Page 3 of The Edge of Summer
LUKE
“C’mon, lady!”
The telltale whine of someone not getting their way floats through the air as I pull open the door to the restaurant. A month or so from now, a Saturday afternoon in the thick of summer, a line will trail from the host stand, out the door and around the corner of the building. Today, business is leisurely, giving me a front row seat to the scene unfolding at the bar.
My sister, like always, is stationed behind the counter. Dockside has been her home away from home since high school, and rarely does she let anyone else tend the bar. Right now, her arms are crossed as she regards the men in front of her.
On closer inspection, I note that themenare really boys. They’re both sporting cutoff muscle tanks, cargo shorts and flip flops—the standard uniform of a young Kip Island summer tourist—but all their attire does is highlight their spindly limbs.
“Isaidno,” Clara emphasizes.
One of the teens crosses his own arms. “Why do you have to be such a goddamn bit?—”
I’d already witnessed enough, but the audacity of this kid to call my sister a bitch has me seeing red. As I step up to the bar beside the boys, I try to rein in my anger. I somehow manage because my voice is level when I ask, “What’s going on?”
My sister’s lips purse at my interjection, but I pay her no mind. Clara has had an aversion to my help ever since we were kids. As her older brother, it was expected of me, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it, too. I like taking care of my family.
The spokesperson for the duo throws his hands in the air. “This chick is refusing to serve us. And she won’t give us our IDs back!” He says this in a way that assumes I’ll share in his commiseration.
Clara scowls at him. “Because they’refake.”
“They are not!” His chest puffs out in defiance. “We’re twenty-one.”
I hold a hand out, and with an eye roll, Clara relinquishes the driver’s licences. Being right across the lake from Michigan, I’m more than familiar with their state IDs. Year-round, but especially in the summer months, a slew of American teens like to come to the island to openly indulge, and some get into more than their share of trouble. I’ll give it to the boys—these are good, but they severely overshot with their supposed birthdates.
“The good news is the drinking age in Ontario isnineteen,” I tell them. “The bad news is that you’re definitely not nineteen, let alone twenty-one.”
“You said it was the same!” the quiet boy says, shoving the other.
“Shut up!” the loud one hisses.
“Tell you what.” I make a show of tucking the fakes into my pocket. “I’ll keep these. And you can either ask Clara nicely for a cold pop or be on your way.”
The quiet one shrinks in defeat. The loud one, however, sizes me up to see just how serious I am. I arch a brow. When his eyes land on my uniform, he joins his friend.
Once the boys scurry out the door, Clara throws a rag at my chest. “I was handling that, you know,” she grouses.
I reach across the bar to ruffle her hair. “Oh, thank you, Luke,” I mock.
She crosses her arms as she dodges me. “I’m notthankingyou for steamrolling me.” She glowers. “I’m not a little kid. I don’t need coddling.”
I sigh. “I know you’re not, Clarebear. I was just trying to help keep the trouble out.”
She scoffs. “Pretty sure the hooligan ousting is usually handled by the police, not the fire chief.”
She’s not wrong. But with a police force as small as the one on Kip Island, I’ve become something of a multitasker. I can keep on top of my own reports, grease the wheels of bureaucracy, and make sure my family is safe.
“Would you accept that I was on my way to beg you to feed me lunch and the well-meaning brother in me didn’t like seeing someone give you a hard time?”
A wicked gleam enters her eyes. “Only if you let me decide what you’re eating.”
I bite back a groan of protest. As I lower myself to a barstool, I point a finger at her. “No kale.”
She shakes her head. “When you’re fifty and your cholesterol is shit, don’t come crying to me.”
I simply grin in response. With a parting eye roll, Clara heads over to the computer to send my order to the kitchen. Before she can return my way, a customer grabs her attention, and I watch in evergreen fascination as she expertly mixes their drink.
For as long as I can remember, it’s been a widely-accepted fact that Clara was always meant to run Dockside. She started with serving tea to her dolls, and now she pours shots for tipsy bachelorettes. You wouldn’t expect it just by looking at her, but Clara can—and often does—command a room full of rowdy drunks with a snap of her fingers.
