“Why, hello there,” she says plainly.

“Mrs. Karras,” I say formally, approaching a long, narrow counter that separates a small waiting-room area with boating magazines and coffee from her desk. “Long time.”

“Very long time.” Discerning eyes look me over. “Wow. You look just like your mother did in high school.”

I think of the photograph on Adrian’s phone and wince.

Lucky’s mom seems confused. A tense silence hangs between us.

“I came by the Nook to see you … ,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, but I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. Oh God. This was a terrible mistake. I forgot how intense Kat Karras can be. Sharp, dark eyes … sharp cheekbones. “I wanted to see you. I’m sorry I missed you. I mean … I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by the shop—not that I missed you.” I let out a nervous laugh, and it sounds awkward and hollow. Maybe because it’s a lie. I lick dry lips and try again, this time with something closer to the truth. “Actually … I have missed you, and I’m sorry I haven’t come by to see you sooner.”

Her brows’ rigid angles ease. “I’ve missed you too. And it’s okay. Everyone’s busy.”

“It’s been weird … being back. Everyone talks. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought it would be the same. Things change, though, don’t they?”

“Things change,” she agrees in a soft voice.

Behind Lucky’s mom, framed photographs of boats crowd the walls like a Hollywood restaurant sporting signed headshots of stars. Big boats. Small boats. Black-and-white photos from the mid-twentieth century. Lucky’s grandparents. The old boat-repair businesses across town and the one down the block. They didn’t used to repair super yachts.

“There a reason you’re here, koukla?” she asks, drawing my attention back to her face. I forgot how pretty she was. And intimidating. More intimidating than Lucky, really. Maybe this was a terrible idea.…

Is it too late to just leave?

“Uh, yes,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “So, um, I want to charter a boat so I can take photographs of the harbor?”

She looks taken aback. Confused. “We aren’t a charter company. We repair and build boats.”

“But you do own boats,” I say, gesturing toward the kajillion framed photos on the wall.

“Not luxury yachts, but yes.”

“Well, things have changed, but not that much—I’m not used to luxury, so it’s okay by me,” I say, forcing a soft laugh as I tug at the neckline of my shirt. “It’s just, um, this is definitely different than the old place down the block, right? And I noticed on Mr. Karras’s truck outside, it says, ‘Ask us. No job too small.’ ”

She chuckles. “It does say that, sure. But—”