Page 19 of Sucker For You
Helpless.
Again:no.
She gulped back a taste of bile. Bracing her shoulders, she passed through the driftwood gate after Wes, following to wherehe leaned through the Jeep’s driver-side window, watching her. “All right. But could we eat somewhere close by with quick service, please? I need to drive to Palo Alto.”
He cranked open the passenger door. He shrugged. “You’ll miss out on seeing MORI.”
She hitched up her sweater under the seat belt to protect her neck while he coaxed the engine into turning over. “I know.”
She’d miss out on MORI, like she’d been missing the Seattle Aquarium’s laboratory for more than two years now: the whisper of bubble curtains, the red-lit calming enclosures, counting the number of inhabitants in the cephalopod tanks (which could be challenging if the subjects had been caught wild, camouflaged against the gravel bottoms of their sumps) and the proximal populations of fish and crustaceans. If those fish and crustacean numbers unexpectedly declined, an octopus was likely somehow squeezing through a crack in the aquarium’s security measures, carousing around the lab for snacks. . .
Humming, squinting through the fug of mizzle and dirt on his rear windows, Wes put a hand behind her headrest to back the Jeep out of its parking spot—and she startled forward, staring down at her interlaced fingers. The hard, glittery edges of Chase’s ring dented her knuckles. Phantom pain flickered, teasing the base of her skull.
No matter how tempting Wes’s offer to see MORI was, she didn’t have a choice.
4
Del Monte Avenue stretched in a long, lazy curve beside the city’s waterfront, winding past kayak shacks, sailboats bobbing at their anchors with the tide, and seafood bars featuring a catch of the day and every possible punny name. A thumb on the wheel, an elbow cocked out Baby’s window to cool his rash, Wes scanned their breakfast options.
His criteria were threefold: cheap, scenic, with parking.
But as important as these were, with Isabel unspeaking beside him and focused on her clasped fingers instead of on views or menus, her own thumb rasping at the—massive, massively unaddressed,what the hell happened to her last night?—diamond on her left hand, the most critical criterion was this:
“Anything catching your interest?”
She didn’t answer. Maybe she didn’t hear him over the wind and the honking traffic.
His stomach gurgled.
At the next light he swung Baby off the road, over the weather-pitted planks lining one of Monterey’s legacy fishing wharves, and pulled into the first lot.Pay parking.He cringed internally, but fed a few dollars into the self-service kiosk, then yanked Baby’s brake and reached across Isabel to open the cranky passenger door. “Come on.”
Finally she glanced up. “Where are we?”
He pointed to a sign bolted on a nearby pier post: Municipal Wharf 2. Sea lions’ whingeing echoed from under a quarter-mile of boardwalk leading out over the water. The air was pungent with kelp and sardines. He inhaled and started walking. “The views should be good.”
Pricey, too.
But at least Isabel relinquished her grip on her diamond and left the Jeep to follow a half-step behind him across the planks. She moved to the boardwalk’s railing with her face raised into eddies of sun-spangled fog. She scanned the moist air and the swells farther out in the bay.
“You planning a swim after breakfast?”
She pulled back quickly at that, her lip catching between her teeth. “No. I have to drive to Palo Alto.”
Why?
“After we eat,” he reconfirmed, instead of asking.
“Yes.”
“Then how about this place?” Ahead on the wharf, a cheerful yellow board-and-batten café bumped out from the boardwalk. Striped umbrellas shaded its tables, and a sandwich board promised “Good eats and wacky waitresses at Loulou’s Griddle in the Middle”. To a hostess at the door he said, “For two?”
“Inside or outside?”
“Outside.”
“Any table you like.”
They settled into wrought-iron chairs, Wes gingerly. Sparing his back and shoulders by perching forward from the metal, he tapped his finger over a menu that offered squiddle and eggs, Popeye Jack omelets with crab cakes, plus sides of California sourdough or calamari—and featured a graphic of an octopus juggling plates under the Loulou’s name. With her hands tuckedinto the sleeves of her sweater, Isabel watched the tide roll by beside them. She only surfaced from her reverie to request a granola-and-yogurt parfait with seasonal fruit and a herbal tea from their roller-skating server; Wes ordered the daily discount special of chunky monkey French toast.
