Scanning the four I’ve solved: Altruistic, Helpful, Reliable, and Affectionate—I find myself wondering if this puzzle even has anything to do with me. I could define things that I have done to fit each category, but the caviling in my brain makes me think it has nothing to do with me at all. These could describe literally anyone who is a decent human being, and that brings me back to my original conclusion—this is busywork.
Checking the time on my phone, I leap from the bed, throw the blankets off me, and dart toward the shower. I can’t answer the questions that linger about why she gave me this or how it’s enchanted, but I can go to this lunch and find out more about the last time this happened.
The Wharf is a classic New England waterfront restaurant. It sits on the edge of the water with enormous concrete pylons dotting the edge of the patio’s retaining wall. There are round, weathered tables with creamy wicker chairs, and navy umbrellas that drop into the center of each one. The view is incredible, with sailboats and yachts of all shapes and sizes lining the marina.The water laps at the seawall, creating its own euphony over the sound of the humming restaurant.
Wrapping my hand around a long wooden handle to step inside, the smell of buttery seafood, french fries, and salty air wafts over me. It smells like home, exactly as I remember it, and my stomach growls.
"How many?" A blonde host greets me. She’s dressed in a signature blue t-shirt that features a humpback whale on the breast pocket.
Scanning the restaurant, I lean in, trying to get a view of the patio from inside. "I’m actually meeting someone. I’m not sure if she’s here yet."
"Does she have the most incredible tattoo sleeve? Red hair?" The woman holding a menu in her hands asks.
"Yes."
"Follow me."
Stepping through a glass door onto the same patio I’ve spent countless afternoons hanging out on, I spot Olive immediately. She’s at a table in the far back corner, one that’s right on the edge of the water. Her hand raises, waving delicately.
"Hey. I hope it’s okay that we sit outside. I’ve been at Black Kettle all morning and needed a little air."
I slip into the seat across from her, nodding. "Of course, this weather is heaven compared to what I’m used to."
"I thought you lived in Golden City? It’s not the same?"
A laugh rolls out of me. "No, I do. But most of my time is spent inside a chilly arena. I work for the Flames."
"What does that mean?" Her eyes narrow as she places her menu on the table.
"The hockey team? How do you get engaged to an O’Reilly and not know about the Golden City Flames?"
Olive giggles, sipping the water that’s in front of her. "Oh. Yeah, I don’t really pay attention to sports. When they watch it, Iusually just read instead." She flips her hand in the air. "It’s not really my thing. But it makes a lot more sense why Max thinks you’re the coolest person he’s ever met."
Tucking a chunk of hair behind my ear, a small smile forms on my lips. "You want to know a secret?"
"I’ve been dying to. Tell me everything."
"I’m not really a sports girl either." Her mouth falls open, and her eyes bug out of her head. "I know. It’s shocking."
Olive laughs, and it’s sweet sounding, like she’s one of those genuine people who don’t just laugh with you because they think it’s the right thing to do.
A server approaches, a young guy with a shirt that matches the host's. He has golden-brown skin, neatly trimmed hair, and a set of dimples that would make even the toughest critics swoon. The name badge he’s sporting reads: Manuel.
"Hello, ladies." He reaches to top off Olive’s water glass, then fills mine. "Have you been here before?"
We both nod, momentarily enraptured by his smile. He probably makes a million dollars in tips—it should come with a warning. He’s perfect for Nora, and apparently I’m now a matchmaker.
"Yes, I have," Olive purrs, and I raise an eyebrow at her.
Smiling, I nod. "Yep, me too."
"Well, I’m happy to give you more time if you’d like, or I can take both your drink and food orders."
"Manuel? This might seem a bit forward, but do you have a special someone in your life?" Olive asks, her voice full of a southern charm I hadn’t noticed before.
He chuckles, rubbing his chin awkwardly. "People usually call me Manny. And unfortunately, no. I recently moved here. I’m not really into married women though." His eyes dart to the rock on Olive’s finger, and she blushes.
I feel like I’m watching a train wreck. She isn’t asking for herself, at least I highly doubt it with how into Sam she seemed yesterday.