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Agatha’s Point of View
Henry grinned from ear to ear.
“How are you, Agatha?”
“All the better for seeing you.”
I stepped into a classic Henry embrace—all-encompassing. He smelled of salt and diesel and something sweet that might have been cologne applied days ago in a port I hadn’t heard of. His arms closed around me the way a man holds a barrel he’s lifting off a dock—firm, practiced, not thinking about it. I pressed my face into his chest and held on longer than I meant to.
“You look well, Agatha.”
“You look like you’ve been at sea for a week.”
“Ten days. Give or take.”
He held me at arm’s length and studied my face. I let him. Henry had earned the right to look.