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Authors: Melissa Walker
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James.
“Maybe you should be thankful for his banana habit,” I say. “It probably keeps his mouth occupied sometimes.”
I hope that didn’t sound rude or weird, but when I glance up at James I see that he’s smiling. I like people who aren’t too sensitive.
Then a tortoiseshell cat darts out in front of us.
“Mrs. Ficklewhiskers!” I shout.
“Mrs. what now?” asks Olive.
“She belongs to Ruth and George,” I say. “I met them in Peoria on the dock. They’re—”
“They’re trouble,” says James, jumping in.
“Who’s trouble?” asks a raspy voice from behind us. I see Ruth coming up the dock with an open can of tuna in her hand.
“You are, little lady,” says James, pointing at her. And I realize he must know them already.
Ruth giggles and takes James’s arm. She looks at Olive and hands her the tuna.
“Here, take this to Mrs. Ficklewhiskers over there, will you?” she asks.
Olive runs over to the end of the dock and puts the can down for the cat, who sniffs it haughtily and then starts to take tiny bites.
I turn back to Ruth.
“Jimmy and I have been on this same route every summer since …” She stops. “Well, for four years or so, anyway. Right, Jimmy?”
“That’s right,” James says, giving her arm a squeeze.
It’s sweet when guys are nice to older people. I take out my phone and snap a photo of them.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready, was I?” says Ruth.
“I’m into candids,” I say.
“She loooves candids,” says my sister, running back from cat duty. She stares up at Ruth. “I’m Olive.”
“Olive and Clementine and Jimmy, enjoying a night stroll,” says Ruth, taking a deep breath. “Isn’t that lovely?”
I hear George coming up the dock, and then he shouts, “Good for you, boy! That Clementine’s a pretty one!”
“Oh, George, stop!” says Ruth. “The boy’ll turn as red as his hair.”
I hope they don’t notice that my laugh sounds nervous and that I’m blushing too.
“Come on, my love,” says George. “Our dreams await us.”
He takes Ruth’s hand and leads her away from James. They walk by Mrs. Ficklewhiskers and pick up the tuna can. She follows them back to their boat.
“You’re good with older women, Jimmy ,” I say, teasing.
“Yeah, well, spend summers on a boat and you’re pretty much rolling like the AARP set,” he says. “Old people rule, but you guys are a very welcome surprise this year.”
He grins at Olive, who beams back at him, and we continue our walk.
I fall silent, thinking about Ruth and George, how silly they seem, but also kind of wise or something. And how he called her “my love,” which sounded so tender and sweet.
James and Olive banter back and forth about which boats are the nicest, and they argue about whether pontoon boats are a blast (Olive) or majorly cheesy (James). I listen to the chatter of their voices without really hearing their words. I’m still in my own world a little bit, finding it hard to stay in present moments.
But then James puts his hand on my shoulder.
“I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s go there.” He points off toward the end of Pier 3, where neither of our boats are docked.
“We just walked Pier 3,” says Olive. “Don’t you remember? You said you love that giant yacht at the end, and I said my dad would say that’s not a real boater’s vessel, that’s a ship for fools!”
I laugh. I didn’t hear Olive say that the first time, but that totally is what Dad would say. It’s a motorboat that must be almost sixty feet long. It’s got tinted windows and a double-level cockpit with a spiral staircase leading up to a flybridge that’s the perfect suntanning deck. I can’t even imagine what’s inside, but there are probably, like, five bedrooms.
“You want to see that boat again ?” asks Olive.
“I want to go on that boat,” says James. “I’ve been watching it all day—the owner is definitely not around. They probably left it for the week and just use it
“Maybe you should be thankful for his banana habit,” I say. “It probably keeps his mouth occupied sometimes.”
I hope that didn’t sound rude or weird, but when I glance up at James I see that he’s smiling. I like people who aren’t too sensitive.
Then a tortoiseshell cat darts out in front of us.
“Mrs. Ficklewhiskers!” I shout.
“Mrs. what now?” asks Olive.
“She belongs to Ruth and George,” I say. “I met them in Peoria on the dock. They’re—”
“They’re trouble,” says James, jumping in.
“Who’s trouble?” asks a raspy voice from behind us. I see Ruth coming up the dock with an open can of tuna in her hand.
“You are, little lady,” says James, pointing at her. And I realize he must know them already.
Ruth giggles and takes James’s arm. She looks at Olive and hands her the tuna.
“Here, take this to Mrs. Ficklewhiskers over there, will you?” she asks.
Olive runs over to the end of the dock and puts the can down for the cat, who sniffs it haughtily and then starts to take tiny bites.
I turn back to Ruth.
“Jimmy and I have been on this same route every summer since …” She stops. “Well, for four years or so, anyway. Right, Jimmy?”
“That’s right,” James says, giving her arm a squeeze.
It’s sweet when guys are nice to older people. I take out my phone and snap a photo of them.
“Hey, I wasn’t ready, was I?” says Ruth.
“I’m into candids,” I say.
“She loooves candids,” says my sister, running back from cat duty. She stares up at Ruth. “I’m Olive.”
“Olive and Clementine and Jimmy, enjoying a night stroll,” says Ruth, taking a deep breath. “Isn’t that lovely?”
I hear George coming up the dock, and then he shouts, “Good for you, boy! That Clementine’s a pretty one!”
“Oh, George, stop!” says Ruth. “The boy’ll turn as red as his hair.”
I hope they don’t notice that my laugh sounds nervous and that I’m blushing too.
“Come on, my love,” says George. “Our dreams await us.”
He takes Ruth’s hand and leads her away from James. They walk by Mrs. Ficklewhiskers and pick up the tuna can. She follows them back to their boat.
“You’re good with older women, Jimmy ,” I say, teasing.
“Yeah, well, spend summers on a boat and you’re pretty much rolling like the AARP set,” he says. “Old people rule, but you guys are a very welcome surprise this year.”
He grins at Olive, who beams back at him, and we continue our walk.
I fall silent, thinking about Ruth and George, how silly they seem, but also kind of wise or something. And how he called her “my love,” which sounded so tender and sweet.
James and Olive banter back and forth about which boats are the nicest, and they argue about whether pontoon boats are a blast (Olive) or majorly cheesy (James). I listen to the chatter of their voices without really hearing their words. I’m still in my own world a little bit, finding it hard to stay in present moments.
But then James puts his hand on my shoulder.
“I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s go there.” He points off toward the end of Pier 3, where neither of our boats are docked.
“We just walked Pier 3,” says Olive. “Don’t you remember? You said you love that giant yacht at the end, and I said my dad would say that’s not a real boater’s vessel, that’s a ship for fools!”
I laugh. I didn’t hear Olive say that the first time, but that totally is what Dad would say. It’s a motorboat that must be almost sixty feet long. It’s got tinted windows and a double-level cockpit with a spiral staircase leading up to a flybridge that’s the perfect suntanning deck. I can’t even imagine what’s inside, but there are probably, like, five bedrooms.
“You want to see that boat again ?” asks Olive.
“I want to go on that boat,” says James. “I’ve been watching it all day—the owner is definitely not around. They probably left it for the week and just use it
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