Free Summer Harbor by Susan Wilson

glanced up. The same degree of tension edged her jaw as when Nana and Pop had asked her to take care of the house, as it had when he’d asked about the boat just now.
    Will shrugged. “Just tell him, ‘one overwhelming project at a time.’ ”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “Good for you.”
    At his mother’s laugh, Will was suddenly glad that he’d asked to come to this hole-in-the-wall tavern for dinner. She was still smiling, although now she seemed distracted, looking up at every face that came through the door. If he felt a little devious, not telling her that he knew where the boat was and with whom, Will stifled it.
    Tuesday he would be able to observe close at hand this man who had once been a part of his mother’s life. He would watch closely to see if any answers would be revealed; look for some mannerism or movement or preference or dislike that would bond them together not in coincidence, but by blood. Will wiped a film of prickly sweat from his neck. Despite the air-conditioning, he felt feverish with excitement. Something like how he imagined the Olympic snowboarders he’d watched last year must have felt as they stood at the top of the half-pipe. He could only imagine what they were thinking: Am I good enough? Knowing that the next minute would be life altering, whatever the answer might be to that single burning question.
    Emotionally, Will felt as if he, too, stood at the top of an icy drop, board waxed, training completed. Only his burning question wasn’t whether he was good enough, but more deeply primal.
    Who am I?

Nine
    From across the dimly lit room, Grainger Egan had seen Kiley Harris come into the tavern, already murky as the hard cores came in after work and filled it with the sour smell of spilt beer and cigar smoke. He was in his usual corner, behind the fake timbers that looked like they held the place up. Grainger liked the little two-person table because he could sit there alone and be invisible. Too many of his customers believed he wanted nothing more than to talk shop with them, when all he wanted was Mattie Lou Silva’s meat loaf and a beer. The Nest was a good place for a man smelling of creosote and oakum, too tired to go home and shower before eating. Pilot was welcome and waited underneath Grainger’s table for the accidental spill that might make his day. Grainger could feel the dog’s chin resting on his boots, a weight that some days he thought kept him held to the earth.
    Kiley Harris made the bells on the tavern door ring with an arrhythmic chaos, matched by the beating of Grainger’s heart as his eyes adjusted to the recognition his brain had already made. She looked uncertain as to whether she should stay or bolt. She scanned the room quickly right to left, looking for someone. For one shocked moment, Grainger thought she was looking for him.
    From his vantage point behind the timber, he could see that she didn’t look a lot different. No taller, no thicker, no thinner. She wore a sleeveless black top, nicely showing off her square shoulders; her hair, once very long, just touched them. In the dim light of the tavern, it looked as blond as ever. The same dimness betrayed no hardening around her mouth, or lines of undue wear. She was as recognizable to him as if the time between them had been a month, not a lifetime.
    No, there was a difference. As she walked to a table, he could see that her way of moving had slowed. She was deliberate in picking up the menu, didn’t slap it down as she used to as a girl. She sipped her water, didn’t gulp it as once she did, as though every glass of water was sweet and her thirst was desperate. Kiley moved without the girlish blitheness that had informed their concept of her.
    She said something to Mattie Lou, and he realized she was expecting someone; no doubt the boy. In a moment, Will would come in and see him sitting there. The boy clearly knew something or had guessed that there was some connection between them, and had made