“He’s in,” she says. “He’s always in, unless he’s personally delivering a boat.”

He still drives? I think.

“Your name?” she asks.

“Adie Lou Clarke...Kruger...Adie Lou Kruger,” I finally stammer, telling myself I’ll stop doing that.

The woman picks up her phone and dials an extension. “There’s a Ms. Culverson here to see you,” the woman says, not even close to getting my name right, something that I can completely understand given my maniacal babbling. She looks up. “Mr. Stevens will be right out.”

I pull down my hood, take off my coat and take a seat. I am checking my cell when I see a pair of dusty jeans appear in front of me. I look up and drop my phone.

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Scooter?”

“Adie Lou?”

I stand, and he hugs me tightly, so tightly my face smashes into his nubby sweater, which is dusted in wood chips and smells like pine. I inhale, and the dust fills my nose. I know what’s coming next but can’t stop the train: I sneeze, not once, or twice, but over and over again as I always do.

“Eight sneezes,” he says, laughing. “You haven’t changed.”

“Do you mean me, or my allergies?”

He laughs again. “Both.” He stops and just stares at me, until the silence makes me uncomfortable. “Do I have something on my nose from all that?” I ask, wiping the sleeve of my coat across my face.

“No,” he says.

“What?” I ask. “Then what is it?”

“It’s you,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re standing in front of me.”

I drop my arm. “Me either,” I finally reply. “I thought that the Mr. Stevens I was told to see was...well, your dad.”

“He passed away a while back,” he says, his voice wistful. “Mom, too.” He stops. “I heard about your parents. I’m real sorry, Adie Lou.”

“Me, too, Scooter.”

Growing up, everyone in Saugatuck except me called Scott Stevens “S.S. Golden Boy.” The town idolized him: he was the golden-haired high school quarterback who led the team to its first ever state championship. His father was idolized, too: he made a fortune salvaging and repairing vintage boats, and then reselling them for a pretty penny, before vintage, retro and HGTV were buzzwords. Scott was the captain of his own ship, and he could do no wrong.

But I knew him before I knew all of that. To me, he was always Scooter, the little boy I met one summer riding a scooter on Lakeshore Drive. At the time, I had difficulty distinguishing his real name from his toy, and I forever referred to him by the nickname. We were fast friends, the city girl and the local boy, the tomboy who wanted to do everything her friend did.