At the end of the second week, Ray found another problem with the old boat's fuel system. It was exactly the kind of issue an impatient shop might have ignored because the engine could be persuaded to run for a few minutes. He showed me the evidence, and we called Lauren before proceeding. She listened to the explanation and asked whether it was safe to operate the boat without the repair. When Ray said no, she replied, "Then fix it properly. I'm not putting a sentimental boat back on the water just to make it a dangerous one."
After she left that afternoon, Ray watched me watch her car pull away. He leaned against the workbench and said, "You know you smile when she gets here, right?" I told him I smiled at lots of customers. He considered that for a moment.
"You don't look like that when Mr. Benson comes in to complain that sea salt is ruining his boat," he said. I reminded him that Mr. Benson's boat was made for the sea. Ray said his point stood.
I did not tell Lauren about Erica at first because I did not want our conversations to become an explanation of my failed marriage. She had likely heard some of the rumors; Wilmington was large enough to offer privacy in theory and small enough to make it an unreliable service. But Lauren never asked about the woman in the online posts or the fundraiser that people had stopped discussing once the novelty wore off. She talked about boats, history, her father's stubbornness, the weather, and the difficulty of convincing teenagers that listening was not a form of surrender. I had spent so much time defending myself that the absence of interrogation felt like kindness.
One afternoon we were testing the Grady-White after the repairs. The water outside the marina was bright and restless, the sort of day when the wind looked harmless until you reached the channel. Ray had checked the safety equipment and fuel system, and he stayed on shore while I took Lauren out for a cautious run under controlled conditions. I explained what I was listening for as the engine warmed, which gauges mattered, and how the boat should respond when the throttle changed. She stood beside me at the helm, one hand resting lightly against the rail, concentrating as though the sound itself were a language she intended to learn.
The engine had been rough and unreliable when she brought it to us. Now it settled into a smooth idle, steady enough that the vibration traveled through the deck in a familiar, reassuring rhythm. Lauren listened for a moment, then closed her eyes briefly and smiled. "That sounds like relief," she said. I looked at her because most people would have called it better, stronger, or expensive. Relief was exactly the word I had been trying to find for a feeling that had been slowly returning to my own life.