He did not know whether that was correct.
The Mother quietly guided him.
“Let her lead.”
He nodded.
The girl reached the railing.
She touched the weathered wood.
Wind lifted strands of her hair.
The ferry horn sounded.
She smiled.
“My dad brought me here when I was five.”
The biker looked toward her Mother.
The Mother nodded.
“He loved this harbor after the accident.”
The biker frowned.
“I thought you said he hated boats.”
“He did.”
The Mother smiled.
“He said surviving one made him qualified to complain professionally.”
The biker laughed.
The girl asked:
“Dad said he owed somebody his life.”
The biker’s smile disappeared.
“He never knew your name.”
The Mother continued:
“He looked.”
“How?”
“Asked at the hospital.”
“Harbor office.”
“Police.”
“All anyone knew was a motorcycle had been near the restricted road.”
The biker closed his eyes briefly.
The Mother said:
“He came here every year on the anniversary.”
The biker stared.
“He did?”
“For eight years.”
“He would sit near those rocks.”
“Leave coffee.”
“Sometimes that pendant.”
“Then put it back on.”
The biker touched the one around his neck.
The Mother continued:
“He always said someday the man who traded pendants might return.”
The girl turned.
“So Dad waited too.”
The biker looked at her.
“Yes.”
That hurt differently.
Not accusation.
Lost time.
The girl touched the pendant around her neck.
“My dad gave this to me before he died.”
The biker’s face softened.
“He told me it meant finding home.”
“That’s what mine meant too.”
The girl considered.
“Maybe they're supposed to stay together.”
The biker looked at her.
“What?”
She removed her pendant carefully.
Her Mother immediately moved to help with the clasp.
The girl stopped her.
“I can.”
She worked slowly.
Succeeded.
Then reached toward the biker.
He crouched.
She found his hand.
Placed both lighthouse pendants inside.
“No.”
His voice came immediately.
The girl frowned.
“They're yours.”
“No.”
“One was.”
“Not anymore.”
The girl held both.
The biker separated them by touch.
He placed the smoother one back into her palm.
“Your father carried this eleven years.”
“Then gave it to you.”
“That makes it yours.”
He closed her fingers around it.
The girl asked:
“What about yours?”
The biker touched the battered pendant.
“Apparently I've been borrowing it.”
The Mother looked toward him.
“You should keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because he wanted you to come back.”
The biker looked at the harbor.
“I did.”
The girl smiled.
“Late.”
“Yes.”
“But still.”