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.
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