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As I took her hand and placed it on my impromptu operating table, I allowed myself a fleeting moment to revel in the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips, the delicate lines of her hand that I once knew by heart. But one moment was all.
As I placed the first stitch, Stella pressed her lips tightly together. She had always been strong, never one to show vulnerability. Throughout the day, I’d stolen glances at her booth several times. I couldn’t help noticing how the years had both changed and preserved her—the same dark glossy hair that caught the sunlight, the same fierce independence etched into the curve of her jaw. The sight of her was a bittersweet pang, a reminder of what could have been and what we had lost along the way. What I had lost.
And yet here she was right next to me. “Doing okay?”
She nodded, a small but reassuring gesture, and I continued. “How are the new orchids doing?”
“Oh! They’re adjusting beautifully.”
My distraction worked. I figured if anything would take her mind off her discomfort, it would be her favorite flowers. She went on to discuss the merits of each.
“What are they called again?”
She gave me both the common and Latin names, and I hummed appreciatively, though not committing the names to memory. That wasn’t the point. Her hand relaxed a little in mine. The stitches had to hurt, but she was holding up to the discomfort well. I placed four stitches quickly and efficiently, then looked up. “There. All done.”
“I have to compliment you on your bedside manner.” Stella’s voice was laced with a combination of pain and humor that made the corners of my mouth twitch upward.
I still held her hand in mine, reluctant to let go, and gave her a smile. “Thank you. I aim to please.”
Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us—a current as tangible as the sea breeze that wafted through the canvas tent. We lingered there, in that long look, the world around us fading to a distant murmur.
Then I returned to the soft, yet incredibly tough hand I held. “Just take it easy with that hand for a while.”
“Take it easy?” Stella’s voice was laced with a mix of irony and resignation. “There’s no way Felicia can handle all that cooking by herself. Bandage me up so I can go back to work, Dr. Mitchell.”
“As you wish.”
Our eyes held again as we both smiled at the Princess Bride reference. I set about wrapping her hand in gauze, ensuring the bandage was snug but not constricting. If she could handle getting stitches without lidocaine, I figured she was safe to go back to the grill for a couple of hours. As I worked, her fingers brushed against mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. The contact was accidental, or so I told myself, yet it lingered like a promise.
“There, all done,” I announced, securing the end of the bandage. “You should be able to get back to work without too much trouble.”
Stella flexed her fingers experimentally, a shadow of concern crossing her features before she nodded. “Yeah. Thank you. I should head back—they’ll need me at the booth.”
“Maybe stay away from knives for the rest of the afternoon.”
She tipped me a wide smile, and I didn’t want her to leave, not yet. Her presence made me feel alive, vibrant even.
“Stella,” I blurted, the words tumbling out before I could rein them in. “You still know a lot about boats, right?”
Her laughter was light and genuine, if somewhat tinged with surprise as it filled the space between us. “Of course. Look around! I grew up here.” She gestured vaguely toward the canal where the three boats bobbed gently.
The sound of her laughter was a balm to old wounds that suddenly ached furiously. I wanted more—more time, more laughter. And most of all, more Stella.
“I remember very well.”
Her gaze remained on the fiberglass charter boats. “I helped my dad all the time on those boats. I loved it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Could you—would you—help me with something boat-related?” The question hung awkwardly in the air, my heart thrumming in anticipation of her response.
“Maybe,” she said, her expression curious. “What do you need?”
“I bought a sailboat. She’s operable but a little rough around the edges. I could really use a hand with the woodwork.” I felt suddenly vulnerable under her steady gaze, reminiscent of when I’d asked her out the first time in tenth grade. “I’m not just a landlubbing doctor, you know.”
“Is that so?” Her eyebrow arched playfully, and it struck me with almost physical force how much I had missed this easy banter with her.
“I’ve always loved sailing. When I moved back here, it made sense to take it up again.” I grinned, hoping the gesture would mask the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “When is your next evening off from Orchid?”
She opened her mouth but hesitated, and I thought for sure a refusal was coming. Stella was anything but stupid. She knew I was asking her out. Then her eyes softened. “Tuesday.”
