Page 29 of Not My Finest Hour

“Their dock?” I ask, because I still don’t get it.

“My grandparents had a waterfront home,” he says casually, as he plucks a stray hair from his dress slacks.

Oh, right. Of course they did. Just like Wesley’s dad’s boat was probably some forty-foot yacht. I’m sure he’s not intentionally rubbing his family’s wealth in my face, but he’s making it hard to ignore.

I decide to change the topic immediately because it’s probably for the best that I don’t know his family’s history anymore. Any time he’s talked about it, it only makes me feel bad about my own. “When was the last time you were on Bainbridge Island?”

“I was there last year, but haven’t been back since. That’s why I wanted to take you there. I thought it would be a nice change from Seattle. And it’s not raining, so we should get a nice view from the ferry.”

Around us, cars begin to drive onto the ferry, and soon, it’s our turn to drive on. We park the car, then get out and walk up to the passenger cabin. We take a seat at one of the booths and gaze out the window at the surrounding waters. Since it was a rare clear day today, the tiniest hint of orange is still visible over the Olympic Mountains.

“I’ll never tire of this view,” I say, looking at the way the sun highlights the snow on the Olympics.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it? I can’t believe my parents traded this view for New Mexico.”

“Yeah, but I don’t blame them. When it’s January and we’re approaching the umpteenth day of nothing but clouds and rain, it would be nice to look at a little sunshine no matter where it is.”

“And your parents have no plans to leave?” he asks.

I shake my head. “They like being close to me and my sister. And my mom is finally getting her dream kitchen, so they’re definitely staying for a while.”

“What do you mean ‘finally getting’ it?”

“She’s been talking for years about remodeling the kitchen because that’s where she spends most of her time. And while the space was livable, she always dreamed of a bigger, better thought-out space.”

“Why didn’t they remodel it sooner?”

“They couldn’t afford it,” I say.

“Oh,” he says like he gets it. But I’m guessing from his expression, a lack of money was never on his mind. It’s probably something he never had to experience growing up. “My mom remodeled her kitchen twice while I was growing up. Even in their new place, she’s already gutted the kitchen.”

“Does she cook a lot?”

“Not really. Takeout mostly. When they do use the kitchen, it’s just to grab a salad or sandwich, and for entertaining.”

That seems so wasteful. Then again, Wesley’s family probably has so much money, remodeling a kitchen is like pennies to them. Am I ever going to get used to his family’s wealth?

About thirty minutes pass, and then we’re instructed to head back to our cars. Once it’s our turn, we drive off the boat and onto Bainbridge Island. Since most of the shopping is right near the terminal, it doesn’t take us long to reach our destination. Parking is another matter though, and we end up having to park two blocks away from the main street where the shops are.

“Where do you want to go next?” Wesley asks me.

“Do we have dinner reservations anywhere? Or do we have time to stroll the shops?”

“No reservations, and all the time in the world to do whatever you want,” he says with a smile.

“Then let’s just start at one end and work our way down through the shops.”

As we walk down Winslow Way, we hit up all of the shops that are still open, including a kitchen store, a bookstore, and a small antique mall. In one of the stores, a gift shop filled with all manner of Pacific Northwest memorabilia, Wesley buys me an adorable shopping tote that has a cartoony version of Bigfoot on it. Because every Pacific Northwesterner has to own at least one Bigfoot item whether you believe or not.

Once we finish shopping, we head to the restaurant which is a little unassuming place from the exterior. We get inside and the place is tiny. We’re talking maybe fifty seats at most. Miraculously, we’re seated right away at a small, two-seater table against a wall that is dotted with scenic pictures of the surrounding areas. The hostess gets my chair for me, and hands us a couple of menus.

I stare down at the menu, don’t see anything that looks remotely appetizing, then flip it over to the other side.Huh.That’s weird. The other side is completely blank. I flip it back over to the front side, then back. Nope. Still blank. Okay, not a problem. Maybe I just missed where the food was on the other side. I flip the menu back to the front.

By now, Wesley is staring at me with a curious expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“The menu. There’s not much on it. And I don’t see the normal sections that a menu usually has.”

“That’s because this isn’t anormalrestaurant.” He holds up his menu. “All the food is in the top section,” he says, pointing to the top section like an elementary school teacher would point to a problem on the board. “And the drinks are at the bottom.”

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