“It was kind of a disaster. I don’t want to talk about it, but I’m sure you’ll find out about it soon enough.”
“Intriguing,” Sam says, “but I’m patient. I’ll wait. Plus, this is a good song. Listen. You probably haven’t heard it before.” He turns up the music, and we don’t say anything else the rest of the way. We don’t have to, and I appreciate this about my brother. When we get down to the Embarcadero, he parks in the back of the Fuel Dock and shuts off the car. Then he turns to me, his face serious.
“Okay. The moment we step out of this car, and into the restaurant . . .” He makes his voice go as deep as it can. “Liv . . . I am your boss.”
I roll my eyes.
“Seriously,” he says. “You have to do what I tell you to do. And it’s going to be GREAT.” He pounds the steering wheel for emphasis.
“Perfect,” I say. “Can’t wait.”
We get out of the car, and he unlocks the back door of the Fuel Dock. “Now that’s the can-do attitude I’m talkin’ about.”
He walks in ahead of me, flipping on all the light switches, and I look around the place, which is about the size of a small trailer or a food truck.
“I don’t know why, but I always thought this place was bigger inside.”
Now Sam gives me a look. “You’ve seen the outside, right? Where’d you think we kept all that space?”
“Never mind,” I say. “Show me what to do. Boss.”
Sam rolls up his sleeves. “Heh. Gladly.”
He takes me through the morning-shift prep work—slicing tomatoes and onions, shredding lettuce, filling ice.
“When do I get to learn how to use the milk shake machine?” I ask, eyeing the old-fashioned, three-pronged machine.
He steps in front of it. “Not so fast. That’s an advanced skill. You’ll be starting with delivery to the docks, like you’ve done before. You get the food there fast, fresh, and with a smile.” He pauses. “And you actually like that job because you get to walk around outside like a princess for a few hours and get paid for it while the rest of us slave away here, breathing in burger grease.”
I think about the crazy line yesterday and delivery girl sounds good to me. “Fine,” I say. “But if it’s so much better to be out delivering, why don’t you do it?”
“I’m not cute enough. Charlie likes to have you girls in your Fuel Dock T-shirts and shorts and deck shoes out there delivering. He thinks it’s good advertising.”
“That’s kinda gross.”
“It’s not like you’re in a bikini or anything. Besides, your FACE is kinda gross.”
I laugh. “I forgot all about that joke until yesterday.”
“You forgot about a lot of things, sister.”
“No, I mean there were these kids—the Wagners? Who I took the food to yesterday?”
“Yeah, they’ve been coming here for the last few years. Customer number eighty-seven. Great family. Even better tippers.”
“Well, I didn’t remember them, or that. But the kids were using that joke on each other.”
“As well they should. It’s a good joke.”
“They said I taught it to them.”
“Well, you are their favorite delivery girl, and they order from us almost daily while they’re here.”
I’m quiet a moment, thinking about our conversation the other day. “They also said they’re taking sailing lessons from Walker. Did you know he works down here?”
Sam goes to the big industrial fridge and grabs out a giant block of cheese. “Yeah. He’s like Charlie’s go-to guy for whatever needs to be done in the harbor. He works the fleet when the fish are running, teaches sailing when they’re not. Sometimes even does maintenance.”
“Do you ever talk to him?”
Sam unwraps the cheese and puts it on the slicer. He turns it on. “No more than anybody else,” he says. “Guy keeps to himself.” He glances at me, then focuses on catching the slices of cheese as they come out on the other side of the blade. “I think he likes it that way.”
“Why?”
Sam shrugs. “I don’t know. It was awesome, what he did for you—I’ll give him that. And he’s good with his sailing customers, but he doesn’t seem interested in making friends with anyone here.”
I nod. That seems accurate, based on the interview yesterday. “Do you think he doesn’t like us? Because of that whole thing that happened with Mom reporting his parents?”
“I don’t know. That’d be a long grudge to hold.” Sam looks at me. “Why all the questions about Walker? Got a little crush on your hero?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Geez, I was just curious what he’s like, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh,” Sam says.
We finish the last of the prep work just as the rest of the crew arrives and clocks in. Sam greets them all with a smile, introduces me as his delivery girl, and just like he said, we start to get busy around eleven. By eleven thirty, we’re slammed with orders, so I put on my new sunglasses and head out to the docks with the first few deliveries. The docks and their slips are all clearly marked, and this time I have a cheat sheet with all the codes, which makes things easier.
I quickly discover that the people on their boats are generally happy because they’re here on vacation, and even happier when they see their food arrive. It doesn’t take me long to realize that a smile and a little small talk go a long way toward a good tip. I try to keep it short and light, and let them do most of the talking just in case I should know them, and it works. There are a few who I gather are returners from small things they mention, and I go along with it when they seem like they know me.
I drop off an order of burgers with a family who’s visiting for the first time, and after telling them about a special beach where they can go hunting for sand dollars, I decide I’m not quite ready to go grab another order, so I take the long way back. I walk the boardwalk like part of the crowd, until I find a place to lean on the railing and look out over the bay. Most of the fishing and larger sailboats are already out for the day, but there are stand-up paddlers out for their morning lap, and farther out, Lasers and Sabots zigzag around each other as they learn how to tack and turn. They’re too far away for me to see if Walker and the Wagner kids are in any of them, but I look for them anyway. Mostly, I look for him.
I think about Sam asking why I was asking about Walker, and it’s hard to put my finger on. It’s not a crush, like he said. Walker was cold and guarded—definitely not interested in making friends. But I do want to see him again. I want to talk to him, because I don’t like the way things were left after the interview. Because I didn’t get to tell him how much it means to me, what he did. And because of the way it felt when he actually looked at me. Maybe I just want to believe what that reporter said about a connection after something like that. I feel guilty at the thought, but I know I felt something, and a tiny part of me thinks that he maybe he did too.