by Meg Cabot
Angela leaned forward to deal with the dissatisfied customer, who already had a plate piled high with corn bread, Caesar salad, black beans and rice, and a baked potato.
“Sir,” she said. “We’re happily giving away all this free food today on account of the storm. But we have to make sure we have enough for everyone. We’re serving chicken, fish, or steak. But you can only have one protein at a time.”
“But—” The gentleman, who appeared from the weathered condition of his skin to have spent a great deal of time at sea, opened his mouth to protest, revealing a past lacking in proper dental care.
“If you finish your plate and are still hungry, of course you can come back for more. But for now, it’s one serving of chicken or fish or steak per person per plate.”
The old sailor looked resigned. “Then chicken, I guess.”
Marquise delicately placed a chicken leg, thigh, and breast on his plate. “Enjoy, sir. Don’t forget, there’s key lime pie for dessert.”
The old sailor grinned toothlessly before moving on. “God bless ya, son!”
Nevaeh, who was standing beside Marquise, looked up at him from beneath her heavily made-up eyelashes and said, “You handled that really well.”
Katie Hartwell, also standing nearby, hurried to add, “I think so, too.”
Marquise looked confused but pleased. “Uh, thanks.”
“Are you going to stick around?” Angela asked me. “We could really use your help, especially with cleanup. The trash cans are already overflowing, so people are just piling their plates wherever.”
“Sure. I’ll go inside and grab some trash bags.”
“No!” Mrs. Hartwell appeared as if from nowhere. “I’ll do that. Bree, why don’t you take over my spot, handing out key limeade?”
I knew exactly what she was doing. She didn’t want me taking on menial tasks anymore because I was Judge Justine’s daughter. It didn’t matter that I’d already spent months mopping floors and cleaning the bathrooms. “Mrs. Hartwell, it’s all right. I’m fine with trash duty.”
“No, no, dear, I want to get out there anyway. I need to talk to some of these people, see if they need—”
“And stand in the hot sun?” Drew was suddenly by her side. “Why don’t you let me and Bree handle the trash, Lu, and you keep serving folks the drinks. You okay with that, Bree?”
I smiled at him. The sinking sun glinted on the fine hairs on his arms, bleached gold by all the time he spent outdoors. “I’m fine with that.”
We’d fetched Mary Jane Peters and her son a couple of plates of food, along with some milk, and were moving through the crowd with our large garbage bags, collecting people’s trash, when a man riding a horse—truly, a handsome, well-fed pinto—suddenly clattered into the parking lot.
“Uh-oh,” Drew said, eyeing the tall man in the dark green uniform sitting astride the horse. “It’s the cops.”
I watched in some alarm as Sheriff Hartwell dismounted from his horse and began approaching the café. “What’s he doing here? Do you think someone saw us breaking in to people’s houses to feed their pets and thought we were robbing them and turned us in?”
Drew, smiling, looked down at me. “You really are a Fresh Water, aren’t you?”
Flushing, I grasped my trash bag. “Well, you never know. What we’re doing isn’t exactly legal.”
“It is if you have permission from the home owners.” He saw the look on my face, then asked, “You did have permission from all the homeowners, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “Of course.” I mean, I’d had permission from Chett, who’d assured me that all of the homeowners were friends of his . . . how else could he have known what sort of pets they owned and how to break into their houses?
I watched with a drumming heart as Sheriff Hartwell strode closer and closer . . . and finally walked right past us, with a nod of greeting in Drew’s direction, and right up to Ed, who was still working the grills he’d set up, a green bandanna wrapped around his forehead to keep sweat from dripping into the food.
“Hey, there, Ed,” I overheard the sheriff say. “Nice little operation you got running here.”
“Well,” Ed said, modestly, “I gotta get rid of all this meat before it goes bad. Shoulda installed a generator here when I had the chance. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I understand.” The sheriff sounded sympathetic. “Thing is, I’m gonna need you to shut all this down by sunset. I’m issuing an island-wide curfew from dusk to dawn. I’ve told my people to arrest anyone they find out of doors, no questions asked.”
Ed whistled, low and long, and Drew, who’d clearly overheard as well, raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve got a lot of people here who are far from home right now, Sheriff,” Drew said. “Word got around fast about what Ed was doing here, and people came here from as far away as Ramrod Key.”
“I know that.” The sheriff scratched his chin. “But there’s still an hour till sunset. That’s plenty of time for them to get back home.”
Drew looked out over the crowd, who were happily eating and drinking. Someone had brought out a ukulele and was playing it. Several people had broken out bottles of beer, and even, by the smell wafting toward us, some herbal refreshment, despite the presence of the sheriff, who didn’t seem inclined to investigate.
“Maybe it’s for the best, Ed,” Drew said to his uncle. “The rest of that meat will keep for tomorrow.”
Ed looked down at his coolers. “True. And some people will need it even more then.”
“Yes.” The sheriff looked up. A lone helicopter—the first one I’d seen all day—was flying by, low and slow.
“Is that FEMA?” I asked, hopefully, thinking maybe, finally, someone from the national or even state government was paying attention to us.
The sheriff shook his head. “Sorry. No. That up there is Channel Seven out of Miami. Been buzzing around all afternoon, getting pictures for the evening news. I’m not particularly worried about looters myself, but the media’s playing up the angle, and getting the folks who are stuck on the other side of the bridge all fired up about it. Curfew’s the only way I could think of to keep everybody happy.”
Ed nodded. “Makes sense. Okay, lemme cook off the last of this meat here and then you can let people know we have to shut down for the night.”
Which is what they did—not that anyone was too happy about it. Katie Hartwell in particular expressed a few harsh words to her father when she found out her time as a volunteer working at the side of Marquise Fairweather was ending. I myself overheard her tell her father that he was “ruining everything” and that she was “never coming home.”
Mrs. Hartwell, however, told the sheriff not to lose heart, and that it was probably better for Katie to continue staying with the Hartwells anyway during this time of crisis, since her father was going to be so busy.
I was stooping over, helping Mrs. Hartwell store the leftover corn bread on rolling racks, when Drew approached me and said, “Well?”
I squinted up at him. I had on my sunglasses, but the sun was lower than ever, and he was standing with his back to the light, so I couldn’t make out his features and had no idea what he wanted. “Well, what?”
“Well, when are you taking me back to my place?”
I stared up at him, dumbfounded. “I have to help clean this all up. Can’t you snag a ride with the sheriff, or somebody?”
“On the back of his horse? No, I can’t snag a ride with the sheriff. What are you talking about?”
I rose, brushing the crumbs from my hands. “That’s not his only mode of transportation. I’ve seen him driving around in a giant SUV.”
“That’s never going to get around that yacht sitting in the middle of my road. Listen, we have to go. Do you know how long it’s been since my dogs have been out? They’ve probably trashed my place by now.”
“Drew.” I glanced around. I could sense that Angela and quite a few other people nearby were eavesdropping on o
ur conversation. There wasn’t anything else to do. “I’d love to drive you. But I have to get home, too. I haven’t seen my cat all day—”
“Your cat?” Now that I was no longer stooping, I could see into Drew’s face. He was wearing an expression of incredulity. “What are you worrying about that cat of yours for? He’s living in the lap of luxury over there. He’s got AC and those two girls fawning over him, feeding him tuna and doing photo shoots of him. Whereas my dogs are alone, cooped up in a house with no air or food or—”
“Fine.” I glanced around but saw that everyone was busily working to put things away, and not listening to our conversation at all. Or pretending not to, at least. “Fine. I’ll take you home.”
“Good. Great. I mean, really, it seems like the least you could do since I let you use my hatchet, and I’m also the kindest, sweetest, handsomest—”
I couldn’t help grinning at him. He really was the worst. Or the best, depending on how you looked at it.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A curfew has been instituted in Little Bridge from dusk to dawn for safety and security reasons. Anyone out after the designated times is subject to arrest by order of the Sheriff’s Office.
Nothing had changed on Sandy Point Beach while we’d been gone. Since Drew was the only resident who hadn’t evacuated, and the electrical crews were working to clean up streets farther inland, closer to the hospital and the majority of residences, this made sense. I still had to dodge downed power lines and piles of sand and seaweed on my scooter—not to mention the washed-up refrigerator and yacht—in order to get to his house.
But the view, when we finally made it, was worth it. The sinking sun was turning the few clouds that streaked the sky a rich, blazing fuchsia, and now that the last remnants of the storm had passed, the sea was finally starting to smooth out, so the clouds were reflected in the dark, glassy water beneath. The birds were still out in force, especially the gulls and pelicans, circling over the sand and surf, calling noisily to one another.
But other than that and the rhythmic whoosh of the waves, there wasn’t a sound to be heard, with the exception, every so often, of the plop! of a silver-backed tarpon as it broke the water’s surface, diving for unseen prey.
“Okay,” I said, when I’d pulled to a stop in his sand-strewn driveway. “I guess I see now why you’d want to live all the way out here instead of in town.”
“Not so crazy after all, am I?” He swung his long leg from the scooter’s seat and took his canvas tool kit from the scooter’s running board. “Come inside for a drink.”
“And risk getting arrested for breaking curfew? No thanks.”
“You’ve got plenty of time.” He pointed at the brilliant red ball sinking low in the sky just west of us. “Sunset won’t be for another half hour at least.”
“It’ll take me that long just to get back to your aunt’s house.”
“Nobody’s going to arrest a pretty girl going home on a moped—especially when they realize who your mother is.”
I smirked at him. “Thanks so much for that.”
“Come on. What harm will one drink do?”
Of course I was tempted. How couldn’t I be? A good-looking man whom I’d come to like and trust and, okay, maybe lust after a little was asking me to his home for a drink.
And what a home! Mother Nature seemed to be pulling out all the stops to apologize for her misdeeds the day before, making this sunset as dramatic and beautiful as any she’d ever created. The evening breeze was as fresh and cool as the afternoon had been hot and oppressive. Even as I stood there, trying to decide what to do, the wind tugged playfully at my hair and sent the sound of all four of Drew’s dogs’ eager barking down toward me. They seemed to be crying “Come on up! What are you waiting for? We miss you, Bree! We want to play!”
“Fine,” I said, and lowered the kickstand of my scooter. “But only one drink. Then I really have to go.”
“Great!” He looked as delighted as a kid who’d just found out he was having ice cream for dinner. “You think the view looks good from down here, wait until you see it from up there . . .”
He wasn’t wrong. The view of that scarlet sun slowly sinking toward the sea, unbroken by any man-made structures, was breathtaking, and I was reminded once again of why I’d found it so hard to leave Little Bridge. I really hadn’t meant to stay as long as I had. It wasn’t only because of the people—who, quirky and odd as they often were, were also some of the kindest and most giving I’d ever encountered. It was also because of the sheer natural beauty of the place, the unspoiled ocean views and skyscapes that even now I felt myself itching to paint.
It didn’t hurt that Drew had let out the dogs—who’d greeted us with near fanatical delight—and that they were now running up and down the beach after the yellow tennis balls that Drew was tossing them from the deck. This was upsetting the flocks of birds, causing them to rise indignantly from the clusters of seaweed strewn across the sand every time they came near. This actually made the vista even more special—at least to me.
“Okay,” I said, laughing, as Drew expertly threw his seventh ball. “You really do have a good life here.”
“You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” He disappeared into the house, then reappeared a moment later holding a bottle of red wine and two wineglasses. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”
I glanced at the label and could not help feeling impressed. It was a small-batch California cabernet that Caleb favored, and claimed was hard to find.
I’d never have expected to see such a thing in Little Bridge, particularly in Drew Hartwell’s home.
“What?” I asked in a teasing tone as he began opening the bottle with a corkscrew he’d also brought from inside. “The famous Drew Hartwell drinks something besides beer?”
“Well,” he said, after pouring a generous amount into my glass, “like I said, it’s a special occasion.”
“And what’s that?”
“I finally got Bree Beckham over to my place to have a drink.” He raised his glass to clink mine.
I pulled my glass away, refusing to toast something so ridiculous. “Oh, right. You never even knew who I was until the night of your aunt’s hurricane party, even though I’ve been serving you breakfast every day for months.”
“That,” he said, taking a reflective sip of his wine, “is untrue. For part of that time I was unavailable.” The ghost of Leighanne rose silently between us. “And for the rest of that time, you seemed . . . preoccupied.” I took a sip of my wine, not wanting to think about my own ghosts. “But the truth is, I’ve had my eye on you for some time. I was never quite sure what was going on with your hair—”
I reached up instinctively to touch one of my pink curls. “What?”
“—but I like it. It brings out the brown in your eyes.”
“Is this your thing?” I asked. “Is this what you do? You bring girls out here and give them expensive wine on your fabulous deck during amazing sunsets in order to seduce them? And then you insult them?”
He grinned. “God’s honest truth, you’re the first. Is it working?”
“I’ll let you know. What was your shtick before you had the house? You’d drive your truck into town and park at some different lucky lady’s house every night?”
“What?” He looked genuinely baffled.
“That’s what everybody says. They say they used to see your pickup in front of a different house every morning.”
Comprehension dawned, and he laughed. “Yeah, of course! Those were the homes where I was doing carpentry work. I usually had a couple of beers with the home owners after. I wasn’t going to risk a DUI driving back home later. I’d usually just grab an Uber, or sometimes I kept my bike in the back of the truck and rode it home. Better to be safe than sorry.”
I blinked, shocked at how something so innocent had morphed into such a lurid rumor. Then again, Little Bridge was a very small town, and its residents loved to gossip.
“What about Leighanne?” I asked, carefully.
“What about Leighanne?”
“What was the deal with the saltshaker? I was standing right next to you in the café when she threw it at you.”
“Oh, that.” He sighed and looked toward the sea. “Yeah, that’s the thing about this place. People either get it or they don’t. You get it. Leighanne never did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, people come here and they either love the island life or they hate it.”
“Who could possibly hate it?” I asked in genuine astonishment.
But even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I remembered. My mother. My mother had always hated Little Bridge. She’d hated it almost as much as my father had loved it.
“Someone like Leighanne could hate it,” he said. “I met Leighanne when I was working up in New York. Then after my parents died and my sister went into her third or fourth stint with rehab and it was clear I needed to come back to help out with Nevaeh—well, Leighanne volunteered to come with me. On paper, it should have worked—she said she liked dogs and was ready to leave the fast pace and cold winters of the city. But in reality—she couldn’t stand the dogs or stand it here. The lack of seasons and the slow pace, the fact that there were so few different restaurants and stores—it all drove her crazy.”
“Island fever,” I murmured, remembering what Nevaeh had told me.
He looked surprised—but whether it was because I knew the term or that Leighanne had been suffering from it, I wasn’t sure. “Possibly. All I know is, since there weren’t any stores in town that sold the kinds of things she liked, she kept ordering things online—like the Himalayan salt—to make herself feel like she was back in New York, I guess. I kept asking, ‘Why do we need this? Why do we need that?’ I guess, since they made her feel better, I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
