Not in a cinematic way. No dropped keys. No dramatic collision. He was the harbor sailing instructor who looked to be in his mid-forties, sun-browned, with laugh lines around his eyes and the calm competence of a man who fixed problems before announcing them. The first time we spoke, he watched me dock Integrity in a crosswind, nodded once, and said, “Nice recovery on that turn.”
“Recovery implies mistake,” I said.
He smiled. “That’s why I only said nice.”
It was the first uncomplicated male interaction I’d had in months, and I nearly mistrusted it on principle.
Over the next week, he helped me replace a worn line on the boom and never once asked why a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a court hearing kept taking out a beautiful racing boat alone on Tuesdays. That restraint earned him more goodwill than grand gestures ever would have.
Still, I kept him in the category of Useful Harbor Human. My life did not have room for romantic foreshadowing. It barely had room for clean laundry.
The night before the hearing, Grant cornered me in the parking garage beneath Blackwood’s office.
I had just come down the elevator with a banker’s box full of copies and notes when I heard my name.