There were none called Evangeline, so we decided to be bold and venture into the clubhouse to speak to the manager, who turned out to be a handsome middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair. “I wonder if you could help us,” I said, smiling warmly at him. “We’re looking for some old family friends of ours who I think are members here. The Peterson’s from Chicago? The last time we spoke, they had a boat called Evangeline and they invited us for a sail. I don’t suppose you know if they’re still members here?” “The Petersons? Yes, they are, but they don’t usually keep their boat here at the club when they’re in town. They keep her moored at their summer house.” “Oh!” I replied, brightly. “Would you mind giving us their address? I’d love to pop by.” The manager regarded me warily. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t give out that kind of information. I’m sure you understand.”
