He looked down at his shirt, pulled it over his head, reversed it, and put it back on. "Thanks," he said, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye.
"Don't mention it."
On his way out of the house he stopped in the kitchen and wrote "I'm a lucky guy," on a little yellow Post-it note. He signed it with a tiny heart and pressed it onto the coffee machine.
He walked the short distance to the Holmes house quickly, his thoughts turning round and round. With the tourist season over, the town was somber and cool. Here and there a car occupied the driveway of one of the homes along the inlet, and even fewer boats remained docked. He arrived at the Holmes place just as Grace was coming around from the side of the house carrying a potted plant in her hands. "This one isn't going to make it," she said, holding the sickly plant up for him to see.
"Sure isn't," Peter said. "Is Byron here?"
"He's in back," she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, "I'm glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he said he's got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to your house in a little bit. He'll be glad you're here."
Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see the top of Byron's white-haired head. "Hey," he said, leaping from the dock to the boat.
"I see you got your boat shoes on," Byron said, looking up from his work, as he finished oiling the boat's teakwood bulwarks. "Good," he said, making a few last wipes. "You're ready to sail."
"If you say so."
"I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, 'cause I was going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little sail." He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack. "Here, stow this, son," he said, pointing to an open bin just inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away. The boat's teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant, and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.