His face twitches, and I have a feeling he wants to curse me or call me a “women’s libber” or “bra burner,” but he heads toward a metal file cabinet in the back, and pulls open the third drawer. He rifles slowly through green file folders filled with manila envelopes, and I impatiently want to scream, “Don’t you think it’s time you updated your systems here?” but I keep my mouth shut, lean down to Sonny and stroke his ears to calm my nerves.

“Only Kruger we have in here is the ol’ man Kruger and his wife,” he says. “Jon and Jo.”

“Those were my parents,” I say.

His face breaks into a big smile. “They were some characters.”

I can’t help but smile, too. I like it when people refer to anyone—including my parents—as characters. To me, it means they have lived memorable lives.

“They were,” I say.

He looks on the sheet of paper he is holding and then digs farther into the file. “Follow me.”

“What’s your name?” I say, realizing he hasn’t told me.

“Cap’n Mac,” he says, before grabbing his rather round stomach and breaking into a belly laugh. “Although my wife prefers to call me Cap’n Mac and Cheese.” He stops. “Spot 42,” he says, before checking the file again. “Been here awhile.”

“I know,” I say. “I think it’s been in storage since my parents passed.”

“Heard your dad died of cancer and your mom died of heartbreak.”

His bluntness hits me like a hurricane. I pull Sonny closer and realize Cap’n Mac is just speaking the truth, like many locals do here. No time for BS.

“You heard right,” I say, clenching my teeth as Cap’n Mac pulls back the tarp covering the boat to reveal its glorious, burnished back end: Adie Lou is spelled out in scrolling gold letters, 1940 in the far right corner of the wooden stern.

My heart catches in my throat. She’s even more beautiful than I remembered.

“Hot damn,” Cap’n Mac says, running his hand over the wood. “This is a piece of art.”

I nod. It is. My mom used to joke my dad loved this boat more than her. He bought it from a dealer in Lake Tahoe and restored it back to its original glory: the original interior pigskin leather, the marbled steering wheel, the blue face gauges, the orange seams, the spotlight on the hull card. Every nut and bolt my dad used was vintage.

“I think it might need some work,” I say. “I’m hesitant to pull it out until someone takes a thorough look at it.” I stop. “I don’t know what I’m able to afford right now.”

Cap’n Mac nods. “I agree,” he says. “Might cost a pretty penny.”