“So you’re Noah.”
“I was told you might be fictional.”
“Owen is not imaginative enough.”
“That seems true.”
Owen looked offended.
Talia offered her hand.
“Your yard coffee is terrible.”
“We have an expensive machine.”
“That doesn’t make Owen competent.”
I liked her immediately.
We sat.
The noise level in the side room was manageable. Harbor lights reflected across wet windows. Beyond them, boats moved gently against their lines.
I ordered nonalcoholic ginger beer for Noah and me. Caleb chose beer. Erin had sparkling water. Owen ordered something local and pretentious after Talia did.
“You don’t have to match me,” she told him.
“I like cardamom cider.”
“You said it tasted like candle wax last week.”
“Palate development.”
Noah leaned toward me.
“She’s real.”
“I told you.”
The first half hour passed easily.
They talked about the yard, the ferry contract, Talia’s food stall, and Caleb’s daughter Morgan, who had received an acceptance letter from a college in Eugene.
Caleb tried to sound calm.
Failed.
“She wants environmental engineering,” he said.
Erin smiled.
“She has wanted that since she was twelve.”
“She will live three hours away.”
“She will visit.”
“She forgets to call from upstairs.”
