by Meg Cabot
I felt my face heating up again, and it wasn’t because of the sultriness of the evening air.
“Yes?” I asked, with concentrated primness. “May I help you with something?”
“My aunt’s brisket.” He pointed at something behind me. “You’re blocking it.”
“Oh.” I hopped out of the way while Angela stifled a snort of laughter. “Sorry.”
How much had he overheard? Any of it? All of it? He didn’t appear at all discomfited, if that was the case. He was digging into his aunt’s brisket like a starving man, piling it onto one of the rolls that had been provided to make sandwiches of the meat.
I should have known to run to a different section of the party when I saw Angela smiling mischievously beside me. But of course I didn’t.
“So, Drew,” she said conversationally, her laughter barely contained. “Is it true what I hear, that you’re going to stay in your house on Sandy Point for the storm?”
“It’s true.” Drew was hesitating over the vast selection of homemade and commercial barbecue sauces for his brisket sandwich.
“That’s a really bold choice, Drew,” Angela said, still grinning. “They’re warning everyone with places on the shoreline to head inland.”
“I built my place to withstand two-hundred-and-fifty-mile-per-hour winds.” Having made his selection, Drew now squirted barbecue sauce all over his brisket. “It’s made of poured concrete and rebar, on forty-foot pilings to keep it above the storm surge. The place should be fine. And if not, it’ll be good for me to be there to make any necessary repairs on-site as breaks happen.”
I stared at him. “Are you insane? That’s exactly what they’re telling people not to do.”
He’d taken a large bite of his sandwich. “You do realize,” he said, as he chewed, “that there’s nowhere on this island you can go that isn’t coastal.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you can go inland. You don’t have to stay on the beach—”
“What do you care?” Those bright eyes glittered at me a little too intensely. “Why is what I do during the hurricane so important to you?”
I took a sip of my wine to escape his smirk. “It’s not. Trust me, whether you live or die makes no difference to me.”
Drew grinned. “Now you’re starting to sound more like a local, Fresh Water. So where are you hunkering down, if you’re so intent on staying?”
I’m sorry to say that I flipped my hair. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t even drunk, I’d only had one Jell-O shot and a few sips of wine. “Oh, I have a lot of options.”
“Really?” He was still grinning. “Like where?”
“I invited her to stay with me,” Angela said mildly, leaning over between us to scoop some spinach dip onto a corn chip. “But apparently, she got a better offer, since she said no.”
I almost choked on the sip of wine I’d taken. This statement was a complete falsehood, and Angela knew it. What she’d actually said earlier that day back at the café was that she’d be staying at her mother’s during the hurricane. Mrs. Fairweather’s home was a historic Spanish-style bungalow made of concrete and not situated in a flood zone, and so ideal for hunkering down during storms.
I was welcome to join them, Angela had said, but her brother’s rottweilers would be there as well, and might not be too thrilled to see Gary.
I had not taken her invitation seriously.
“Um,” I said. No way was I going to mention that Drew’s own aunt had invited me to stay with her. That seemed like it would be walking into whatever mischievous trap Angela was setting for me. “Yes, well, Lady Patricia invited me to stay with her in a fourth-floor suite at the Cascabel—”
His grin vanished. “The Cascabel? You’re not staying there, are you?”
“Well,” I said, noting that his objection appeared to be over the hotel, not whom I was staying with. Lady Patricia was the most well-liked drag queen in Little Bridge, and everyone bought fabrics for their curtains and outdoor furniture at Patrick’s fabric shop. “Well, yes, I thought I might. Pat says it’s rated Cat Five, too—”
“The building itself, sure. But the lobby and stairwells flood every time there’s even a minor rainstorm. Why doesn’t anyone ever remember that?”
“Remember what?” Ed Hartwell was approaching with a platter still sizzling from the grill. He appeared to have almost every variety of barbecue possible, from burger patties to hot dogs to kebabs to portobello mushrooms.
“The Cascabel,” Drew said. “What’s the point of being safe from wind damage on a high floor when you can’t exit in an emergency because there’s three to six feet of floodwater on the first?”
“They have a generator,” Angela pointed out.
“Sure, to power the rooms,” Drew said. “Not enough juice to handle the hallways or lobby. And I wouldn’t trust the electricals anyway under those conditions. Salt water will have flooded the elevator shafts, corroding the cables. So you’re still going to have to walk up and down a dank, dark, smelly stairway every time you need to go out for anything—”
Who knows how long I would have been forced to stand there politely listening to these locals argue the pros and cons of riding out a hurricane at the Cascabel Hotel if the dog that had been whining up until that point hadn’t suddenly let out a yelp of pain? All four of us swiveled our heads toward the sound.
“Oh, no,” Angela said.
That’s when I noticed for the first time that we had a hurricane-party crasher.
Chapter Eight
Avoid consuming alcoholic beverages before, during, and after the storm. Although seemingly refreshing, these can be dehydrating and impair judgment.
Rick was a Mermaid regular, though many of us who worked there wished he’d visit less. He never missed the lunch special, always ordering the same thing—half a Cuban sandwich and a cup of soup for $6.95—every day, but he augmented it with several Bloody Mermaids (Bloody Marys, only with a cocktail shrimp on a skewer).
Except that Rick’s Bloody Mermaids were always doubles.
I’d have felt sorry for him if it weren’t for one thing. Rumor had it that before the ravages of alcoholism had stolen them away, he’d once had a wife, kids, and a successful rental property business. I still saw faded Rick Chance Rentals signs on the sides of various bus stops around town, and Rick himself was usually stylishly dressed in an impeccable white button-down and khaki pants, and often informed me that he was waiting on a million-dollar property deal to go through (but somehow it never quite came to fruition).
But then there was Socks.
Socks was a scruffy but cute black and white dog (well, would have been black and white if he’d ever been given a bath. He was more black and gray) with one ear that stuck up, and another that seemed permanently to droop. Socks had somehow attached itself to Rick, out of all the people on Little Bridge.
Socks followed Rick Chance everywhere, including into the Mermaid, even though technically we allowed only service animals.
But I suppose in a way Socks did provide assistance to Rick, since the dog didn’t approve of his owner’s lifestyle, and often grew impatient sitting beneath whatever barstool Rick was haunting.
When this happened, Socks would whine to be taken for a walk, and Rick would be forced to pay up and leave. I’d see Rick weaving down the street to the next bar, Socks trotting proudly beside him, excited to have an owner at last.
However, occasionally when Socks whined to go, Rick had not finished his drink and did not feel like leaving.
And so instead he’d nudge Socks in the ribs with his foot—though not always gently enough to be called a nudge.
Rick had received plenty of warnings about his treatment of Socks from all of us, but especially from Ed Hartwell. Several times Rick had even been ordered to leave the Mermaid altogether and not come back until he was sober. Little Bridge Island offered plenty of services for anyone looking for help in this area, almost all of them free. There were several large and enthusiastic Alcoholics Anonymous group
s, one of which met regularly at the long back table of the Mermaid, calling themselves Anchors Aweigh.
But Rick refused to admit that he had a problem, or that his treatment of his dog was wrong.
Since Rick was so pathetic, and Socks so cute, Mrs. Hartwell often overruled her husband’s orders and allowed Rick back into the café, even when he was obviously inebriated, if only so that she could give both Socks and his owner the proper food and water that they needed to stay alive.
I hadn’t noticed the man in the button-down shirt sitting on a high-topped chair over by the pool table until the dog on the patio tiles beneath him began to cry.
But as soon as this happened, all eyes were upon him, including Drew Hartwell’s.
Drew had just lifted his beer to take a sip. Now he lowered it and said, in a voice so cold it could have chilled even this steamiest of summer nights, “Excuse me, but did you just kick that dog?”
From the droopiness of his eyelids and the unsteadiness with which he was perched on the stool, it looked as if Rick might have been consuming more than just beer.
“Me?” His weather-beaten face assumed an expression of overexaggerated astonishment. “Aw, no! Hell, no. No, sir, that wasn’t me. I wouldn’t kick a dog.”
It was clear from both the demeanor of the dog and the accusing expressions on the faces of everyone in the nearby vicinity that Rick had, indeed, just kicked the dog.
But Drew hadn’t seen it himself, so there was no way he could prove it. And no one was talking. Everyone in this crowd, it seemed, felt too sorry for Rick, probably remembering the wife and kids he’d abandoned (or, more likely, who had thrown him out of the house).
The salsa music playing from the speakers on the back porch seemed uncomfortably loud in the silence that followed, during which Drew stared at Socks’s owner.
Ed Hartwell was the one to break the silence. “Rick,” he said, in his deep voice, one that was generally hoarse from lack of use. “I’ve told you before not to mess with that dog.”
Rick’s own voice turned self-defensive. “Ed, you know me. I’d never kick no dog.” When drunk—which was most of the time—Rick’s grammar became erratic. He also developed a Southern twang, which was odd given that he claimed to be from Rhode Island. “I love dogs!”
Drew pointed straight in Rick Chance’s face. “I think you did kick that dog,” he said, in the same cold tone. “And if I catch you doing it again, I will lay you out.”
Even though it was the warmest of tropical nights, with only the softest of breezes stirring the tops of the palm fronds, I felt a chill up my spine. Drew Hartwell wasn’t kidding around. Small lines had appeared around the corners of his blue eyes that I’d never seen before, not even the day Leighanne had thrown her keys and saltshaker at him.
He was angry. If I’d been Rick, I’d have left the party immediately.
But Rick only laughed foolishly and took another slug from his beer bottle. “Well, no worries, cuzzy. That ain’t goin’ to happen because I ain’t the type to kick no dog.”
Drew lowered his arm and said in a voice dripping with disdain, “I am not your cousin.”
Then he turned and walked back toward the pool table, since it was his turn once again to shoot.
I didn’t realize until he was gone from my side that I’d been holding my breath during the entirety of the two men’s exchange. It was only after Drew turned away that I exhaled, and oxygen began to circulate through my lungs again.
“Wow,” I said softly.
Angela, beside me, took a long sip of her drink. “Yeah. That was intense.”
“I’ll say. Hasn’t Drew ever met Rick before?”
Angela shrugged. “You mean from before he got the way he is now? Yeah, I’m sure. Everyone knew Rick when he was riding high. He had the biggest rental property business in town. But now? Drew’s more of the breakfast crowd, remember? He’s always gone before Rick gets in for lunch.”
This made sense. The breakfast and lunch crowds rarely mingled.
“I need a refill after that drama,” Angela said, holding up her empty cup. “How about you?”
My own cup was empty as well. I nodded and the two of us began to make our way toward the little grotto by the pool where Mrs. Hartwell was keeping the wine on ice—
At least, that’s where we were headed before we heard it: another yelp of pain from Socks.
“Oh, no.” Angela froze beside me. “Tell me he did not just—”
Before either of us could turn to see what was happening, we heard it: the sickening—and unmistakable—sound of bone crunching on bone. I spun just in time to see Rick crumpled on the Hartwells’ pavers, clutching his face in apparent agony.
“Yeeee-ow,” Rick wailed into his cupped hands. “Did you see that? Did y’all see that? Drew Hartwell hit me! He hit me in the face. Why’d you have to go and do that, Drew?”
Drew Hartwell stood a few feet away from the prone man, waving his right hand in the air. The knuckles seemed to be smarting.
“You know why I did that, Rick,” he said, calmly.
“You can’t say he didn’t warn you, Rick.” One of Drew’s fellow pool players was setting up for his shot as if nothing had happened. “You had it coming.”
“Get up, Rick,” said another. “You’re blocking the table.”
Rick did not seem inclined to get up, however. Instead, he rolled around on the Hartwells’ pavers, his fingers pressed to his face, while Socks worriedly tried to lick his face.
“My nose is probably broke,” Rick cried. “You all saw it! Drew Hartwell broke my nose! I’m going to sue. I’m going to sue you, Drew Hartwell!”
“Please be my guest,” Drew said politely, then walked over to the food table where there was a large ice cooler filled with beer and soda. He plunged his sore hand into it.
Ed gave his nephew an aggrieved look, then leaned down to help Rick to his feet. “Come on, Rick,” he said. “Your nose ain’t broke. But let’s go get you some ice for it. And maybe some black coffee, too, I think.”
“I don’t want no ice.” Rick yanked his arm from Ed’s grip. “And I don’t want coffee, neither. I want your boy arrested. Did you see what he did to me?”
“He didn’t do anything to you that you haven’t had coming for a long time, Rick, and you know it.” Ed was speaking to Rick, but he was glaring at Drew. “Now come with me—”
But it was too late. Rick darted out of Ed’s grasp, then disappeared from the pool table area into the darkest part of the yard, toward the rabbit hutches, still clutching his nose.
Socks, ever loyal to his master, would have followed if I hadn’t reached down and grasped him by the collar to keep him where he was. The two of us had a certain rapport since I always gave him water and biscuits at the Mermaid whenever Mrs. Hartwell wasn’t around to do it.
The dog only tried for a moment to break free, glancing nervously after his owner, whining softly, confused by my restraining him.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want Rick to have a pet. I just thought it might be better for him not to have a pet until he’d learned how to take better care of one.
“Shhh,” I said to the dog, stroking his droopy ear to calm him. He was a mixed breed, a lot of border collie with a little bit of everything else. It would probably be easier to tell after he’d had a bath. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay now. Sit, Socks. Stay.”
“Someone should give that dog some water,” Drew said testily, his right hand still soaking in the beer cooler.
“Do you think so?” Drew’s aunt Lucy looked furious. I wasn’t sure whether it was because her lovely party had been broken up by a fight or because her beloved nephew had been the one who’d thrown the first—and only—punch. “Do you think that might have been a better way to have handled the situation than to have knocked his owner’s lights out?”
Drew had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yeah.” He lifted his hand from the cooler and examined his sore knuckles. “Well, I
get a little hot under the collar when it comes to animal abuse.”
“Oh, and the rest of us think it’s just swell. But we somehow manage to restrain ourselves.”
He stared at his aunt for a beat, as if he couldn’t believe what she’d just said. I couldn’t believe it, either. Frankly, I wished I’d been the one who’d punched Rick Chance. I was glad someone, at least, had finally done it . . . and I couldn’t help a growing feeling of admiration for Drew Hartwell.
Admiration? For Drew Hartwell? No. This was not part of the plan. Not that there was a plan, exactly, but what there was did not include allowing myself to feel anything at all for Drew Hartwell. I was off men, I was man free, I was on a mancation . . . at least until I could figure out how I’d had the bad judgment to get involved with a guy like Caleb in the first place.
Fortunately Nevaeh appeared from nowhere, kneeling down to set a large bowl of fresh water in front of the dog, and divert me from my dark thoughts.
“Here you go, Socks,” she cooed. “Don’t pay any mind to those two, they’re just fussing, like always.”
Happily Socks, torn between the cool water and his beloved master, chose the water, and lowered his head to lap noisily, giving us all a welcome distraction.
“Poor baby.” Mrs. Hartwell turned her attention away from the dog and toward her nephew. “He really was thirsty. I should have brought out some water sooner. Then maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“It’s my mess, not ours, Lu,” Drew said, his jaw set and his gaze gone flinty. “I’ll take care of it.”
“How?” Mrs. Hartwell demanded. “How are you going to take care of it? Where is that poor man supposed to go to get his nose looked at? The ER is closed. The walk-in clinic is boarded up because all of the doctors have left town, except for Dr. Schmidt, but he’s a vet, and last I heard, he was at Martina Hernandez’s hurricane party up on Stork Key. To get any sort of medical care, Rick’ll have to go to Miami, but he’s certainly in no shape to drive, even if he had a car, which he doesn’t, because his wife took it away. Unless you care to drive him—”
