Текст книги "Pulled Under"

Автор книги: Michelle Dalton

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“You’d been imagining it?” I ask. “Imagining kissing me?”

He nods. “Big time.”

“Since when?”

“Since I met you.”

“Right,” I say with a laugh. “When I had the guacamole stain on my shirt?”

“I like guacamole and I respect a girl who can pull it off as a fashion statement.”

I turn to look at him, and the sea breeze blows my hair in every direction. He reaches up and gently moves it out of my face, and I tuck it between my neck and shoulder.

“And what was it like?” I continue. “Kissing me?”

He flashes the smile I see in my mind whenever I think about him.

“Even better than I had imagined. Which is saying something, because I had set the anticipation bar pretty high.”

“Do you . . . maybe . . . want to try it again?”

“I . . . do,” he says, but with some hesitation. “I . . . really . . . do.”

“Why do I sense another ‘but’ coming up?”

“It’s already July first and I go back to Wisconsin on August twenty-fifth. That’s—”

“Fifty-five days,” I interrupt.

“Wow, you came up with that quickly.”

“I’ve already done the math. All of it. Fifty-five days, seven weekends, six more summer camp classes.” I shrug. “You’re not the only one who’s been imagining.”

This makes him smile.

“I want to kiss you very much,” he says. “But if I do, I know that it will hurt unbearably bad fifty-five days from now. Maybe worse than anything’s ever hurt before. And that makes me wonder what I should do.”

Now I turn my whole body and lean forward so that I am just inches from his face. “What you should do? Don’t I have a say in this?”

“Of course you do,” he answers. “What do you think we should do?”

“I think it’s like a wave,” I say. “But that’s just me. I always think everything’s like surfing.”

He has a perplexed look on his face. “How is it like a wave?”

“Consider all the cosmic forces that have brought us to the end of this pier. Your parents, my job, your uncle, summer camp. All of these unseen forces have led us here, and the chance that we have is only going to last for a brief period of time. Just like a wave. I say we catch it as soon as we can and ride it until the very last part dissolves into the sand. I say that we shoot . . . for perfection.”

I don’t wait for him to respond. Instead I reach around, put my hand on the back of his neck, and pull him gently toward me as I begin to kiss him. I can taste the salt air on his lips, and when I close my eyes I lose myself in those lips. It is wonderful and exciting. It’s more than I ever would have dreamed could have happened. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t ignore the clock that starts in my head. Even as I kiss him I can hear it ticking away.

Fifty-five days and counting.

I want you . . . to name which five members of the Continental Congress were selected to write the Declaration of Independence.”

I blink, rub the sleep out of my eyes, and try to refocus. Much to my horror I realize that it’s not a nightmare. Uncle Sam really is accosting me in the kitchen. Okay, it’s my father in an Uncle Sam costume, but it’s still pretty nightmarish.

“What?” I mumble with a sleepy yawn.

“I want you,” he says, exaggerating the pose to look like the famous Uncle Sam poster, “to name which five members of the Continental Congress were selected to write the Declaration of Independence.”

Normally, I make it a rule to ignore my father when he’s in costume. And you’d be surprised by the frequency with which I have to invoke this rule. But that’s impossible at the moment because he’s blocking my access to the refrigerator.

“I just want to get some milk for my cereal,” I moan. “Why does there have to be a quiz?”

“Because it’s the Fourth of July and your father’s an American history teacher,” he says, as though that were a reasonable explanation. “C’mon. Give me the names.”

I can tell that he’s not giving up, so I rack my brain. “I’m pretty sure one was Thomas Jefferson.”

“Yes,” he says, no doubt perturbed that I’m only “pretty sure.”

“And you’ve gotta figure that Ben Franklin was there, right?”

“He was.”

He waits for more, and all I do is shrug.

“That’s it?”

“It’s seven in the morning and I’m in the middle of summer vacation,” I say. “You should be happy that I got that many.”

He shakes his head in total disappointment. “That’s two out of five. That’s only forty percent. Do you find forty percent acceptable?”

“I’m only getting two percent milk, so yeah,” I say with a wicked smile. “That leaves thirty-eight percent for later.”

Rather than continue our back and forth history lesson, I wedge my way past him, grab the milk and orange juice, and head for the table.

“John Adams, Robert Livingston, and Roger Sherman were the others,” he says. “In case you were wondering.”

“Thanks,” I answer as I pour the milk over my cereal. “But I wasn’t.”

Despite my current—and I would argue quite defensible—lack of excitement, Fourth of July is a huge deal in Pearl Beach. It’s the busiest day of the year for tourists, and we really give them their money’s worth. The celebration starts off in the morning with the Patriots Parade, continues all afternoon with live music at the bandshell, and concludes with a huge fireworks display over the pier.

I don’t want to be a buzz kill for my dad, so I try to engage in some conversation. “Is your band marching in the parade this year?”

“Yes,” he says with glee, unwilling to let my mood dampen his enthusiasm. “And we’re playing the two o’clock set at the bandshell.”

I swallow a spoonful of cereal and chuckle. “You love saying that you’re playing a ‘set,’ don’t you?”

“I almost said that we had a ‘gig,’ but I thought you might give me a hard time about it.”

“I definitely would have.”

Every year on the Fourth of July my dad and a bunch of other guys he knows form a band they call the Founding Fathers. It’s perfect not only because he gets to dress up as Uncle Sam, but also because it blends three of his greatest loves: music, American history, and bad puns.

“Are you going to sing my song?” I ask, giving him my best doe eyes.

My song is “Isabel,” an old country song by John Denver that my father used to sing to me when he’d put me to bed.

“I don’t know,” he says, playing hardball. “Our set’s only for thirty minutes and we’ve got a lot of songs.”

“Seriously? That’s your answer?”

He nods and we have a little stare off before I finally relent.

“Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia.”

“And why are you suddenly listing states?”

“Because those are the colonies that John Adams, Roger Sherman, Robert Livingston, Ben Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson represented in the Continental Congress.”

“You knew all along.”

“Of course I did. You’ve only made me watch 1776 about a thousand times.”

“Then why’d you act like you didn’t know?”

I give him a look. “Because I don’t want to encourage you to give me pop quizzes every morning.”

He smiles broadly. “That’s my girl.”

“Now what about my song?” I ask.

“I guess you’ll have to come and find out,” he answers. But as he walks out of the kitchen I can hear him start to sing, “Isabel is watching like a princess from the mountains . . .”

Today would be the perfect day to hang out with Ben, except we’re both busy for huge chunks of it. He’s marching with the campers in the parade and working at the bandshell during the concert. Meanwhile, I’m going in early to help set up at Surf Sisters and working the late shift tonight. If I’m lucky, I’ll get out in time to catch some of the fireworks. I’m pretty sure our paths will cross a few times during the festivities, but there are no guarantees as to when.

I ride my bike to the shop, and when I get there, I’m surprised to see Nicole standing in the parking lot wearing her band uniform.

“You know I’m all about seeing you in the funny hat, but shouldn’t you be lining up for the parade?”

“I’ve got about twenty minutes,” she says.

I lock my bike to the rack and reply, “I’m sure we’ve got the inventory all covered. You should go hang out with the drum line. And by drum line I mean you should go hang out with Cody.”

“I will,” she says. “But Mickey called me first thing and asked me to come in. She said that she wanted to talk to the whole staff.”

Mickey and Mo must be concerned about something, because the Fourth is our biggest sales day of the year. I assume they want to make sure that everyone’s ready. But when I walk into the shop and see them talking in hushed tones, I begin to worry that something’s wrong. Typically they’re upbeat, but there are no smiles today.

Mickey steps forward first and does a quick head count to make sure we’re all here. Including the two of them, there are ten of us in total, and while I’m closest to Sophie and Nicole, I think of everyone as my extended family.

“We really hate to do this today,” Mickey says. “The Fourth is such a big day for the beach, and we know how much of a zoo it can be. But there are some developments that are about to become public, and we want to make sure that you hear them from us first.”

Now I am really worried. Mickey is getting teary and has trouble continuing, so Mo puts an arm around her and picks up where she left off.

“After thirty-three years of doing what we love . . . we are sorry to announce that . . . this is going to be the last summer for Surf Sisters. We’re closing down the shop at the end of September.”

She continues speaking, but I literally do not hear another word while my mind tries to process what she has just said. I know this sounds melodramatic, but I can’t overemphasize how important the shop has been to me. I look around and realize that everyone else is equally stunned. This is our place. This cannot be happening.

“What are you talking about?” Sophie blurts out.

“Like I said,” Mo continues, “we didn’t want to tell you like this, but you’re family to us, and word has leaked out and we’re sure you’ll hear about it.”

“How is this even possible?” one of the girls asks. “I know we don’t get the crowds that Surf City does, but business seems like it’s been good.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Mickey says, clearing her throat. “A developer is going to build a new resort, and the bank sees this as a chance to make a lot of money. We’ve tried everything we can think of, but there’s really nothing we can do about it. We will, however, do everything we can to help you all find new jobs.”

We sit there in stunned silence for a moment, and an idea comes to me.

“What about Luigi’s Car Wash?” I say. “Luigi’s was able to stay open because it had been here so long. Doesn’t the same law protect us?”

They share a look and turn back to us.

“We thought the same thing,” Mo says. “We even got our lawyer to file paperwork with the city. But it turns out we opened four months too late to qualify.”

I can’t believe this would happen at the very moment I was happier than ever before. It’s like if one part of my life goes well, then another has to go off the rails. I look around the shop and suddenly years’ worth of memories start to flood through my mind. I can’t even begin to imagine what this is like for the two of them. They grew up here. They’ve spent their lives building a business here. And it’s going to become some ridiculous hotel.

“What can we do?” I ask.

“I’m glad you asked that,” Mickey says. “We know there’s a lot of sadness about this, but we don’t want our last memories of Surf Sisters to be sad. We want to have an incredible last summer. And you’re the key to that. We have accepted that this is going to happen, and we’re going to have fun. We want you to have fun too. If you can’t have fun at the beach during the summer, then you’re really doing something wrong.”

“And that fun starts tonight,” Mo says. “We’re closing a couple hours earlier than planned, and we’re going to set up beach chairs on the roof so we can watch the fireworks, just like we used to with Dad. You’re all invited.”

Suddenly I think about Ben, and I must make an expression, because Mo notices it.

“What is it, Izzy?”

It seems inappropriate to ask, but I don’t know what else to say. “I was just wondering if I could bring a date.”

For the first time all morning, there are smiles around the room.

“We would love it if you brought a date.”

In the world of parades, ours is on the homemade end of the spectrum. We don’t have giant balloons like the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York, and our floats aren’t lush and intricate like those in the Rose Parade on New Year’s Day. Instead we’ve got some marching bands, people from different civic groups, old guys in antique cars, and about a dozen pickup trucks pulling flatbed trailers decorated with plastic fringe, chicken wire, and tissue paper. The grand finale is the high school drama teacher dressed as George Washington waving from the back of a fire truck with all its lights flashing. It is beyond corny, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Sophie, my mother, and I stake out a spot right at the corner where the route turns off Seagate and onto Ocean Ave. This is the halfway point of the parade as it makes its way from the high school parking lot to the bandshell, and because they have to slow down and wait at the turn, most of the bands play a full song here.

While we’re waiting for the parade to begin, we tell Mom about Surf Sisters, and she’s almost as bummed as we are. This funk hangs over us until we catch sight of Dad’s band coming our way. The Founding Fathers are playing some Dixieland jazz number, and what they lack in precision and synchronicity they more than make up for with enthusiasm and ridiculous costumes.

My dad plays trombone, and I swear he picked it because it’s the goofiest looking instrument. He exaggerates his marching when he sees us, and it’s impossible not to laugh at him. We all shout and wave, and he responds with a wink and a long, drawn out blast from the trombone.

“Has he always been like that?” I ask my mom.

“Always,” she says. “He did the exact same thing when I waved at him during this parade back when he was in the high school band and I was your age.”

Sophie and I laugh at this, but as I watch Mom watching him, I can tell she’s flashing back in time for an instant. She smiles and I notice her cheeks have the same blush that Ben described in mine. It dawns on me that there was a time when my mom felt exactly the same way about Dad that I feel about Ben. I wonder if she had as many questions as I do or if she was one of those girls who had all the answers.

Our next highlight is when Sophie’s little brother marches by with the Cub Scouts. Unlike my father, there’s nothing silly about him. He’s the pack’s flag bearer and takes his responsibility with full patriotic seriousness.

“Way to go Anthony!” shouts Sophie.

He looks over at us and gives us a very grown-up nod. We respond with wild applause and cheering, and he can’t help but break into a little smile.

Behind the scouts is a group of Shriners in miniaturized sports cars. The tassels from their fez hats flap in the wind behind them as they race by and make figure eights in the street.

Next up is my least favorite float. It’s sponsored by Surf City and features Bailey Kossoff, the reigning champion of the King of the Beach surf contest. He’s sitting on a throne next to a fake palm tree, wearing board shorts, a royal cape, and a king’s crown. I’ve got nothing against him. I think he’s an amazing surfer, but I could live without all the Surf City bimbos in their bikinis who surround him and wave to the crowd. Of course Kayla is one of the girls, and when my mother sees her, she says something completely unexpected.

“I know I’m a teacher and I’m not supposed to talk about a student,” she says. “But since this is summer vacation and it’s just us girls, let me tell you something. I cannot stand that girl.”

This is completely out of character for Mom. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her say anything negative about a student in front of me.

“I’m serious,” she says. “Her mom was the same way when we were growing up. I tell you, the broom does not fall far from the witch tree.”

Sophie eats it up. “I’ve missed hanging out with you, Mrs. Lucas.”

“I’ve missed you, too, Sophie,” Mom says with a smile. “We should do this more often.”

I wonder if Mom made this unprecedented move because she has somehow become aware of my current situation. I don’t doubt that Kayla’s going to keep flirting with Ben, and my mother probably wants to give me a little boost. Before I can give it much thought though, we hear the sound of approaching snare drums.

“Here comes our girl!” Sophie says, pointing at the band.

Nicole may not always like the fact that she’s six feet tall, but it sure does help us pick her out of crowds.

“Check it out—she’s right next to Cody,” I say, noticing the lineup. “Maybe there’s something to be said for intervention-worthy stalking.”

Mom gives us a look but decides not to ask.

The band marches to the cadence from the drums until they come to a stop right in front of us. They are about to play a song, and since they’ve played the same six or seven songs at every football game we’ve ever attended, Sophie and I try to predict which one this will be.

“‘Hawaii Five-O,’” she guesses.

“‘A Little Less Conversation,’” I counter.

We only have to hear the first few notes before I’m flashing a broad smile and basking in the glow of victory. “Nailed it.”

The Pearl Beach High School Marching Panthers have been playing “A Little Less Conversation” for as long as anyone can remember. I wouldn’t be surprised if they began playing it the day after Elvis released the song. This is not a complaint, mind you. They play it because they completely knock it out of the park every time.

Just as we do at football games, we all sing along. It builds to a climax when we shout, “Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on! . . . Come on, come on!” That’s when the trumpets reach their crescendo and the whole band starts marching again at our urging.

I really kind of love everything about Pearl Beach, if you haven’t noticed.

This is the first time I’ve seen Nicole perform since she switched to drums, and you’d never know that she hasn’t been playing them her whole life. She is so focused she doesn’t even notice us jumping up and down waving at her.

There are more Shriners—this group is on tiny motorcycles—and then the mayor rides by waving at everyone from the back of an antique car. Next we see Ben and the kids from summer camp marching alongside the float for the Parks and Recreation Department.

The kids are wearing various athletic uniforms and carrying sports gear to represent the many activities that the department sponsors. Apparently, though, some of them have gotten tired and handed their gear off to Ben. At the moment he’s carrying a surfboard, a baseball bat, a football helmet, and a bag of golf clubs. Considering that they’re only halfway through the route, you’ve got to wonder how much more he can carry.

“He’s going to pass out before the end of the parade,” jokes my mom.

I don’t know the proper protocol when your boyfriend (can I call him that? I think so) marches past you in a parade, so I just smile and do a coy fingers only wave when I see him. He’s trying to say something to me, but I can’t hear him over the revving engines from the tiny motorcycles.

“What?” I ask.

He rushes over to us, short of breath and frantic. “I need your help. Can you take this?” he says as he hands me the surfboard.

“You want me to take it to the shop and hold it for you?”

He gives me an incredulous look. “No, I want you to carry it alongside me and march in the parade.”

“You want me . . . in the parade?”

He looks desperate. “Yes!”

“You really don’t get the whole ‘introvert’ thing, do you?”

Before he can answer, he has to chase after a kid dressed as a football player who’s wandering off in the wrong direction.

I stand on the curb frozen by fear. I’m totally mortified by the idea of marching in a parade in front of, you know, people. That’s when I feel a hand push me from behind and make the decision for me. I stumble out into the street and it’s too late—I am in the parade. I turn around expecting to see that it was Sophie but am surprised to discover that it’s my mom.

“He asked you to help and he’s really cute,” she says. “Have fun.”

Fun?

I’m a little bit like a deer caught in the headlights until I see Rebecca, the shy girl from the surfing class. She’s dressed in a soccer uniform, holding a ball in one hand and waving to the spectators with the other.

“Hey, Izzy,” she says when she sees me there. “Isn’t this great?”

I’m not sure, but I think I just got schooled by the nine-year-old version of me.

“You bet,” I say. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

Rebecca and I walk together for a couple of blocks and I begin to feel less self-conscious. Once that happens, I help Ben corral the kids, and we start doing a little routine in which we stop, stutter step, and start marching again all in unison. They get a kick out of it, and it stops them from wandering off so much. By the time we reach the bandshell, we’ve got the step down and I’m actually enjoying myself.

“Thank you,” he says as we reach the parking lot. He just drops all the gear that’s been handed to him.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

I give him a moment to catch his breath, and once he does, I ask, “Do you have time for lunch?”

He looks around at the mass of kids. “I need to wait here until their parents pick them up.”

I think it through. “How about if I get the food and meet you back here? Hopefully by then you’ll be free.”

“That sounds great,” he says.

I head over to Angie’s Subs. Luckily Angie’s daughter is a friend and she helps me sidestep the mob. I order a foot-long Italian Special with extra Peruvian sauce (I don’t know what’s in Peruvian sauce, but wow!), and twenty minutes later Ben and I are splitting it in the arctic chill that is the Parks and Rec office. He clears off some space at the end of his desk, and we set up our little dining area.

“What would you like to drink?” he says as he holds up two bottles of water. “Water or water?”

I play along and scratch my chin as I consider my choice. “Water, please.”

“Excellent choice.” He hands me one of the bottles and sits down across from me. “So what do you think of my fancy desk?” He raps the metal top with his knuckle.

“I like it,” I say. “It’s not only cheap, it’s also messy.”

“It’s not messy,” he says defensively. “This may look disorganized, but all of these stacks mean something to me. That one’s for summer camp. That one has all the permission slips, and those two are for the King of the Beach and the Sand Castle Dance.

“By the way, in case you change your mind”—he takes a sheet of paper off one of the piles and dangles it in front of me—“here’s an application for the King of the Beach.”

I know he’s trying to be supportive, but the thought of competing in the King of the Beach is simply terrifying to me. I wish he’d stop pushing it. The Sand Castle Dance, however, is a completely different matter.

“Enough with the King of the Beach,” I say, ignoring it. “You have a better chance getting me interested in the Sand Castle Dance. It’s kind of like our summer prom and a pretty big deal for us.”

He nods as he swallows a bite of his sandwich. “I know. I hope I can get a good date. You think Kayla would go with me?”

“That’s not even funny,” I say as I slug him in the shoulder.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he says, rubbing it. “I was only joking.”

“Well, now you know better than to tell stupid jokes.”

He rubs it some more, and I realize I packed a harder punch than I had intended.

“Do you know why I am working so hard preparing for the Sand Castle Dance?”

“No,” I say. “And I’m not sure I care.”

“You should care. I’m working so hard because I made a deal with my boss. If I take care of all the prep—which includes finding the band and arranging the decorations—then I don’t have to work that night. I get to spend the whole evening at the dance with . . . wait for it . . . my girlfriend.”

I just let that word linger in the air for a moment. It’s got kind of a musical ring to it.

“How do you know I want to go?” I say. “The word on the street this year is that it’s being planned by a guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s probably going to be lame.”

He gives me a look. “I’m going to let that slide. But only because you got this incredible sandwich.”

“Speaking of dates,” I say, trying out yet another unskillful segue, “what are your plans for fireworks tonight?”

“Some oohing, some aahing, nothing special planned,” he says. “I thought you had to work.”

“About that . . .”

I tell him all about Surf Sisters and the surprise announcement. He seems truly upset that the store’s going to close, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out a solution. He’s not going to come up with one, but he wins points with me for trying. I also tell him about the plan to watch the fireworks from the roof of the shop.

“So, you wanna be my date?”

“You and me on a date?” he says playfully. “In front of all the girls at Surf Sisters?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, that doesn’t sound the least bit intimidating. Isn’t there somewhere we could watch where I’d feel less out of place? You know, like in a pit of wild panthers or something like that?”

I lean across the desk and wag a finger in his face. “I just marched in a parade for you. A parade through crowds of people! Don’t even get me started about feeling out of place.”

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

I hear a new band being announced at the bandshell and I panic.

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” he says.

“We gotta go.”

“I’ve still got ten minutes for my lunch break,” he replies.

“The Founding Fathers are playing,” I reply. “I don’t want to miss my song.”

We hurry out of the office and get to the bandshell just as they start to play it.

“Isabel is watching like a princess from the mountains . . .”

Ben smiles when he realizes what’s going on. “Very nice,” he says. “Your dad has a good voice.”

We listen for a while, and even though I’ve heard it countless times, this is the first time I take notice of one particular line.

“With a whisper of her sadness in the passing of the summer . . .”

As a girl I’d always focused on the princess line, but now the idea of sadness and the passing of summer has new meaning. That’s in the future though. Right now, I’m just going to focus on enjoying it.

During my shift at Surf Sisters I have moments of nostalgia, sadness, laughter, and anger. We all do. It’s just impossible for us to believe that such an important part of our life is coming to an end. Mickey and Mo try to keep our spirits up, but it’s hard to separate the job part from the surfing and the friendship parts. In a way we’re lucky that it’s the Fourth because we’re so busy dealing with customers, we don’t have much time to dwell on the negative.

Ben arrives right before closing. He’s made a point of going home and switching out of his work clothes and is now rocking the whole islander look with a pair of khaki shorts, a graphic tee, and flip-flops.

“Badger Ben sure doesn’t look like he’s from Wisconsin anymore,” Sophie jokes with a friendly nudge.

I give her a look. “I thought we decided ‘Badger Ben’ didn’t work.”

She nods. “I just thought I’d give it one last try.”

He walks over to me, does a double check of everyone in the room, and whispers conspiratorially, “I’m the only dude here. Are you sure this is okay?”

Despite his best efforts to keep these concerns quiet, Mo has overheard him. She comes up from behind and whispers into his ear, “She’s sure.”

Startled, Ben turns around to see her smiling.

“We always like to have a couple guys around,” she continues, “just in case any menial jobs come along.”

I think this is Mo’s way of testing him. A lot of boys might get defensive or feel intimidated. But Ben just goes with the flow and plays along.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he says, “I think my vast experience doing menial chores for Parks and Rec makes me more than qualified. Do you have any playground vomit that needs cleaning up?”

“No,” she says, pleased by his response. “But the night’s still young, so you might want to check in with me later.”

Despite this confidence, I’m sure Ben feels a little more comfortable when a few more guys show up. This includes Mickey’s husband and—surprise, surprise—Nicole’s longtime crush, Cody Bell.

“Did Nicole invite him?” Sophie asks.

“She must have,” I say. “Probably today at the parade.”

Sophie beams with pride. “Aren’t my girls growing up?”

I shoot her a look and hope that Ben hasn’t overheard. Sophie, meanwhile, walks over toward Nicole and Cody. From past experience I know that’s she going in as a wingman to make sure that Nicole doesn’t get too nervous.

“What was that about?” Ben asks.

“Just Sophie being Sophie,” I say before I quickly change the subject. “Wanna see the roof?”

“Sure.”

I guide Ben into the storeroom, where I pull a set of folding stairs down from the ceiling. A generation ago these led to the attic, but the roof has been remodeled and includes a full wooden deck with a wraparound railing and spectacular 360-degree views.

“I get to go up here every two hours to update the surf report,” I tell him as we reach the top and open the door to the deck. “My reward is the view.”

“Okay, wow!” he says when he steps out and sees what I’m talking about.

Night has fallen over the ocean; the lights along the boardwalk and the pier are coming alive as the moon casts a silvery wash across the water. It is incredibly romantic, and when I see that we are all alone, I sneak a quick but meaningful kiss.

“That’s why you wanted to be the first ones up?” he says.

My smile confirms my guilt, although I admit to nothing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “So what did you think of Independence Day Pearl Beach style?”

“Different from Wisconsin, that’s for sure.”

“How do you guys celebrate up there? Milking cows? Churning butter?” I joke.

“I’m going to ignore that because today you came to my rescue,” he says. “I know you’re not a big fan of being in the spotlight, so marching in a parade could not have been fun.”

“Fun? No, it was not fun. It was terrifying.” I’m only half joking, but we both laugh.