by Logan, Kylie
“He’s a trouper,” Luella said. “And he knows he’s got to put on a good show tonight. He put a lot of time and effort into planning this Bastille Day event. He can’t let it fizzle. But the way I heard it, he was madder than a wet hen last night. Can’t say I blame him. If it was my boat he’d damaged, I would have threatened to wring Richie’s neck, too.”
“Is that what he did?” It seemed so out of character for debonair Gordon that the comment caught me off guard. “You don’t think he’d really—”
“I’m surprised Richie’s still alive and breathing, anyway.” Chandra’s bleached blond hair was chin-length and blunt cut. When she swayed her head from left to right, it stroked her cheeks. “You’d think by now, Mike Lawrence would have gutted Richie like a walleye.”
I wasn’t so far out of the loop that I hadn’t heard this story. Though it had happened the autumn before I moved to the island, Richie’s monumental screw-up had already reached the status of island legend. “You mean because of how Mike hired Richie to turn off the gas in that fancy new summer cottage over at the other end of the island,” I said.
“And how Richie wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, as usual,” Kate added.
Just thinking about it made Luella wince. “And how Richie left the gas line open instead of shutting it.”
“And that big, fancy summer home . . .” Chandra put down her wineglass long enough to slap her hands together. “Kaboom!”
“Poor guy who owned that house,” Kate murmured.
“Poor Mike,” Luella commented, and when she looked down the dock, we all did, too, and saw that Mike Lawrence wasn’t partying with his neighbors. In fact, a boat neared the empty slip next to Luella’s and he got ready to help the dockmasters get the boat berthed. “What with the insurance claim and the owner of the home suing him and the government after him because he was paying Richie under the table and not paying Social Security taxes for him, Mike has lost just about everything he owned—including his contracting business. He’s picking up every odd job he can get his hands on, and he’s living in a trailer over near the state park. Imagine living in a trailer with a wife and three little kids.”
I could imagine it, and what I imagined was cramped and uncomfortable. I made a mental note to see if I could come up with some work for Mike around the B and B. It wouldn’t solve all his problems, but it might help.
“Well, look who’s here! One of the guests of honor!”
I didn’t know there were guests of honor for the week’s festivities, so Luella’s comment surprised me. That is, until I turned away from watching Mike work and saw who was headed our way on the dock.
Alice Defarge—or was it Margaret?—and talk about a legend! The Defarge twins had lived their whole lives on South Bass and they owned the island’s only knitting shop. As far as I’d heard, neither of the ladies—seventy-five if they were a day—had officially been named a guest of honor, but the Defarge reference was lost on no one. At least no one who knew anything about the Dickens book. In A Tale of Two Cities, Madame Defarge is the iconic figure who sits knitting in the shadow of the guillotine.
Thankfully, our own Defarges were far less ghoulish. In fact, the sisters—who I’d met at various potlucks and island functions—were as sweet and as friendly as can be. This one—whichever one she was—sure enjoyed the reference to being the guest of honor. Her smile was as bright as her snowy white hair.
I adjusted my black-framed glasses on the bridge of my nose. “Alice or Margaret?” I asked Kate out of the corner of my mouth when the old lady neared.
“Alice.” As subtly as she could, Kate pointed, indicating Alice’s white cotton pants and her sky blue, short-sleeved shirt. “Margaret always wears something pink.”
I’m sure I’d heard that before, but this time, I told myself not to forget it.
“Isn’t this great fun!” In the light of the setting sun, Alice twinkled like a prom queen. Just like her sister, she was a tiny woman with a neat, poofy hairdo and a spring in her step. “I only hope . . .” Her gaze moved past us to the lake. “There are some pretty dark clouds out there. I hope the weather isn’t going to spoil our celebrations this week.”
“There’s a chance of rain tonight,” Luella told her. “But nothing for the rest of the week. Will you and Margaret join us for dinner?”
Another blast of wind kicked up over the lake and brought with it the distant rumble of thunder. “Thank you, but . . .” In no time at all, Alice headed back the way she’d come. “I’d better help Margaret get our picnic settled over in the park. Just in case it starts to rain and we need to pack up in a hurry.”
“Nice lady,” I said when she was gone.
“A real sweetheart,” Chandra confirmed. “So’s her sister.”
“And you’d better be really careful every time either one of them is around,” Kate advised, then laughed when she saw the look of disbelief on my face. She grabbed my arm. “I’m just saying. Hasn’t anybody told you? The Defarge sisters—”
“Are the biggest gossips on this or any other island,” Luella said. “There are a lot of people around here who believe that’s why they opened their knitting shop in the first place. You know, so they’d have a ringside seat right downtown and they could keep an eye on everyone and everything that happens around here.”
“They know your business before you know your business,” Chandra added. “And there’s nothing they like better than telling the world.”
By the time they were done with their warnings, my smile was tight. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have any business worth discussing.”
“Right.” Kate split the word into two syllables. That is, before she grabbed her dinner dish and took it with her when she went to a nearby boat to chat with its owners.
“Anything you say.” Chandra had already finished her plate of food, but when she walked down the dock to visit with some of our neighbors, she took the bottle of red wine with her.
“Good luck with that,” Luella said, and she, too, walked away, leaving me alone on the dock and wondering what had just happened.
For like a half a second.
That was when I realized I wasn’t alone, and the reason they’d all pulled up stakes and fled was suddenly all too evident.
Where Levi Kozlov came from, I don’t know, but my guess was the other Ladies had seen him coming and decamped to give us some alone time. I’d mention it to them later, along with the fact that as far as Levi was concerned, I didn’t need alone time. Yes, he was tall, honey blond, and gorgeous. Yes, there were sparks that flew between us like the quick flashes of lightning I saw far out over the water. Yes, I was attracted in a way I hadn’t been attracted to a guy in a long time.
But . . .
“Hey.” Levi had a bottle of beer, and he raised it in greeting. “What’s up?”
I clutched my wineglass in both hands, grateful acrylic was strong and I couldn’t snap the thick stem. “Not much. With you?”
He shrugged. A normal enough motion, except when the person gesturing happens to own a pair of Greek god shoulders that moved effortlessly beneath the navy T-shirt that advertised his bar. “Been busy?” he asked.
“Yeah. Busy. You?”
“Busy.”
I swear, we could have gone on like that for hours, sidestepping anything that even remotely resembled a conversation and sounding like two idiots in the process. I told myself to get a grip. After all, even though Levi had admitted to me in the spring that he knew the story I’d told around the island—the one about how I was the widow of a rich antiques dealer from New York—was a total fabrication, as far as I knew, he’d kept my secret. Why was another matter.
Maybe it was the why that made me so nervous.
I pulled in a breath to steady the rhumba beat inside my ribs. “Have you had dinner?”
“I had a sandwich at home.” That didn’t stop him from reaching over and grabbing a handful of pita chips Kate had brought along with a bowl of
her homemade hummus. He munched on a chip. “It sounded like a hassle, packing up food and bringing it down here.” He looked over our little buffet. “Though as usual, it looks like you’re being the perfect hostess.”
“It’s not my party.” I stepped back, distancing myself from the idea, and at the same time giving him better access to our table and the food on it. “We all contributed, and no one will mind if you share. We’ve got ribs.”
Levi’s blue eyes lit. “Luella’s ribs?” He reached for a plate and dug in. “You know, I’ve been trying to convince her that she should quit the fishing business and come to the bar and be my barbecue cook. She’s a genius.”
I had to agree.
“And the salad’s yours,” Levi commented, taking some of that, too. “I’m not a mind reader, I can just tell. It’s fresh.”
“So you’re telling me I’m fresh?”
He drizzled lemon caper dressing on his salad at the same time he gave me a sidelong look. “You’re different.”
“Different good or different bad?” I could have kicked myself the moment the question fell out of my mouth. Not only was I opening myself up to a subject that might be construed as too personal, but I realized that Margaret Defarge was now standing at the end of the dock (white pants, pink shirt), and yes, she was watching us carefully. The last thing I needed was to be the subject of island gossip.
On the off chance that a serious Bea Cartwright would short-circuit island rumors quicker than a friendly, grinning one, I wiped the smile off my face.
Apparently Levi took my expression to mean we were back to superficial. “Business has been good this summer.”
I was grateful for what amounted to cocktail party chatter. I’d had my fill and more of cocktail parties back in New York. I could bullshit with the best of ’em.
“For me, too. I’ve been pretty much booked solid since Fourth of July. I’m making it work,” I said, and instantly regretted that I’d let myself sound a little too smug, a little too proud. Emotions were revealing, and sure to open the door to deeper conversation. “That is, I’m glad I moved here.” That was no better, and I took a sip of wine. “It’s been busy, which is why—”
“I know, I’ve been busy, too.” Finished with his ribs, Levi wiped his hands on his napkin and polished off his salad. “That’s why I haven’t seen you around much.”
It was a better excuse than the one I would have been forced to give if I was up against a wall. I’d come to the island for peace and anonymity, and I couldn’t get involved in a relationship—with anybody—and put that at risk. I’d seen Levi around. Of course I had. And each and every time, I’d been careful to sidestep, dodge, elude, and avoid.
“Thyme.” Levi swallowed a bite of salad and smiled his approval. “Nice addition.”
“I’m lucky to have Chandra and her herb garden next door.”
Another rumble of thunder punctuated my words and Levi set down his plate and looked up at the thick gray clouds that raced across the lake, headed our way. He already had the chips and the hummus in his hands before he asked, “You want help cleaning this up?”
I wanted to tell him no, but my other neighbors were scrambling, too, to get their tables and their food stored, and I figured they knew more about weather on the lake than I did. I nodded and grabbed the salad and the peanut butter brownies Chandra had brought along, and together Levi and I hurried onto Luella’s boat. Most of the deck was open to the evening air, but the steering wheel (is it called a steering wheel on a boat?) and other controls were under cover, and we set the food there. When the table was empty, Levi brought that aboard, too, and we loaded all the food back on it.
Another blast of wind hit, along with a wave that made the deck of the boat bounce, and Levi propped his fists on his hips and drew in a lungful of electricity-charged air. “A storm on the lake and a cozy place to drink wine and watch it happen.”
Was this an invitation?
And would I accept it?
I held my breath, waiting for the question as well as for an answer I wasn’t sure of.
“Unfortunately . . .” He moved back to the open deck. “I left windows open at home. You going to be okay getting back to the B and B?”
I assured him I would be. It was getting darker by the moment and the wind was getting stronger and steadier. “Chandra’s got her van. I’ll drive back with her, and the food is safe enough for now, so we don’t have to lug anything with us.”
When Levi got off the boat, I did, too, just as lightning ripped through the clouds overhead and lit the dock. In its eerie glow, I saw a man jump off the boat that had just docked next to Luella’s. With his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, the collar of his windbreaker turned up, and his chin to his chest, he raced past me, heading for dry land.
That’s when a whole stream of people closed in on me, including Mike Lawrence, who led the way, and Luella and Kate, who each had hold of one of Margaret Defarge’s arms to help her along. Chandra waved to me to hurry up. Gordon Hunter was right behind them, and he yelled something about the gazebo in the park.
Just as the first fat raindrops plopped against the dock, I stepped back, waiting for Mike and the rest of them to pass, only to realize that he’d frozen in his tracks a few feet to my left. When he stopped, everyone else had no choice; they did, too.
I glanced to the right. Richie Monroe was headed the other way, carrying a cooler that someone had asked him to stow.
“What the hell are you doing here, you idiot?” Mike grumbled like the thunder that shivered in the air.
Richie was what I would charitably call dumpy. Tattered jeans, raggy T-shirt, scuffed sneakers. He wasn’t anywhere near as tall as Levi, and he had a paunch that didn’t surprise me. According to what I’d heard, when Richie wasn’t doing odd jobs, he was downing cases of beer at home or bellied up to one of the island’s many bars.
He stared at the cooler in his hands. “I’m allowed to be here.” The rain fell harder, and Richie lifted his chin and sent a laser look in Mike’s direction. “Until I move away from this pit, I’m allowed to be anywhere I want. It’s my island, too.”
“Yeah, if you don’t blow up the whole place one of these days.”
Mike pushed past Richie just as lightning split the sky directly overhead and thunder blasted loud enough to make my collarbone vibrate.
I darted to my right, eager to get on dry land, too, and I would have done it if a couple things hadn’t happened all at once.
A blast of wind slapped against my back.
Another streak of lightning turned the inky blackness so blinding white that I squeezed my eyes shut.
Waves made the boats all around me bob and slap against the dock.
And Richie Monroe screamed for help.
He was in the water.
2
“Bea, that was amazing!” High praise, indeed, especially coming from Kate, but I would have gladly shrugged it off if her arm wasn’t around my shoulders in a sort of half atta girl/half congratulatory hug, and if Chandra wasn’t stationed directly in front of me, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide with amazement. This girl did not like to be the center of attention, and what with the folks gathered around Richie in the middle of the octagonal gazebo in the park and the ones who pressed around me from every side just a few feet away . . . well, center of attention was the name of the game.
I cringed.
And thanked my lucky stars that the Gazette hadn’t gotten wind of Richie’s accident. Or my involvement in fishing him out of the drink.
“With all the wind and all the rain and all the people running back and forth on the dock and yelling and trying to figure out what to do to save Richie . . .” Kate was so hopped up on adrenaline, she gave me a shake that made my teeth rattle. “You were the only one who thought to dump out the contents of that cooler he’d been carrying and toss it in the water for him to use as a flotation device. It was brilliant!”
“It was a gut reaction.” Honest
, I wasn’t trying to be modest, I just wanted to brush the whole thing off and get out of the limelight. “Besides, Luella was the real hero. She was the one who grabbed that fishing net with the long handle from her boat so Richie could hold on to it and we could pull him onto the dock. Good thing, too. That cooler would have started taking on water sooner or later, and it would have dragged Richie down with it.” I didn’t dare to think what might have happened then.
“Good work, ladies!” On his way over to where Richie stood trembling in the puddle of lake water that dripped from his clothes, Hank Florentine, the local police chief, gave us a thumbs-up. He’d brought a blanket from the red, white, and blue SUV he’d parked nearby, and in the pulsing red lights he’d left flashing, I saw him drape the blanket over Richie’s shoulders and ask if Richie was all right.
“I . . . I am now.” The temperature had dropped since the storm blew through and Richie’s teeth chattered. “But . . . but Hank—”
“Yeah, yeah, just a sec.” Hank turned away from Richie and honestly, I wasn’t surprised. Near-death experience or not, Richie Monroe was easy to ignore. He might always be around, but in his own way, Richie was invisible.
Hank wormed his way over to me and I found myself wishing he’d brought along another blanket. My T-shirt and capris were soaked from the rain, my dark, curly hair was plastered to my head. I used one finger to wipe the worst of the rain spatters off my glasses, plunked them back on the bridge of my nose, and wrapped my arms around myself just as Hank nodded. I knew that from him, that was praise pretty much the equivalent of a tickertape parade.
“I heard you moved fast, Bea. Back at the station, they’re already calling you a hero.”
“Just like in that movie!” In the effort to think exactly what movie that movie was, Chandra jumped up and down and waved her hands. “You know, Bea, that movie based on the book from that writer you don’t like, the one you’re afraid to read.”
