Nicholas Sparks - Message in a Bottle

Not, of course, that it mattered.

* * *

Theresa arrived twenty minutes later, dressed in shorts and a low-necked sleeveless blouse that did wonderful things for her figure. When she entered the shop, both Ian and Garrett stared at her as she glanced around. Finally spotting him, she smiled and called out, “Hi,” from where she was standing, and Ian raised his eyebrow at Garrett, as if to ask “What haven’t you been telling me?” Garrett ignored the expression and moved toward Theresa with her jacket in hand. He knew that Ian would scrutinize everything he did and badger him about it later, though he wasn’t planning on saying anything.

“Good as new,” he said, offering it to her when she stepped close enough to take it. While she was on her way, Garrett had washed the grease off his hands and changed into one of the new T-shirts his store offered for sale. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was better than the way he’d looked before. At least now he looked clean.

“Thanks for picking it up for me,” she said, and there was something in her eyes that made the initial attraction he’d felt the day before begin to rise again. Absently he scratched the side of his face.

“i was glad to do it. I guess the wind must have forced it from plain view.”

“I guess so,” she said with a slight shrug, and Garrett watched as she adjusted the shoulder of her blouse with her hand. He didn’t know if she was in a hurry, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her to leave yet. He said the first words that came to mind:

“I had a good time last night.”

“So did I.”

Her eyes caught his as she said it, and Garrett smiled softly. He didn’t know what else to say—it had been a long time since he’d been in a situation like this. Though he was always good with customers and strangers in general, this was completely different. He found himself shifting his weight from one leg to the other, feeling as if he were sixteen again. Finally it was she who spoke.

“I feel like I owe you something for taking the time to do this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Maybe not for picking up my jacket, but for last night as well.”

He shook his head. “Not for that, either. I was glad you came.”

I was glad you came . The words rolled through his head immediately after he spoke them. Two days ago he couldn’t have imagined himself saying them to anyone.

In the background the phone rang, and the sound of it broke him from his thoughts. Buying time, he asked: “Did you come all the way down here just for your jacket, or were you going to do a little sight-seeing as well?”

“I hadn’t really planned on that. It’s about lunchtime, and I was going to get a quick bite to eat.” She looked at him expectantly. “Any recommendations?”

He thought for a moment before responding. “I like Hank’s, down at the pier. The food is fresh, and the view is out of this world.”

“Where is it, exactly?”

He motioned over his shoulder. “On Wrightsville Beach. You take the bridge over to the island and turn right. You can’t miss it—just look for the signs to the pier. The restaurant is located right there.”

“What kind of food do they have?”

“Mainly seafood. They have great shrimp and oysters, but if you want something other than seafood, they have burgers and things like that as well.”

She waited to see if he would add anything else, and when he didn’t, she glanced away, looking toward the windows. Still she stood there, and for the second time in a couple of minutes, Garrett felt awkward in her presence. What was it about her that made him feel this way? Finally, gathering himself, he spoke.

“If you’d like, I could show you the place. I’m getting kind of hungry myself, and I’d be happy to take you there if you want some company.”

She smiled. “I’d like that, Garrett.”

He looked relieved. “My truck is out back. Do you want me to drive?”

“You know the way better than I do,” she replied, and Garrett pointed the way, leading her through the shop and out the back door. Walking slightly behind him so that he couldn’t see her expression, Theresa couldn’t help but smile to herself.

* * *

hank’s had been in business since the pier was built and was frequented by locals and tourists alike. Low in ambience but high in character, it was similar to the pier restaurants they had on Cape Cod—wooden floors scraped and scuffed by years of sandy shoes, large windows offering a view of the Atlantic Ocean, pictures of trophy fish on the walls. Off to one side was a door that led to the kitchen, and Theresa saw plates of fresh seafood loaded on trays, carried by waiters and waitresses dressed in shorts and blue T-shirts emblazoned with the name of the restaurant. The tables and chairs were wooden, sturdy looking, and decorated by the carvings of hundreds of former visitors. It wasn’t a place that required more than casual beachwear, and Theresa noticed that most of the people there looked as though they had been lying in the sun most of the morning.

“Trust me,” he said as they were walking to a table. “The food is great, no matter what this place looks like.”

They took their seats at a table near the corner, and Garrett pushed aside two bottles of beer that hadn’t yet been cleared. The menus were stacked between a series of condiments including ketchup, Tabasco, tartar sauce, and cocktail sauce in squeeze bottles, as well as another sauce labeled simply “Hank’s.” Cheaply laminated, the menus looked as though they hadn’t been replaced in years. Glancing around, Theresa saw that nearly every table was occupied.

“It’s crowded,” she said, making herself comfortable.

“It always is. Even before Wrightsville Beach got popular with tourists, this place was kind of a legend. You can’t even get in here on Friday or Saturday nights, unless you’re willing to wait for a couple of hours.”

“What’s the draw?”

“the food and the prices. Every morning Hank gets a load of fresh fish and shrimp, and you can usually get out of here without spending more than ten dollars, including the tip. And that’s with a couple of beers.”

“How does he do it?”

“Volume, I guess. Like I said, this place is always crowded.”

“Then we were lucky to get a table.”

“Yeah, we were. But we got here before the locals come in, and the beach crowd never lingers. They just pop in for a quick bite and head back out into the sun.”

She looked around the restaurant one last time before glancing at the menu. “So what do you recommend?”

“Do you like seafood?”

“I love it.”

“Then go with the tuna or the dolphin. They’re both delicious.”

“Dolphin?”

He laughed under his breath. “Not Flipper. It’s dolphin-fish. That’s what we call it around here.”

“I think I’ll go with the tuna,” she said with a wink, “just to make sure.”

“You think I’d make up something like that?”

She spoke in a teasing voice. “I don’t know what to think. We just met yesterday, remember. I don’t know you well enough to be completely sure what you’re capable of.”

“I’m hurt,” he said in the same voice, and she laughed. He laughed, too, and after a moment she surprised him by reaching across the table and touching his arm briefly. Catherine, he suddenly realized, used to do the same thing to get his attention.

“Look over there,” she said, nodding toward the windows, and garrett turned his head. On the pier an older man carried his fishing gear, looking completely normal except for the large parrot that was perched on his shoulder.

Garrett shook his head and smiled, still feeling the remnants of her touch lingering on his arm. “We get all kinds around here. It’s not quite California, but give us a few years.”