Within weeks of her report from the bridge, Faith was promoted to weekend anchor. She celebrated the boost to her career by inviting Geary to dinner. This time, her treat.
Typically, reservations at the popular Sky Bar Steak and Sushi needed to be made days ahead, but in a stroke of major good luck, there’d been a cancellation minutes before Faith called.
She couldn’t wait to introduce Geary to her favorite restaurant on Galveston Island, a short forty-five minutes from downtown Houston where Faith often spent days off wandering Old Galveston Square, the Strand District, or sometimes the lobby of the historic Hotel Galvez, the grand dame of all island hotels.
It was there her dad took her to the gift shop as a child and bought her a necklace with an anchor charm. Last year she’d scraped some money together and had the anchor plated in gold and placed on a gold chain. Perhaps in some weird way, he’d unknowingly sensed who she was destined to become.
Geary rubbed at his chin. “Sorry, I’m not sure I can stomach raw fish.”
Faith looked across the table and grinned. “Oh, c’mon, Geary. A little sashimi isn’t going to kill you! Besides, I watched defenseless live crawfish get dumped into boiling water, and then I learned to squeeze their heads off and eat their insides. So buck up, Prince Charming.”
He shook his head. “Huh-uh. Nope. Mr. Charming likes his fish baked, boiled, or breaded and fried crisp, with lots of tartar sauce.”
She tapped the edge of his plate with her chopsticks. “Fine. You can eat your sirloin,” she said. “But first, at least try one of my California rolls. Nothing raw inside.”
He still appeared skeptical. “Okay, but just for you.” Having already given up on chopsticks, he stabbed the piece of sushi roll with a fork and examined it carefully before dipping the rice and cooked crab rolled with nori into a bowl of wasabi and soy sauce.
He popped the roll into his mouth and chewed, barely able to disguise his hesitancy. The way he grimaced before swallowing made her laugh again.
Geary Marin had many qualities she adored. First, there were those eyes. Stark blue and bottomless, complex even from across a room. He stood taller than most men she’d dated and wore his thick dark hair in a casual short cut. Not like the carefully tended styles most of the male anchors wore down at the station.
She loved the way his broad shoulders looked in a white button-down rolled up at the sleeves and that he wore plain old Wranglers. His hands were large and slightly calloused and he walked with determination, like a man who didn’t have a thing to prove to anybody. Never had she met anyone more genuine, more warm-spirited and open.
A strange thing happened to her when she was with Geary Marin. She forgot to be self-conscious and nervous, and she found herself laughing breezily, countering his light banter with clever, witty comebacks so atypical for her.
They could talk for hours on the phone, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning—even when she had to be at the station early.
She loved how his face lit up when he saw her. Loved how he intertwined his fingers with hers when they walked.
Faith hated to admit it, but she’d secretly enjoyed the envy in Stacy Brien’s eyes that day on the Marins’ lawn. No doubt Geary Marin was a catch, and she’d been the lucky one to lure him in.
Using her chopsticks, she reached for some seaweed salad. “Tell me more about your fishing.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Obviously, you must be pretty good to make a living at something so competitive,” she prompted.
“Yeah, I’ve got to admit fishing is a pretty good gig. The tournaments can get intense, and sometimes the monetary benefit gets a bit spotty. But there’s nothing like being on the lake with a rod in your hand as the sun breaks over the horizon.”
She thought about his nice place. “But you must do well at it.”
His sizzling steak got delivered to the table then. She waited until the server was gone before using her chopsticks to lift a piece of calamari from her plate.
Her hand paused midair. “So how do you do it? What’s the secret to snagging the big one?” She popped the calamari into her mouth and chewed, waiting for him to answer.
He leaned back in his chair. “Ha, that’s the big question. A question with a lot of answers, depending on who it is you’re talking to. Bass are ambush predators. On bright-bluebird sunny days the fish hold tight to cover, stumps, shady areas, and ditches. The strike zone gets smaller because they won’t chase. When clouds, wind, and low light strike, the zone expands. Bass are intelligent fish—and extremely difficult to catch, really. Rarely happens by accident.”
“If catching bass is so hard, why do you love it so?”
“For me, it’s the lack of proven method that intrigues me the most. I can find a spot where I know the habitat is there under the surface, I can select the perfect lure, the right test line on the best rod, and use the finest reel—still, nothing guarantees success.” He took a sip of his water, watching her. “Maybe that’s it—the thing that draws me to fishing for the big ones.”
“I can use my best equipment and skill, but most times success comes from outside myself. The sport is definitely a solo act, yet it’s as if I’m partnering with some unseen hand—maybe God, I don’t know. Makes the big catch all the sweeter when it happens.”
She didn’t quite understand his logic but nodded just the same.
He reached across the table and covered her free hand with his own. “So why the news?”
“Huh? Oh, I’ve wanted to be a journalist since as long as I can remember. On Sunday nights growing up, I’d wrap up in a blanket on the sofa to watch Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. I loved watching Teri Hatcher portray Lois Lane, the feisty, shiny-haired news reporter who was always seeking the truth. No doubt, I knew that was exactly what I wanted to do. In high school, I mustered the guts to send an email to the editor of Baytown’s local newspaper. I told her I wanted to be a journalist and that I’d do anything to work for her newspaper, even cleaning the floors, making coffee, or doing filing. A few days later, she called me and said she needed someone to do write-ups on the local high school football games. I was elated. As far as I was concerned, it was my big break! I knew nothing about the game. But I learned. And somehow I eked out an article each week, with play-by-plays of the game.”
She noticed how intently he watched her, and continued. “When I began attending the University of Houston, I was a writer for the student newspaper, the Daily Cougar. One day the director took me aside and told me I’d be perfect for KUH-TV—the first public television station in the United States, owned by the University of Houston System. I was all ears. Of course, I wanted to be considered for their relief anchor. The day of the audition, I walked around campus like a pack mule because I didn’t have time to go back to my dorm before tryouts. I strapped on an extra backpack stuffed with makeup, hairspray, and a curling iron, I carried a pressed button-down shirt on the hanger from class to class, and I scooped my hair into a claw clip on top of my head so I’d have some volume in my hair by the end of the day. I don’t remember the audition. But I got the gig!”
Geary laughed with her while cutting his steak. “Then what?”
“Well, during my senior year I interned, which gave me the opportunity to shadow some of Houston’s local news anchors, hanging on every word they uttered about their craft and watching them scribble on page after page of yellow notebook paper while out on field reports. I spent my days and nights basically following reporters around and sitting in the back of their live trucks when they’d jet off to stories. And as a college female with my career aspirations, that was the score of a lifetime.” She paused and a smile nipped at the corner of her mouth. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m still living the dream.”
After dinner, she and Geary stepped outside the restaurant just in time to witness the sun’s final show before it dropped from the horizon. The sight caused them both to stop and take in the kaleidoscope of color the sinking sun cast across the Gulf.
Geary squeezed her hand. “Do you need to get home early?”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily. What do you have in mind?”
“C’mon, let’s go get some coffee,” he said, pulling her toward the crowd of tourists wandering the sidewalk.
At nearby Catalina’s coffeehouse, they found a quiet corner and nestled into two overstuffed chairs. He had dark roast, she had tea with a touch of coconut milk. Though still stuffed from dinner, they shared one of the largest cream puffs she’d ever seen.
“My mom makes these.” He took a bite that left a touch of powdered sugar clinging to the corners of his mouth.
“She makes cream puffs? Like from scratch?” Her mother could barely pour dry cereal out of a box.
Geary nodded. “And homemade maple bars and glazed donuts.”
“Goodness, that’s . . . domestic.” She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Once, my mom decided to cook an elaborate jambalaya dish after she’d watched Emeril’s cooking show on television.” The minute she mentioned the fact, she wished she hadn’t let her guard down.
“Yeah?” he said, reaching for his coffee mug.
Faith looked down at her lap, silently scolding herself. She tried to whisk away stray powdered sugar that had landed on her black slacks. The effort left a gray spot she covered with her napkin.
“Tell me about it,” he urged. He took a long sip of his coffee and watched her over the rim of his mug, seeming to sense her sudden discomfort.
Despite his inviting tone, she wasn’t ready to fully give in to her blunder.
His eyes grew soft and thoughtful as she considered how to respond. Finally, she took a deep breath and proceeded with a sanitized version.
Her mother had tuned the radio to a jazz station and went to work in their kitchen, carefully measuring the ingredients. Earlier in the afternoon, after that cooking show had aired, she’d grabbed her wallet and raced to H-E-B, yelling over her shoulder for Faith to watch her little brother. That she’d be right back.
She returned two hours later with bags filled with the needed ingredients, including a five-pound bag of onions, dozens of bell peppers and tomatoes, and a large box of Minute Rice. “She made enough jambalaya to feed seven families,” Faith remarked, trying to make her voice light.
She didn’t tell him her mom had substituted plain hot dogs for andouille sausage and used canned shrimp (“It’s absolutely ridiculous what that fancy sausage and shrimp cost!” her mom complained), or how she’d accidently gotten mixed up and purchased a little can of cinnamon instead of paprika, but shrugged at the discovery and decided to use it anyway.
When a bowl was placed in front of her, Faith complained the food tasted icky.
Her mother screamed in response, “There are kids in Africa who don’t even have food!” She grabbed Faith’s plate and scraped it in the sink, then whirled and pointed her glossy red nail back at the table. “Now, you get yourself to bed. We’ll see if little Miss High and Mighty appreciates her food a little better by breakfast time.”
Sitting next to her at the table, her younger brother, Teddy, grew wide-eyed and quickly shoveled the nasty stuff into his mouth. “I like mine just fine, Mom,” he said, his cheeks bloated with the food. “It’s good.”
Later, he admitted he had to gag the horrible mixture down, but Teddy Jr. would do nearly anything to please their mother.
But there was no need to tell all that.
Gripping her teacup, she let her gaze rest on the soggy leaves floating at the bottom. “My dad used to claim my mother always did everything in bright Technicolor, even back when the world was broadcast in black-and-white.”
Geary set his coffee mug down. He reached across the table and took her free hand in his own, his fingers gently stroking hers.
“So where are they? Your family.”
She struggled to find the right words. “My father died when I was young.”
Geary’s expression turned concerned. “I’m so sorry.”
She shrugged. “Eh, that was a long time ago. You move on—you have to.”
“And the rest of your family?” He stirred creamer into his coffee and waited.
Faith swallowed, aware these questions would eventually come. “Well, my mom died too. A couple of years back.” Before he could express condolences, she hurried on. “And my brother lives somewhere here in Houston. He’s a bit of a loner. I don’t see him often.”
That was an understatement. She hadn’t seen her younger brother in over two years, not since days after her mother died. She didn’t know where he was—or even if he was alive.
Geary Marin was fortunate. He was raised in a loving and fairly stable family. Not so for her. The Biermans had been anything but steady.
“Tell me more about your family,” she urged, changing the subject.
Geary was lost in thought for a moment. Finally, as if sensing she wasn’t going to say anything more, he drew his hand back. “Well, as you know, my dad’s a pastor. He and my mom have been married nearly thirty-five years.”
“Wow,” she said, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Thirty-five years is a long time. What does your mom do? For work, I mean.”
He folded his napkin. “She’s a pastor’s wife. That can be a full-time job. And she had me and my sister to raise.”
Faith looked across the table, wondering if he knew how lucky he was. “Sounds wonderful.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a great family,” he easily conceded. Again, his eyes turned thoughtful, and with a flicker of hesitation he circled the discussion back around. “What did your dad do for a living?”
Without intention, Faith held her breath. If she was her mother, this was where she’d claim her father owned a large recreational vehicle distributorship, when in reality he’d managed an RV lot in Baytown owned by some guy who’d made his real money in oil. She’d describe their tiny house located in a subdivision backing up to a smelly marsh in Baytown as a comfortable ranch with a water view.
But Faith had already determined long ago she never wanted to be like her mother.
She stared down, fingered her spoon, and let the truth spill. “He was a blue-collar worker of sorts, managed an RV dealership. My folks didn’t last as long as yours. Their marriage, I mean.” Taking a deep breath, she decided to come clean. At least in part. “Seems my father had a love for bourbon—and other women, or at least that’s what my mom claimed. They were in the middle of a nasty divorce when he died in a car accident, inebriated and with a twenty-three-year-old blonde in the car. I was nine.”
In the few times Faith had ventured to tell her dark family secret, this is where the person would look at her in pity.
Geary didn’t.
Instead he simply nodded and gazed across the table at her with incredible tenderness, a look that held no judgment. A look that wrapped her emotions around him even more. “That’s rough,” he acknowledged. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table. “Any other siblings?”
“No, only Teddy Jr. Four years younger.” She just wasn’t ready to tell him the rest.
“Your mom ever remarry?”
“No, she saw a few men over the years. Some got serious. But—” She hesitated. “But nothing worked out.”
Thankfully, the young woman from behind the counter approached their table, interrupting the conversation before he could make further inquiry into things she’d just as soon not talk about.
“You want some refills?” the woman asked.
Geary held his hand over his mug. “None for me, thanks.”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. It’s getting pretty late.”
She was relieved when Geary picked up on her cue and glanced at his watch. “Well, hey. I know you probably need to get up early. But I’d like to show you something before I take you home.”
Minutes later, he drove them the short distance to Seawall Boulevard and into a parking lot still heavily dotted with parked cars.
She looked across at the popular tourist destination, Pleasure Pier. “Uh, I don’t do Ferris wheels. Or roller coasters.”
He grinned. “No rides.” His hand slipped into hers. “C’mon, I want to show you something.”
“Where are we going?”
They crossed the street. Instead of heading for the bright lights and tangled crowds, he led her to the sandy waterfront. “Follow me.”
Her curiosity was piqued now. “Geary Marin, you’re crazy. Where are we heading?”
Abruptly, he stopped and bent over. In the light cast from the line of streetlights, he untied his tennis shoes and fastened the laces together, then flung the tethered shoes around his neck. “Here, give me yours.”
“My shoes?”
“Yeah, give me your shoes.” He held out his hand, waiting for her to comply.
She scowled and did as he asked. After passing off her sandals, she ventured to ask again, “What are you up to?”
“Come with me.” He grinned and pulled her along. The tide was out, leaving a shoreline of wet sand, the cool feel against her bare feet a huge contrast to the dry sand still warm from the day’s sun.
Geary ducked around the underpinnings of the pier and dodged a massive piling. Faith followed close behind, wrinkling her nose at the pungent tar aroma painted on the pylons in order to protect the wood from decaying under the salty water.
Above her head in the shadows, several birds cooed to signal that the human presence had interrupted their nighttime sanctuary. She could only hope one of them wouldn’t reciprocate by dropping a surprise onto her hair.
“Okay, here.” Geary stopped, breathless, a wide grin on his face.
She frowned. “We’re where? Under the pier?”
He chuckled and pointed. “Look.”
Her gaze followed his finger. It was hard to see in the dim shadows. She stepped a little to the left, allowing light to illuminate where he pointed.
One of the larger pylons had been wrapped with fencing, the kind made of thin galvanized wire welded together to make chicken wire. On the fencing were hundreds of padlocks. The locks were of all sizes, in many colors. Some had writing on them, which were actually inscriptions—many faded by the water, but a lot of them still discernable.
She leaned closer to take it all in. “Wow. What is this?”
He folded his arms, looking pleased that she was intrigued. “There is a bridge in Paris, France, known as the Love Lock Bridge. That’s not the real name, but that’s what all the locals know it by, and the tourists who encounter the phenomenon in their travels. I saw it when spending a few days in Paris with some buddies on a layover from a mission trip to Romania the summer after our junior year in high school.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “I’m not sure I get it.”
“Lovers worldwide leave a token of their commitment to one another by attaching a padlock onto the fence lining the bridge, and then throwing away the key into the water below. The idea quickly caught on and these types of love lock fences started popping up all over.” He stepped closer and fingered a couple of the locks attached. “When we got back, me and my friends decided to start one here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You did this?”
He grinned. “Well, yeah—a long time ago. We put the fence up and a bunch of friends from high school attached the first locks. Not all of them represent romantic situations.” He pointed to one up at the top. “That one’s mine. I put it there as a sign of my commitment to Christ and my desire to be a good person.”
For some reason, the notion struck her funny. She let out a slight chuckle. “You must have been pretty gung ho fresh off that mission trip.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I suppose I was.”
“What about all these other locks? I mean, there are so many of them.”
She could see Geary’s deep blue eyes twinkle, even in the dusk. “I know. Pretty amazing, huh?”
He dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small padlock and a black Sharpie pen.
“What—what’s that?”
He pulled the cap off the pen and wedged it in his teeth, then drew a heart on the face of the lock. Inside he wrote:
G + F = Forever
The gesture immediately pricked at a deep place in her heart. A bit overwhelmed by the unexpected emotion, she tried to make light of the moment. “I love it, but the inscription is a little junior high, don’t you think?” Still, she couldn’t help but smile widely. Especially when she thought of how he’d brought along these items with every intention of bringing her down here tonight.
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead he pulled a tiny bottle of epoxy from his jeans pocket and painted over the inscription to preserve what he’d written. Then he reached high and found a vacant space on the wire fence. She watched as he attached the lock. When he’d finished, he turned and offered her the key.
“Throw it,” he said.
She gave him a puzzled look, her heart pounding.
“Throw it,” he repeated. “No matter what is ahead, you have my heart and friendship, Faith Bierman.”
With shaking fingers, she slid the miniature key from his palm.
What are you doing? she asked herself.
But despite her reservations, she wanted desperately to give him her heart as well. So she closed her fingers around that little piece of metal, brought her fist to her lips, and kissed it for good luck.
Faith turned and looked into those deep blue eyes. Eyes that held such tenderness and sensitivity. Geary Marin represented a stability she longed for. He was a Prince Charming in every manner.
And she deserved that. Didn’t she?
Convinced she did, she took a couple of tentative steps in the direction of the water and held her breath.
Then with wild abandon, she flung her arm and let go.