Message in a Bottle - Nicholas Sparks [50]
She waited to see if he would add anything else, and when he didn’t, she glanced away, looking toward the windows. Still she stood there, and for the second time in a couple of minutes, Garrett felt awkward in her presence. What was it about her that made him feel this way? Finally, gathering himself, he spoke.
“If you’d like, I could show you the place. I’m getting kind of hungry myself, and I’d be happy to take you there if you want some company.”
She smiled. “I’d like that, Garrett.”
He looked relieved. “My truck is out back. Do you want me to drive?”
“You know the way better than I do,” she replied, and Garrett pointed the way, leading her through the shop and out the back door. Walking slightly behind him so that he couldn’t see her expression, Theresa couldn’t help but smile to herself.
Hank’s had been in business since the pier was built and was frequented by locals and tourists alike. Low in ambience but high in character, it was similar to the pier restaurants they had on Cape Cod—wooden floors scraped and scuffed by years of sandy shoes, large windows offering a view of the Atlantic Ocean, pictures of trophy fish on the walls. Off to one side was a door that led to the kitchen, and Theresa saw plates of fresh seafood loaded on trays, carried by waiters and waitresses dressed in shorts and blue T-shirts emblazoned with the name of the restaurant. The tables and chairs were wooden, sturdy looking, and decorated by the carvings of hundreds of former visitors. It wasn’t a place that required more than casual beachwear, and Theresa noticed that most of the people there looked as though they had been lying in the sun most of the morning.
“Trust me,” he said as they were walking to a table. “The food is great, no matter what this place looks like.”
They took their seats at a table near the corner, and Garrett pushed aside two bottles of beer that hadn’t yet been cleared. The menus were stacked between a series of condiments including ketchup, Tabasco, tartar sauce, and cocktail sauce in squeeze bottles, as well as another sauce labeled simply “Hank’s.” Cheaply laminated, the menus looked as though they hadn’t been replaced in years. Glancing around, Theresa saw that nearly every table was occupied.
“It’s crowded,” she said, making herself comfortable.
“It always is. Even before Wrightsville Beach got popular with tourists, this place was kind of a legend. You can’t even get in here on Friday or Saturday nights, unless you’re willing to wait for a couple of hours.”
“What’s the draw?”
“The food and the prices. Every morning Hank gets a load of fresh fish and shrimp, and you can usually get out of here without spending more than ten dollars, including the tip. And that’s with a couple of beers.”
“How does he do it?”
“Volume, I guess. Like I said, this place is always crowded.”
“Then we were lucky to get a table.”
“Yeah, we were. But we got here before the locals come in, and the beach crowd never lingers. They just pop in for a quick bite and head back out into the sun.”
She looked around the restaurant one last time before glancing at the menu. “So what do you recommend?”
“Do you like seafood?”
“I love it.”
“Then go with the tuna or the dolphin. They’re both delicious.”
“Dolphin?”
He laughed under his breath. “Not Flipper. It’s dolphin-fish. That’s what we call it around here.”
“I think I’ll go with the tuna,” she said with a wink, “just to make sure.”
“You think I’d make up something like that?”
She spoke in a teasing voice. “I don’t know what to think. We just met yesterday, remember. I don’t know you well enough to be completely sure what you’re capable of.”
“I’m hurt,” he said in the same voice, and she laughed. He laughed, too, and after a moment she surprised him by reaching across the table and touching his arm briefly. Catherine, he suddenly realized, used to do the same thing to get his attention.
“Look over there,” she said, nodding toward the windows, and Garrett turned his head.