Page 20 of A Christmas Harbor

“Won the Best Small Boat category. Already plotting how to win Best in Show next year.”

“I bet.” Paul examined the wireframe sculptures atop the boat. “What kind of fish is that?”

“A mahi mahi.” David reached out. “I’ll explain inside.”

Paul grasped his arm and stepped from the dock to the deck. Though the boat didn’t move under his weight, he still stumbled a bit.

David didn’t seem to mind the collision. “Welcome aboard,” he said, sweeping his arm toward an open hatch.

Paul descended into a living space that was warmly lit by wall sconces and a single strand of white holiday lights ringing the interior. The walls and floor were a lustrous cigar-brown, and every inch was spick and span—cleaner, in fact, than any home Paul had seen that wasn’t for sale. He’d made a bigger mess of his B&B room in a few hours than David had made here in years.

“Told you she was small,” David said as he closed and locked the hatch.

“She’s lovely.” Paul stepped into the center of the living-room area. Two navy-blue couches against the wall faced each other on opposite sides of a table with fold-down leaves. A glowing space heater sat on the floor beneath the table. A small room consisting of a V-shaped bed lay inside the pointy front of the boat. “Definitely pushing all my tiny-house buttons.”

“And there’s a clothes dryer, so if you want to get rid of those wet socks…”

“Yes, please.” Paul sat on one of the couches, which consisted of a thin but comfy cushion atop a solid base—the better to avoid mildew from water tracked in, no doubt. As he removed his shoes and socks, he noticed his cuffs were soaked.

“Throw those jeans in too,” David said. “I’ll get you a pair of sweats.” He climbed into a small room behind the kitchenette, a room completely filled by what looked like a king-size bed.

Paul stood up to see how much the boat rocked beneath him. Despite the wind, the floor was steady. Still, it was good he’d stopped drinking when he had.

David reappeared carrying a stack of gray fleece. “One of these should fit. Some brand-new socks, too, so feel free to keep. You can change in the head. There are clean towels in there if you need to dry yourself.”

“Thanks.” Paul took the offered clothes and entered the tiny, immaculate bathroom, which had a drain in the floor. He sat on a small bench to peel off his wet jeans, then spied a spray head attached to the sink. The bathroomwasthe shower—efficient!

Sliding on David’s soft, dry sweatpants provoked a groan of contentment. It was like sinking into quicksand made of cotton balls.

A glance in the mirror showed his eyes were clear, not bloodshot—he owed Jackie big time for making sure they drank enough water—but his hair looked like a flooded rat’s nest. He tried to smooth it down, then gave up and scrunched it to encourage the messy waves. Might as well lean into the disheveled look.

He slid open the bathroom door and was greeted with one of his favorite scents in the world. “Oh, you really are making coffee.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” David deadpanned. Then he let slip a sneaky smirk that was violently cute. He’d also changed into sweatpants and now wore a fitted navy-blue T-shirt that emphasized his upper-body muscles.

Paul shoved his wet clothes into the washer/dryer combo under the kitchenette counter and switched on the machine. “So what’s the significance of mahi mahi?”

“They’re the patrons of submariners,” David said. “They’re also known as dolphinfish, so we call them dolphins, too.” He gestured for Paul to step out of his way, then went to a set of enclosed shelves mounted on the wall above one of the couches. He opened the glass door, then picked up a gold pin from the center of the middle shelf. “Submarine warfare officer’s insignia.”

Paul took it and examined the design as it twinkled in the faerie lights. It was kind of like the “Junior Clipper wings” a Pan Am pilot had given him on his first flight when he was four years old. Instead of wings flanking a globe, this insignia featured the prow of a looming submarine between a pair of fish with big glaring eyes. The fish were imposing, more like sea monsters than dinner entrees.

“When you start your first patrol,” David said, “you have a year to get qualified on each of the submarine’s major systems. It’s a lot to learn on very little sleep, but every single person has to know what to do in any kind of emergency. Your crewmates need to trust you’ve got their back in a life-or-death situation. If you pass, you get your dolphins.” He pointed to the pin. “Then you’re part of the family. Forever.”

This clearly meant a lot to David. Paul’s next words might determine whether they ever saw each other again.

“What was that moment like, when they gave this to you?”

David took the pin and laid it in his own palm. “That was when I knew every sacrifice was worth it. I was twenty-four, and I’d had my doubts up to that point.”

“What about now? Do you still think it was worth it? After all the…” He shut his mouth before the wordslyingorhidingcould slither out.

David blinked a few times, then set the insignia back on its shelf. “I do.”

Paul stayed quiet, in case there was more to come. But then the silence stretched out, so he looked at the shelves again for something to fill it.

The top shelf caught his eye, because his attention was drawn to books like bees were drawn to flowers. “How old is that Coleridge?”

“Over a century.” David pulled out the slim, leather-bound copy of “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”—so old it was spelledAncyent Marinere—and gave it to Paul. “I shouldn’t keep it on the boat. Humidity isn’t kind to vintage books. But it’s sort of a good-luck charm.”

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