The Lucky One(61)

“And you did all the training,” she said, sounding impressed.

“Since he was six months old. When we walked from Colorado, I worked with him every day.”

“He’s an incredible animal. You could always give him to Ben, you know. He’d probably love it.”

Thibault said nothing.

She noticed his expression and slid closer to him. “I was kidding. I wouldn’t take your dog from you.”

Thibault felt the continuing warmth of her body radiate down his side.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did Ben react when you told him you were going out with me tonight?” he asked.

“He was fine with it. He and Nana were already planning to watch videos. They’d talked on the phone about having a movie night earlier in the week. Made a date and everything.”

“Do they do that a lot?”

“They used to do it all the time, but this is the first time since she had her stroke. I know Ben was really excited about it. Nana makes popcorn and usually lets him stay up extra late.”

“Unlike his mom, of course.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “What did you end up doing today?”

“Catching up around the house. Cleaning, laundry, shopping, that kind of thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. You’re a real domestic animal. Can you bounce a quarter on your bedspread after you make it?”

“Of course.”

“You’ll have to teach Ben how to do that.”

“If you’d like.”

Outside, the first stars were beginning to emerge, and the car’s headlights swept the curves of the road.

“Where exactly are we going?” Thibault asked.

“Do you like crabs?”

“Love ’em.”

“That’s a good start. How about shag dancing?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“Well, let’s just say you’re going to have to learn quick.”

Forty minutes later, Thibault pulled to a stop in front of a place that looked to have once been a warehouse. Elizabeth had directed him to the industrial section of downtown Wilmington, and they had parked in front of a three-story structure with aged wide-plank siding. There was little to differentiate it from the neighboring buildings other than the nearly hundred cars parked in the lot and a small wooden walkway that led around the building, stringed with inexpensive strands of white Christmas tree lights.

“What’s this place called?”

“Shagging for Crabs.”

“Original. But I’m having a hard time visualizing this as a major tourist attraction.”

“It’s not—it’s strictly for locals. One of my friends from college told me about it, and I’ve always wanted to go.”

“You’ve never been here?”

“No,” she said. “But I’ve heard it’s a lot of fun.”

With that, she headed up the creaking walkway. Straight ahead, the river sparkled, as if lit from below. The sound of music from inside grew steadily louder. When they opened the door, the music broke over them like a wave, and the smell of crabs and butter filled the air. Thibault paused to take it all in.

The massive building’s interior was crude and unadorned. The front half was jammed with dozens of picnic tables covered with red-and-white plastic tablecloths that appeared stapled to the wood. Tables were packed and rowdy, and Thibault saw waitresses unloading buckets of crabs onto tables everywhere. Small pitchers of melted butter sat in the center, with smaller bowls in front of diners. Everyone wore plastic bibs, cracking crabs from the communal buckets and eating with their fingers. Beer seemed to be the drink of choice.

Directly ahead of them, on the side that bordered the river, was a long bar—if it could be called that. It seemed to be nothing more than discarded driftwood stacked atop wooden barrels. People milled around three deep. On the opposite side of the building was what seemed to be the kitchen. What caught his eye mostly was the stage located at the far end of the building, where Thibault saw a band playing “My Girl” by the Temptations. At least a hundred people were dancing in front of the stage, following the prescribed steps of a dance he wasn’t familiar with.

“Wow,” he shouted over the din.

A thin, fortyish woman with red hair and an apron approached them. “Hey there,” she drawled. “Food or dancing?”

“Both,” Elizabeth answered.

“First names?”

They glanced at each other. “Elizabeth . . . ,” he said.

“And Logan,” she finished.

The woman jotted down their names on a pad of paper. “Now, last question. Fun or family?”

Elizabeth looked lost. “Excuse me?”

The woman snapped her gum. “You haven’t been here before, have you?”

“No.”

“It’s like this. You’re going to have to share a table. That’s how it works here. Everyone shares. Now, you can either request fun, which means you want a table with a lot of energy, or you can ask for family, which is usually a little quieter. Now, I can’t guarantee how your table is, of course. I just ask the question. So, what’ll it be? Family or fun?”

Elizabeth and Thibault faced each other again and came to the same conclusion.