into a pocket and handed him her cell. “Don’t let Sister Anne know I have this.”
He mimicked zipping his lips, then clicked on the web browser, and searched for Camp Woolwich. When the page came up, he saw the button he needed, completed the transaction, then handed the phone back to Sister Evangeline.
“You didn’t cancel my Netflix subscription, did you?” she asked.
“No, I pledged to donate ten million dollars to Camp Woolwich,” he said, tucking the ring box into his pocket, then put on his helmet.
The nun’s jaw dropped as he maneuvered his massive body into the snug sidecar, grinning like the happiest guy on earth because he was.
He was all in. All that money would be hers, just like his heart. Even if she were to kick him to the curb, he wanted the camp to have it. With or without him, that money would provide the funds for generation after generation of campers.
He glanced at the nun. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive after that martini?”
The woman scoffed. “You think one martini does anything for me. I could drink you under the table every day of the week and twice on Sunday,” she called, looking half her age with a wide, girlish grin.
He didn’t doubt it.
The nun revved the bike, and they were off, speeding down Main Street. The shops and restaurants thinned out as the motorcycle zoomed down the highway toward Camp Woolwich. He relaxed into the snug space and allowed his thoughts to drift. Memories of his mother and father, once locked away in his heart, came flooding back, washing over him like the tranquil coastal breeze.
Sailing trips on the lake, tying knots with his father, and nights spent in their little boat’s cabin, playing board games and laughing, danced in his memory and warmed his heart. Those years had been jam-packed with so much laughter and such profound joy.
He’d tried to forget, fearing that the pain of never experiencing real happiness again would be worse than the stoic numbness he’d forced himself to adopt. But loving Natalie had cracked open his hardened heart.
No matter what happened next, his life would be different.
He would be different.
He’d choose kindness over cash flow and sincerity over sales.
He would do better. Be better.
“I could use your help getting her back,” he whispered to his parents as a warmth filled his chest, but he didn’t have long to dwell on the sensation as the Camp Woolwich sign came into view.
The old motorcycle turned onto the camp’s bumpy road as they entered the property then passed the parking area near the lodge.
“Where are you going?” he called to the nun.
She maneuvered the bike onto the path that led to the waterfront, and then he remembered.
The vow renewal ceremony was tonight on Woolwich Island.
Across the cove.
Separated from the mainland by a narrow stretch of the ocean.
An island only accessible by boat.
“There’s one left,” the woman called, cutting the engine.
He took off his helmet. “One what?”
“Sailboat. The family’s gone to their island for the vow renewal. Bev told us about their plans that day we came for our art class. You know, the day where you wouldn’t pose naked for us,” she answered with a pout.
He stared at the boat. “I have to sail?”
“Unless you can walk on water,” the nun countered.
He maneuvered his body out of the tiny sidecar and stretched his long limbs, staring out across the cove. In the hazy twilight, lights from the island twinkled, winking at him, calling to him.
“You know how to sail, don’t you?” Sister Evangeline asked.
He nodded. “My parents taught me when I was a boy.”
“Then what’s stopping you?” she challenged.
Nothing.
The fear and sorrow in his heart made way for an ocean of love. He rigged the little boat, securing the lines and hoisting the mast just as his parents had taught him to do on Lake Michigan.
“I owe you, Sister,” he called, catching the wind as the boat glided away from the dock onto the shimmering sea.
“Well, you haven’t gotten her back yet,” the woman replied, but her wide grin let him know she was pulling for him.
And speaking of pulling, he needed to get his head in the game. As if his parents were right there with him in that little Sunfish, he pulled in the flapping sail. He hadn’t done this in over a decade, but it all came back to him. The rock of the boat. The feel of the line in one hand and the tiller in the other.