Chapter 6: The Parking Meter

The mayor asked me to say a few words, and for the first time in fourteen months, nobody had told me what to say.

We were at the Harbor dinner, in a long room at the Aldine, with two hundred people holding forks.

The mayor tapped his glass.

"We all know Cain Rourke built the best port on the East Coast," he said. "But I think we'd rather hear about him from the one person he listens to."

He held out a hand toward me.

Everyone applauded. Cain's fingers closed on mine under the table, which I took as a warning.

I stood. I took the microphone.

"Hello," I said. "I'm Mara. I'm the one he listens to."

A little laugh moved through the room.

"I'd like to tell you what it's really like," I said. "Cain reads the whole menu out loud, every time, including the allergy notice."

The laugh grew.

"He tips forty percent and leaves before anyone can thank him, so nobody has ever once been thanked by him. They've all been tipped."

Somebody at the back whistled.

I looked down at Cain.

His face had not changed at all. That was the funniest part.

"And last winter," I said, "he apologized to a parking meter."

The room stopped.

"It was icy," I said. "He slipped and hit it with his shoulder. He said sorry. Out loud. He said it twice."

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