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what I mean to say is, it was nice.”
    “Nice! I’ll show you nice .”
    “I’ll look forward to that,” he said, and I heard the laugh in his voice. “I’ll pick you up at six, Kate.”
    “See you then,” I said, smiling like an idiot, even after we’d hung up.

CHAPTER FIVE
    MONDAY, JUNE 26
    LOW TIDE 6:17 P.M. EDT
    SUNSET 8:27 P.M.

    “That . . . was delicious.”
    I put my fork down on the plate that had only moments before held a substantial slice of tiramisu. Borgan and I had opted to share dessert—an enlightened decision, considering what had already gone before.
    I leaned back in my chair, picked up my cup and had an appreciative sip of really excellent coffee.
    “Rest of the meal was nice, too,” Borgan offered, with a half-smile.
    I eyed him.
    “I’m beginning to think that when you say nice , you actually mean . . . oh—supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
    Borgan tipped his head as if considering.
    “Gotta admit it, Kate, nice is a lot less of a mouthful.”
    “Oh, agreed! But it’s a little . . . tepid. An amateur might think you were less than enthusiastic, take her veal saltimbocca and retire, weeping, from the field.”
    “Hadn’t thought of it that way,” he allowed, raising his cup to his lips. He drank, and sighed in a satisfied way as he put the cup back in the saucer.
    “Being a Mainer, I’ve got certain traditions to uphold,” he pointed out.
    “True enough.” I finished my coffee, and echoed Borgan’s satisfied sigh. That was some nice coffee.
    “Maybe,” I said, meeting his eyes firmly, “we could meet in the middle.”
    “I’m open to suggestions.”
    Borgan looked exceptionally fine tonight, in a black shirt with mother of pearl buttons. His braid, hanging casually over his shoulder, looked subtly different; I couldn’t decide if he had added another bead or shell to those already woven in, or if he’d oiled the heavy length, or . . .
    “See, now, nice seems better’n just nothing,” he said, and I shook my head, ruefully.
    “Got caught up in the scenery. How about wonderful , or terrific , or even— great ?”
    “I can try ’em on and see how they fit,” Borgan said equitably, and then turned his head to smile at our waiter, who had just arrived to ask us if we needed anything else. Assured that we were in fine fettle, he gave Borgan the check and cleared away the dessert plate, forks, and coffee cups.
    “This was a good choice,” I said, while Borgan pulled a credit card out of his wallet. “We’ll have to come back again, after the Season’s over and we can move on the roads again.” I hesitated, then added, hearing the note of defiance in my own voice. “My treat.”
    Borgan looked up from the check folder.
    “That’d be . . . great,” he said, and smiled.
    * * *
    Borgan has a red GMC pickup truck with leather seats to die for. I settled happily into the passenger’s side, and pulled the seat belt snug.
    The fact that Borgan not only owns a truck, but drives it, apparently when and where he pleases, was almost as strange as the fact of Gran’s sojourn in the Land of the Flowers, leaving her tree rooted, as it were, in the Wood on Heath Hill. See, trenvay are tied to certain pieces of land, or rocks, thickets, or stretches of swampland. Some of the older, and thereby stronger, can leave their own place and wander around town. Gran, for instance, set up housekeeping in Tupelo House on Dube Street. Borgan being the Guardian of the Gulf of Maine, he can apparently range up and down the coast far enough that he found a truck useful.
    And I guess, really, it’s not all that strange. After all, I left Archers Beach—walked away from my oath and my duty and all the family I had left—and lived for years in the dry lands, employed as a software engineer.
    The only thing was that I’d been dying at a pretty good clip, without Archers Beach to sustain me.
    “So,” Borgan said, snapping his seat belt, “like to go for a ride?”
    “That sounds