by Lisa Kleypas
“All the color’s gone out of your face. Come to the back with me—I’ve got soft drinks, or I could make some coffee—”
“No. Thanks, Susan, but I’m going to call it a day.” The mass of emotion had begun to separate into layers. Sadness, bewilderment, anger.
“Is there something I can do?” she heard Susan ask.
Lucy shook her head instantly. “I’m fine. I’m really fine.” Readjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she headed to the front door of the shop. She paused as Susan spoke again.
“I don’t know a lot about Kevin, and I know practically nothing about your sister. But from everything I’ve seen and heard so far … they deserve each other. And that’s not a compliment to either of them.”
Lucy’s fingertips found the glass panel of the door, and for a moment there was relief in the contact, the reassuring cool smoothness of it. She sent Susan a brittle smile. “It’s okay. Life goes on.”
Going to her car, Lucy sat and put her key in the ignition. When she turned it, nothing happened. An incredulous laugh broke from her. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, and tried it again. Click-click-click-click. The engine refused to turn over. Since the lights were still working, it couldn’t be the battery.
Getting back to the inn wouldn’t be a problem, since it was relatively close. But the idea of having to hassle with mechanics, and pay for budget-blowing repair work, was too much. Lucy leaned her head on the steering wheel. This was the sort of thing that Kevin had always handled for her. “One of the perks,” he’d quipped, after making certain the oil was changed and the wiper blades replaced.
Without a doubt, Lucy reflected bleakly, the worst part of being a single woman was having to take care of your own car. She wanted a drink, a shot of something strong and anesthetizing.
Climbing out of the lifeless car, she walked to a bar near the harbor, where people could watch the boats and see the loading and unloading of ferries. The bar had once been a saloon in the eighteen hundreds, established to serve prospectors on their way to British Columbia during the Fraser Gold Rush. By the time the prospectors had gone, the saloon had acquired a new clientele of soldiers, pioneers, and Hudson Bay employees. Over the decades, it had turned into a venerable old bar.
A series of musical notes spilled from her bag as the cell phone rang. Fumbling among the assortment of objects—lip gloss, loose change, a pack of gum—Lucy managed to pull the phone from her bag. Recognizing Justine’s number, she answered wanly. “Hi.”
“Where are you?” her friend asked without preamble.
“Walking in town.”
“Susan Seburg just called me. I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t either,” Lucy said. “Kevin’s going to be my brother-in-law.”
“Susan feels like shit for being the one to tell you.”
“She shouldn’t. I was going to find out about it sooner or later. My mom left a message this morning—I’m sure it had to do with the engagement.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. But I’m going out for a drink, and then I’ll be okay. You can meet me if you want.”
“Come home and I’ll whip up some margaritas.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said, “but it’s too quiet at the inn. I want to be at a bar with people. A lot of noisy people with problems.”
“Okay,” Justine said, “so where—”
The phone beeped, cutting her friend off. Lucy looked down at the tiny screen, which featured a blinking red battery symbol. She had just run out of juice.
“Figures,” she muttered. Dropping the spent phone back into her bag, she went into the shadowy interior of the bar. The place had a distinctive old-building smell, sweet and musty and dark.
Since it was still early evening, the after-work crowd hadn’t yet appeared. Lucy went to the end of the bar where the shadows were darkest, and studied the drink menu. Lucy ordered a lemon drop, made with vodka, muddled lemons, and triple sec, served in a sugar-rimmed glass. It went down her throat with a pleasant chill.
“Like a kiss from an iceberg, isn’t it?” the bartender, a blond woman named Marty, asked with a grin.
Draining the glass, Lucy nodded and set it aside. “Another one, please.”
“That’s pretty fast. You want some munchies? Nachos or jalapeсo poppers, maybe?”
“No, just another drink.”
Marty gave her a dubious look. “I hope you’re not driving after this.”
Lucy laughed bitterly. “Nope. My car just broke down.”
“One of those days, huh?”
“One of those years,” Lucy said.
The bartender took her time about getting her the next drink. Turning on the bar stool, Lucy glanced at the other patrons at the bar, some lined up at the other end, others gathered at tables. At one table, a half-dozen bikers knocked back beers and made raucous conversation.
Too late, Lucy realized they were from the biker church, and that Justine’s boyfriend, Duane, was among them. Before she could look away, he glanced in her direction.
From across the room, Duane motioned for her to join them.
She shook her head and gave him a little wave before turning back to the bar.
But the big, kindhearted biker lumbered over to her and clapped an amiable hand between her shoulder blades.
“Lucy-goosey,” he said, “how’s it going?”
“Just stopped for a quick one,” Lucy replied with a halfhearted smile. “How are you, Duane?”
“Can’t complain. Come sit with me and the guys. We’re all from Hog Heaven.”
“Thanks, Duane. I appreciate the invitation. But I really, really need to be alone right now.”
“What’s wrong?” At her hesitation, he said, “Anything bothers you, we’ll take care of it, remember?”
As Lucy stared up into the broad face swathed in oversized sideburns, her smile became genuine. “Yes, I remember. You guys are my guardian angels.”
“So tell me your problem.”
“Two problems,” she said. “First, my car is dead. Or at least it’s in a coma.”
“Is it the battery?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Duane said readily. “What’s the other problem?”
“My heart feels like something that should be scooped up with a folded newspaper and dropped in the trash can.”
The biker gave her a sympathetic glance. “Justine told me about your boyfriend. Want me and the boys to take him down for you?”
Lucy managed a little chuckle. “I wouldn’t want to encourage you to commit a mortal sin.”
“Oh, we sin all the time,” he said cheerfully. “That’s why we started a church. And it sounds like your ex could use a little righteous ass-kicking.” A grin connected his extended sideburns as he quoted, “‘For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.’”
“I’ll settle for the car being fixed,” Lucy said. At Duane’s prompting, she told him where her car was, and gave him the keys.
“We’ll have it back to Artist’s Point in a day or two,” Duane said, “all fixed and ready to go.”
“Thanks, Duane. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“You sure you won’t have a drink with us?”
“Thank you, but I’m really sure.”
“Okay. But me and the boys are going to keep an eye on you.” He gestured to the corner of the bar, where a small live band was setting up. “It’s going to get crowded in here soon.”
“What’s going on?” Lucy asked.
“It’s Pig War day.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s today?”
“June fifteenth, same as every year.” He patted her shoulder before returning to his friends.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Lucy muttered, picking up her second drink and taking a swallow. She was not in the mood for a Pig War party.
The tradition had resulted fr
om an event in 1859, when a pig belonging to the British-owned Hudson Bay trading post had wandered into the potato field of Lyman Cutler, an American farmer. Upon finding the large pig rooting in his field and consuming his crop, the farmer shot the pig. That incident had launched a thirteen-year war between the British and the Americans, both of them establishing military camps on the island. The war finally ended through arbitration, with possession of the island being awarded to America. Throughout the long standoff between American and British military units, the only casualty had been the pig. Approximately a century and a half later, the start of the Pig War was celebrated with barbecued pork, music, and enough beer to support a flotilla of tall-masted ships.
By the time Lucy had finished her drink, the band was playing, platters of free pork ribs were being served at the bar, and every inch of the place was packed with boisterous people. She gestured for the tab, and the bartender nodded.
“Can I buy you another?” a guy on the stool beside her asked.
“Thanks, but I’m done,” Lucy said.
“How about one of these?” He tried to pass her a platter of pork ribs.
“I’m not hungry.”
“They’re free,” the guy said.
As Lucy frowned at him, she recognized him as one of Kevin’s landscaping employees—she couldn’t quite remember his name. Paul something. With his glazed eyes and his sour breath, he appeared to have started his celebrating much earlier in the day. “Oh,” he said uncomfortably as he realized who she was. “You’re Pearson’s girlfriend.”
“Not anymore,” Lucy said.
“That’s right, you’re the old one.”
“The old one?” Lucy repeated in outrage.
“I meant old girlfriend … uh … have a beer. On me.” He grabbed a large plastic cup from a tray on the bar.
“Thank you, but no.” She shrank back as he shoved the sloshing mug toward her.
“It’s free. Take it.”
“I don’t want a beer.” She pushed the cup away as he tried to give it to her. He was jostled by someone in the crowd behind him. As if in slow motion, the entire cup of beer hit Lucy’s chest and poured over her. She gasped in shock as the icy liquid soaked through her shirt and bra.
There was a brief, stunned moment as the people around them registered what had happened. A multitude of gazes turned in Lucy’s direction, some sympathetic, some cool with distaste. No doubt more than a few assumed that Lucy had spilled the beer on herself.
Humiliated and furious, Lucy pulled at her beer-drenched shirt, which was plastered all over her.
Taking one look at Lucy, the bartender passed an entire roll of paper towels over the counter. Lucy began to blot her shirt.
Meanwhile Duane and the other bikers had reached them. Duane’s massive hand grasped the back of Paul’s collar and nearly lifted him off his feet. “You dumped beer on our Lucy?” Duane demanded. “You’re going to pay, dumbass.”
The bartender said urgently, “Do not start a fight in here!”
“I didn’t do anything,” Paul sputtered. “She was reaching for the beer, and it slipped out of my hand.”
“I wasn’t reaching for anything,” Lucy said indignantly.
Someone pushed through the crowd, and a gentle hand settled on her back. Stiffening, Lucy began to snap at him, but the words died away as she looked up into a pair of blue-green eyes.
Sam Nolan.
Of all people to see her in these circumstances, did it really have to be him?
“Lucy,” he said quietly, his gaze taking swift inventory. “Did anyone hurt you?” He cast a bladelike glance at Paul, who cringed.
“No,” Lucy muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. The fabric of her shirt was clammy and nearly transparent. “I’m just … wet. And cold.”
“Let’s get you out of here.” Reaching for her bag on the counter, Sam handed it to her and said over her head, “How much is the tab, Marty?”
“Her drinks are on the house,” the bartender said.
“Thanks.” Sam glanced at the bikers. “Don’t maim the kid, Duane. He’s too hammered to know what’s going on.”
“No maiming,” Duane said. “I’m just going to drop him into the harbor. Maybe push him under a couple of times. Give him a mild case of hypothermia. That’s all.”
“I don’t feel good,” Paul whimpered.
Lucy almost began to feel sorry for him. “Just let him go, Duane.”
“I’ll think about it.” Duane’s eyes narrowed as Sam began to guide Lucy through the crowd. “Nolan. Watch it with her, or you’re next in line.”
Sam gave him a sardonic smile. “Who made you prom chaperone, Duane?”
“She’s Justine’s friend,” Duane said. “Which means I’ll have to kick your ass if you try anything with her.”
“You couldn’t kick my ass,” Sam said, and grinned as he added, “Justine, on the other hand…” He accompanied Lucy as she plowed through the clusters of people.
Emerging from the building, Lucy stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face Sam. He was as vital and good-looking as she had remembered. “You can go back in,” she said abruptly. “I don’t need any help.”
Sam shook his head. “I was leaving anyway. Too crowded.”
“Why were you there in the first place?”
“I went to have a drink with my brother Alex. His divorce was final today. But he left as soon as he realized there was going to be a Pig War party.”
“I should have done the same thing.” A soft breeze hit the soaked front of Lucy’s shirt and caused her to shiver. “Ugh. I’ve got to go home and change.”
“Where’s home?”
“Artist’s Point.”
“Justine Hoffman’s place. I’ll walk you there.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather go by myself. It’s not far.”
“You can’t walk through Friday Harbor like that. The souvenir shop next door is still open. Let me buy you a T-shirt.”
“I’ll buy my own shirt.” Lucy knew that she sounded ungrateful and rude, but she was too miserable to care. She went into the shop, while Sam followed.
“My goodness,” the elderly blue-haired woman behind the counter exclaimed when she saw Lucy. “Did we have an accident?”
“Some drunk jerk spilled a beer on me,” Lucy said.
“Oh, dear.” The woman’s face brightened as she saw the man behind her. “Sam Nolan. It wasn’t you, was it?”
“You know me better than that, Mrs. O’Hehir,” he chided with a grin. “I always hold my liquor. Is there a place in here where my friend can change into a new shirt?”
“Right in the back,” she said, indicating a door behind her. She gave Lucy a sympathetic glance. “What kind of shirt are you looking for, dear?”
“Just a regular T-shirt.”
“I’ll find something,” Sam told Lucy. “Why don’t you go back there and start washing up while I look around?”
Lucy hesitated before nodding. “Don’t pick out anything weird,” she said. “Nothing with skulls, stupid sayings, or dirty language.”
“Your lack of trust wounds me,” Sam said.
“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”
“Mrs. O’Hehir will vouch for me.” Sam went up to the elderly woman, braced his hands on the counter, and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Come on, tell her what a good guy I am. An angel. A sunbeam.”
The woman said to Lucy, “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“What Mrs. O’Hehir was trying to say,” Sam informed her, “is that I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
Lucy bit back a smile, her mood lightening as the diminutive woman gave her a meaningful glance and shook her head slowly. “I’m sure she knew exactly what she was saying.”
She went into the closet-sized bathroom, pulled off the wet shirt and dropped it into the wastebasket. Since her bra was also soaked, she tossed that as well. It was an old bra, the elastic shot, the straps raggedy. Using hot wat
er and paper towels, she began to wash her arms and chest.
“How did you end up with a biker entourage?” she heard Sam ask from the other side of the door.
“They commissioned me to do a stained-glass window for their church. And now they’ve sort of … well, taken me under their wing, I guess.”
“Is that what you do for a living? You’re a glass artist?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“It can be, at times.” Lucy threw away a wad of damp paper towels.
“I found a shirt. Ready for me to hand it to you?”
Lucy went to the door and opened it a couple of inches, taking care to keep herself well concealed. Sam reached in to give her a dark brown T-shirt. After the door closed, Lucy held up the shirt to view it critically. The front was decorated with a diagram of pink chemical symbols.
“What is this?”
His voice filtered through the closed door. “It’s a diagram of a theobromine molecule.”
“What’s theobromine?” she asked blankly.
“The chemical in chocolate that makes you happy. Want me to find something else?”
In spite of the rotten day she’d had, Lucy couldn’t help but be amused. “No, I’ll take this one. I like chocolate.” The stretchy knit fabric was soft and comfortable as it settled over her damp torso. Opening the door, Lucy came out of the bathroom.
Sam was waiting for her, his gaze sweeping over her. “Looks great.”
“I look like a geek,” Lucy said. “I smell like a brewery. And I need a bra.”
“My dream date.”
Sternly suppressing a grin, Lucy went to the counter. “How much is it?” she asked.
Mrs. O’Hehir gestured to Sam. “He already paid.”
“Consider it a birthday present,” Sam said as he saw Lucy’s expression. “When’s your birthday?”
“November.”
“A really early birthday present.”
“Thank you, but I can’t—”
“No strings attached.” Sam paused. “Well, maybe one string.”
“What is it?”
“You could tell me your full name.”
“Lucy Marinn.”
He reached out to shake hands, and she hesitated before complying. His grip was warm, the fingers slightly roughened with calluses. A workingman’s hand. Heat chased up her arm, as if her skin was coming alive, and she pulled back instantly.