarium. Ella ruled him out because he’d be at the gala tonight, repping the turtles’ cause. Miss Thing’s favorite was Pete’s youngest brother, who lived in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He was in town staying with Pete for a month because he could afford to leave his local thriving sports store chain at will. He wasn’t going to the gala because he didn’t care for the ocean, he’d told Miss Thing. (Who didn’t care for the ocean? Ella remembered thinking). So no way would Pete’s brother be on the trawler.
No. It had to be Kevin. Dear God, if he brought his banjo and tried to serenade her with it, she would die! “Please, no banjo,” she said to Carl as they drove over the Ravenel Bridge to Shem Creek, where his trawler was docked.
He cast her a sideways glance. “Banjo?” And then gave a short chuckle.
Ella groaned. “It’s Kevin, isn’t it?”
“I’m not saying a word,” said Carl.
Ella resigned herself to going to Shem Creek and boarding his trawler and chilling with Kevin. She had a fleeting thought, If only it would be Hank! But she knew it wouldn’t be. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he left, but she did stalk his Twitter page, and as of yesterday he was in Montreal filming Forever Road.
She knew Operation Shrimp Trawler well. First, the couple would meet up on the trawler—which Carl would clean up, of course. He’d take the Megan Casey out into the harbor; hand the couple an iced bottle of tequila; give them a styrofoam bowl of sliced lemons, a shaker of salt, and two red Solo cups. Then he’d go back to the wheel and circle around the harbor a few times. After a while, a chef belowdecks would bring out a splendiferous meal of boiled shrimp, fried catfish, some of Carl’s incredible cocktail sauce (which had a lot of Tabasco in it), his homemade tartar sauce (which was really sweet pickle relish, dill, and Duke’s Mayonnaise), and bread and butter, and the couple would eat it looking at a nice sunset over the Ashley River Bridges.
Not at a nice table either. They’d eat their bounty on paper plates. With their hands. And no napkins.
“It’s primitive,” Miss Thing would always say. “They’ll have to lick their fingers a lot.”
At this point, the tequila would be kicking in. Carl would cruise up the Cooper River to a sweet little farmhouse stocked with wine, beer, liquor, and breakfast food. It had a fantastic tree house on one side—with a queen-sized bed in it—and a nice pool on the other. When they got to the dock, Carl would give each of his passengers a bag holding a bathing suit and a toothbrush and toothpaste. That was it. And then he’d say he’d return in three hours, unless someone texted him and told him not to. At that point, he’d chug away from the dock.
Only once out of the four times they’d used Operation Shrimp Trawler had Carl had to go back, and it wasn’t because the couple didn’t like each other. It was because they’d accidentally broken their bottle of tequila when they were climbing up to the tree house and the guy had cut his hand pretty good and needed stitches. That couple wound up getting married. Three out of the four had. The fourth couple settled for becoming best friends and started a Charleston tourism package company together that was going gangbusters—but the ladies of Two Love Lane refused to let them use their Operation Shrimp Trawler idea. They had to sign an agreement not to.
“Because Operation Shrimp Trawler is worth its weight in gold,” Miss Thing always said.
And it was.
But it wouldn’t work on Ella. She wasn’t a big tequila person. She’d eat the shrimp and fried catfish, and before Carl started moving up the Cooper River, she’d tell him to head back to Shem Creek, and she would thank Kevin for being such a lovely dinner companion.
The end.
She felt a little better imagining what she would do, so when she walked up the gangplank of the Megan Casey and saw Hank there at the bow, sitting on a chair with his legs spread and his hands between his knees, a game of Scrabble prepped and ready on a table, she nearly fell overboard.
“You’re in Montreal,” she said.
“Nope,” said Hank, and stood. “I’m here.”
Ella shivered. She was in that elegant gown with the thin straps and she was teetering on her heels. It was a balmy evening, but the shock of seeing Hank made her wish for a light wrap.
Which Carl provided. It was one of her own shawls. “Miss Thing sent this over. Why don’t you take off your shoes, though.”
She hadn’t taken her eyes off Hank. “Okay,” she said. She leaned against the front of the cockpit housing, a big window behind her, and pulled off her shoes. Carl scooped them up for her and stashed them under his arm.
She didn’t care if she ever saw those shoes again, honestly.
All of her attention was on Hank. He was wearing a tux. She just now noticed. What was up with that?
He stood. “Come on over,” he said. “Take a seat and let’s play some Scrabble.”
“Oh, no,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m not a tequila fan, really. Operation Shrimp Trawler is all about tequila.”
“I know,” he said. “Your besties told me. We’ve got wine tonight instead.”
“I like wine,” she whispered. “Operation Shrimp Trawler’s also about seduction. After having a meal that you have to eat with your hands.”
“We’re sticking with that.” He grinned, and her knees nearly buckled. He was Hank.
“I hope it’s boiled shrimp and fried catfish,” she said.
“It still is. Captain Carl doesn’t mess with success. Not unless he’s ordered to by the admirals at Two Love Lane.”
His smile warmed the cockles of her heart. She didn’t know what cockles were, but Mama sometimes said it when she was extra moved by something, and that expression fit better than any other Ella could think of.
She barely noticed, but the engine started and Carl cast off the lines.
“Come sit down,” Hank said.
So she padded over to the table in bare feet and sat down.
The bow of the Megan Casey made a sharp left turn, and they headed out Shem Creek and into Charleston Harbor. The salt breeze felt amazing.
“Thanks so much for coming tonight,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and remembered being yanked out of the limo. She could smile about it now. “I had no choice. I was kidnapped.”
He winced, but on him, it looked good. All raw man. “You’re right,” he said. “There was some deception involved. I’m sorry if that annoys you. The last thing I want to do is offend you.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I think.”
“You’re a good sport.” He reached across the Scrabble board and took her hand. “You look beautiful.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” She squeezed his hand back.
He smiled. “The board’s Velcroed to the table. And so are the racks. Captain Carl thought of everything.”
“Amazing,” she murmured. Scrabble was the last thing on her mind.
“But the letters might slide around,” Hank said. “Let’s hope we don’t hit rough seas.”
She laughed. The harbor was calm. The horizon held no clouds. “We’ll be okay.”
A young man in khaki shorts and a faded Shem Creek Trawling Company T-shirt appeared with two red Solo cups and handed them off to Ella and her unexpected date, which meant they had to release their handclasp. “Enjoy,” he said. “The shrimp and catfish will be up in about ten minutes.”
Ella took a sip of the mellow rosé and wasn’t sure now she could eat. Her stomach felt nervous. As did the rest of her. What could Hank want? She was sure he’d reveal all. But meanwhile, she wanted to enjoy simply sitting with him, the harbor waters falling away on either side of the trawler, the bow gently moving up and down—and the sun, a melon-colored ball setting behind the Ashley River Bridges.
“Should we play and talk at the same time?” he asked her.
“Sure.” They each picked up seven tiles turned blank side up that were clustered in the overturned cover of the board game.
“You go first this time,” Hank said.
Ella laid down a harmless word, “hamper.” “How have you been?” she asked him.
He laid down a boring word of his own, “timer,” crossing her word vertically at the M. “I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching,” he said.
“You’ve had time for that in Montreal?”
“I didn’t have to get there until last week. So I had a couple of weeks at home in Brooklyn. I saw my family a lot.”
They each took sips of wine. It wasn’t awkward, but things felt completely different between them. Ella wasn’t sure why. “That’s nice,” she said. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with mine too.” She told him the results of her mother’s paternity test, and how Mama was coping well, considering the shock of having to reframe her personal history.
“I think not telling Nonna Sofia was a wise call, even if it meant you had to fib to her,” he said. “Maybe someday she’ll want to know, like Nonna Alberta. But obviously, she doesn’t right now.”
“Yes, it’s kind of awkward. But it’s for the best. When I go to Palermo, I’m just going to tell her Uncle Sal and I are visiting the Sicilian branch of the family. It’s time.”
“She’ll get that.”
They’d forgotten about Scrabble. Ella couldn’t stop looking at him, and Hank couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
She wrapped her shawl closer. “It’s such a nice treat, seeing you.”
She immediately regretted saying “treat,” which was a Southern woman’s way of describing someone or something utterly delightful in polite company. But Hank was way more than a treat. And he was more than polite company. His presence on the trawler was a gift. A very personal one.
“I mean to say that you’re coming here means a lot to me,” she said. “More than I can express in words.” She glanced down at the game board. “Sometimes words aren’t enough.”
“I know what you mean,” he murmured. “But I’m going to give it a shot, if you can bear with me.”
She nodded, took a sip of wine. So did he. And then he looked out at the horizon for a few seconds. She’d have to be patient. He was clearly trying to get it together. To do this the right way, whatever it was.
“There’s no right way,” she blurted out. “No matter what you say, or how you say it, I’m always going to”—she took a quiet breath and braced herself—“I’m always going to love you, Hank.”
Hank’s expression then reminded her of how he used to look when they’d lie on the couch at their old apartment and listen to songs from Les Misérables. It made her sit up, her heart race, and her whole being light up from the inside out. Something big was happening. She sensed an impending earthquake. As Macy and Greer had said, plates shifted, and then, bam—
You were looking at a whole new world.
He lowered his chin for a second, then looked back up, his bow tie not even askew. It was a sexy move that also showed how vulnerable he could be. She didn’t doubt for a second that it was authentic. “Thank you for saying that,” he said. “I will always love you too, Ella.”
They didn’t touch. The purr of the boat engine was almost peaceful. A seagull dove nearby, searching for its supper.
“I know what I want,” he finally said. He sounded happy.
Ella couldn’t help but grin. “You do?”
He nodded. “Apart from wanting you,” he said with exaggerated playfulness, “I want to do something that makes me feel the way I did when I worked at Serendipity 3 as a lowly busboy.”
“You do?” she practically squeaked.
“Yep. I didn’t need that job. I was the son of a wealthy man, but Dad made me work all through high school so I could appreciate how hard it is to earn a dollar. I think he wanted me to see, too, how lucky I was to come from a family as blessed as ours. Some of the guys in the kitchen at Serendipity 3 weren’t so lucky. They worked paycheck to paycheck.”
“I can imagine,” said Ella. She remembered a few times when Papa and Uncle Sal were worried about keeping their own restaurant open and having to lay off employees. Owning a business wasn’t easy. She knew that from Two Love Lane. But being a worker—having no control at all over your future at that business—was an even more precarious position to hold.
“At Serendipity 3,” Hank said, “I got to see a lot of customers find joy in the little things. In this case, ice cream. You didn’t have to be really rich to come in and enjoy a scoop. I saw families like yours—parents with their kids—pay us a visit and find each other again over a frozen hot chocolate.”
A sweet tenderness overwhelmed Ella. “Papa and I certainly connected that way. I always felt like a princess.”
“And I used to like watching these little family scenarios unfold,” Hank said. “A lot of couples had dates there too. The common denominator was that almost everyone came in after a movie or a Broadway show.”
The memories Ella had of her and Papa at their Broadway shows would stay with her forever. “So what does this all mean for you?”
“It means I went into acting to be a part of that dynamic.” He shifted, and a pained look crossed his face. “I have great parents. But we never did things like that together. I craved having family time. But Dad has a really strong work ethic and he was almost never home. And Mom, she was busy with her social life. The honest truth is, she was simply too self-absorbed to notice us that much. She left a lot of the rearing of her four children to nannies.”
“I never knew you had nannies!”
“It’s because I was embarrassed to tell you. Your family sticks together so much. Mine is more formal. We love each other—don’t get me wrong—but my childhood, apart from playing with my brothers—felt a little disjointed.”
“So acting brought you into that sphere of connection. People could talk about you over their ice creams. Kids and parents could bond. So could couples.”
“I think so. When Dad tried to push me to law school, I pushed back so hard because I was trying desperately not to recreate his life. I wanted to be a part of a warm conversation. Not be assessed all the time.”
“Assessed?”
“My parents were always trying to make sure their kids’ accomplishments met their high—and fairly narrow—standards.”
“Oh.” She felt for him. Deeply. And she was upset they hadn’t had a talk like this ten years before. She’d sensed that when she’d shared Thanksgiving dinner with Hank and his family that long ago day, there had been some tension, but she’d been worried about the pregnancy scare, and he’d not been ready to talk about his family after that dinner. So they never really tackled his relationship with his parents head-on.
“So you’ve never felt quite that acting was your thing,” she ventured to say, “because you were getting into it not for the love of the dramatic arts but because it was a way to rebel against your dad and enter into those conversations families had to connect with each other.”
“Exactly. I became a part of pop culture, anathema to my dad. And it also meant I was sort of embraced by a lot of people.”
“Did you talk about this with your parents while you were home?” Ella hoped he had.
“Yes,” Hank said. “We had a brutally frank talk, and there were a lot of apologies on their side. And I said I was sorry too, because the truth was, if I had talked openly to them ten years ago, my career trajectory might have stayed bumpy for a while longer, but I might have been more true to myself.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” Ella said. “You felt a lot of legitimate pressure from your dad. And you were young.”
“I know. I’m not going to have any regrets. Acting has given me exactly what I hoped it would. I became part of the worldwide family conversation.” He grinned.
“That’s very cool.”
“It is. It also made me wealthy. I can take time off. I can quit—if I want.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not sure yet. I have obligations over the next two years that would be tricky to get out of. And in a way, I don’t want to, now that I see myself more clearly. I can ponder my future while I’m acting. How much do I really like the actual art? And how much of this career was about fighting my personal demons?”
He stood and held out his hand to her. She grabbed it and they walked to the very front of the bow, let go of each other, and gripped the railing. What a gorgeous view of the historic peninsula city of Charleston lay before them! The antebellum homes on the Battery were stunning. The panoramic sight really hadn’t changed much in more than two hundred years.
“I love acting,” Ella said, her hair blowing out behind her, “but I realize I can practice the craft anywhere and still be happy. Which is what I love about community theater.” She wrapped her fingers around the bronzed knuckles of Hank’s right hand. “I’m really happy for you.” She felt a lump in her throat as she said it. He’d had a huge breakthrough, and she was honored he’d shared it with her.
Of course, she wanted to know how she fit into the picture, if at all.
He turned toward her, and she toward him. Leaning on the railing, he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I want to be based out of Charleston,” he said. “I’ll have to travel a lot over the next two years, but if you can put up with that—and join me whenever you’re free—I’m convinced we can take our second chance, Ella, and run with it. Whatever I decide about acting, I’m going to get involved in the business from Charleston. But I suspect”—he swallowed hard—“I suspect I’m going to find other things to do. Somehow I want to get involved in connecting families through exposure to the arts, especially families who have a hard time making ends meet. I feel I can honor your father that way too, and all the sacrifices he made to help his little girl find her dreams.”
“Hank, this makes me so happy.” Ella was crying. She was laughing somehow too.
“Me too.” Hank wiped away some tears from his own eyes. But he was grinning. He was a new man.
And Ella, loving him, was a new woman. She’d never been happier.
“I’m dressed to go to the Aquarium gala,” he said, “if you need a date.”
“I do,” she said. “I’ll need a date for the rest of my life.”
Bring him home, Bring him home … those short words from the song in Les Misérables came to Ella then. The trawler lifted on an ocean swell and a breeze, its bow pointed toward the Battery, Charleston’s church spires rising high behind its historic homes to a coral sky.
“I want to be that guy,” Hank said, and kissed her.