He dug into this backpack, drew the item out, and handed it to her.

She held the carved wooden object, examining it. “It’s… the Eiffel Tower? You’re… you want to go to France?”

“No.” He shook his head, frustrated. “I mean, maybe. I would. But it’s an oil rig.”

“Oh.” She studied it again. “I thought they were shaped like hammers. You know, going up and down into the ground.”

“You’re talking about the walking beam and horse head. This is the rig. The thing that drills the well.”

She nodded. “So…”

“It’s what I used to work on.”

“Oh.”

“In Oklahoma. It’s part of where I got the scars.”

Her eyes widened. She held the carved wooden object with more care. “Thank you, Des. I love it. It’s perfect.”

“It’s not all.”

Her face lit up.

“The second part wouldn’t fit in a box.”

They loaded up in his truck, which she had gradually become less scared of, and drove up the 101 to 92 and over to Half Moon Bay.

They could see the roaring bonfire before they reached the beach. Desmond wrapped his coat around her, took a bundle from the back seat, and led her in silence toward the blaze. He laid the thick blanket out on the sand and unscrewed the cap on the cheap wine, and they sat together, the fire warming them, her in front of him, facing it, tipping the bottle up every few minutes. Desmond estimated there were only about fifty people there, mostly around their age, couples and some groups, talking, drinking, and laughing.

“You going to have some?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“A promise I made.”

“To whom?”

“Myself.”

She leaned against him, and they both stared at the fire and the water beyond. It was unseasonably warm for December, but there was still a chill in the air. Desmond wrapped the blanket around them, just in case she was cold.

“You cheated,” Peyton said.

“How?”

“Ten dollars was the limit.”

“Then I’m under.”

She turned, looked at him.

“The tree was free. So was the labor to carve it. The wine was $6.68. I figure three dollars in gas round trip is more than enough.”

“You should have been an accountant.”

The crowd thinned out, but the fire burned on. A few couples and stragglers remained, as well as the two park workers managing the event.

The bottle was half empty, and Desmond could tell she was nursing it, wouldn’t finish it. She twisted around, kissed him on the mouth, a hungry, deep kiss that tasted of wine.

He stood, pulled her up, and led her away, past the dunes and the tall grass where the sand ended, to a depression where the moonlight was dim. He spread the blanket out again and lowered her onto it.

When he kissed her, she closed her eyes and let him lead.

On the way home, she asked, “What did it mean?”