Dylan made a sweeping gesture toward the city. “I thought we should go to a place where we could see Boston from awholenew perspective . . . both on land and, quite literally, on water. We’re going on a Duck Tour.”
“A duck tour?” Julia shook her head and looked up at him. His blue eyes glinty under the sun.
“A true Boston rite of passage,” Dylan said.
They walked for a leisurely fifteen minutes, the city unfolding around them like a living history book. The air hummed with the sounds of traffic, the distant clang of a trolley bell, and snippets of conversations in a multitude of accents. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from an open bakery door.
As they rounded a corner near the New England Aquarium, the yellow and green of the Duck Boat came into view. It was an odd contraption, its tall, sturdy wheels giving it the height of a bus, but its rounded hull and open top hinted at its aquatic capabilities. Playful cartoon ducks were painted along the sides, adding a whimsical touch to the military-esque vehicle.
“That,” Dylan said, gesturing toward it with a flourish, “is our chariot. Or should I say, ourquackingchariot.” He grinned, eager to see her reaction.
Julia was very curious about this; her eyes noticed the details of things.
A cheerful crowd was milling around the boarding area. But since Dylan had already bought their tickets, they were directed by a friendly attendant toward the boarding area.
“See those? Dylan said, pointing to the large tires. Great on the road. But the real fun starts when we drive straight into the Charles.”
Julia laughed, the novelty of the situation starting to win her over. “Driveintothe river? You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dylan said.
As they climbed aboard the quirky vehicle, they settled into open-air seats next to each other, occasionally brushing hands. Neither resisted. When they splashed into the Charles River, the spray of water brought them closer still, both laughing at the unexpected jolt.
“This is so beautiful,” Julia said, looking at the sailboats. “So different from Savannah.”
“What was it like, growing up there?”
Julia squinted. “The pace is … slower, I think. Definitely steeped in history, but in a different way. Spanish moss hanging from ancient oaks, the scent of gardenias in the air. Summers are long and humid, fireflies in the evenings. Growing up, we spent a lot of time near the water. But the water is very different—marshy, tidal creeks instead of a wide river like this one.” She told Dylan about the horse-drawn carriages, the antebellum architecture, and the taste of sweet tea on a porch swing.
“Sounds like a place that would never let you go,” Dylan said softly. “Would you ever leave, do you think?”
“There’s a weight to Savannah, for sure. But there’s also a certain languor, a slower pace that sometimes feels …”
Her gaze drifted towards the Charles River, the sunlight glinting on the water. “That’s a good question … I’ve thought about it from time to time.” She turned back to him. “It’s home, you know. The sound of cicadas in the summer, those things are ingrained. But there are other things, too; a chance to build something new, maybe …” Her voice trailed off, her eyes meeting his.
Dylan’s breath hitched slightly. He was from Rhode Island, a place close enough to Boston to feel like a possibility, a bridge. The way Julia talked about Savannah, though, made the place feel impossibly far away. “What kind of new?” he asked, his voice low over the rumble of the boat engine.
Julia was about to say something, but didn’t get a chance. The duck boat rumbled back,and the tour guide’s voice announced the return to land.
Dylan hopped out, landing with surprising agility for his height. Then, turning back to Julia, a playful glint in his eyes, he reached out, his hands finding her waist. In a swift, unexpected move, he lifted her as if she were lighter than a leaf. Her surprised gasp was lost in the breeze. For a moment, suspended in the air, her eyes locked with his and she felt her world had shifted a little.
As they disembarked, Dylan’s hand found hers naturally, their fingers intertwining as if they’d done this hundreds of times before. Julia felt a small thrill at the contact—the warmth of his palm against hers, the gentle pressure of his thumb occasionally brushing her wrist.
They wandered down Charles Street, stopping occasionally to browse in shops—an antiquarian bookstore where Julia found a rare volume on colonial architecture that made her eyes light up, then a small art gallery featuring local artists’ interpretations of Boston landmarks. Their eyes met every now and again, as if verifying the other was still there.
“My uncle would have loved this place,” Dylan said, as they left the bookstore.
“Dylan,” Julia said gently as they continued walking, “I know this is difficult. But I think you owe me an explanation.”
His stride faltered slightly. “About what?”
“About your uncle. About why you couldn’t give me straight answers when I asked about The Black Tulip.” She stopped walking, turning to face him.
Dylan’s jaw tightened. For a moment, Julia thought he might deflect again. Instead, he looked around, spotting a small park overlooking the Charles River. “It would probably be better if we sat down for this.”
They found a bench facing the water. Dylan leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring straight ahead.
“You’re right,” he started. “I do owe you an explanation.” His voice was low, strained. “Uncle Tobias didn’t just die, Julia. The circumstances were . . .” He swallowed hard. “They were suspicious.”
