Page 33 of Summer People
“The police box.”
I squint at the windowless white structure withPOLICEpainted on the side in bold black letters.
“Fisher fits in there?” The roof of the structure comes up to my chest. I can’t imagine anyone bigger than Sutton fitting in there comfortably.
She giggles. “The policecallbox. It’s how we contact him.”
“Why don’t we just use a cell phone?” I pull mine from my pocket and give it a shake. Not that I have Fisher’s number.
“Because that’s not how you get in touch with the sheriff,” she says with a laugh. “But since he’s on your roof, he won’t get the message until later.”
“Right.” I do my best to keep my facial expression neutral. I’m so damn lost. “So why do we need to tell him about the goat?”
“Oh.” She peers over her shoulder in the direction the goat wandered off. “Because Betty clearly escaped.”
I nod. “Okay. Is there, like, a goat yoga class we need to return him—or her?—to?”
Maggie’s face screws up like she’s eaten a lemon. “Goat what?”
I shrug. “Goat yoga. It’s a yoga class with the goats.” I plant my hands on the ground and get into downward dog position, then throw one arm out. I have no idea how a goat would do yoga, but this is close enough.
Maggie snorts. “Oh no, the islanders don’t even yoga. Our goats definitely don’t.”
I hop back up to my feet and wipe my hands, a zing of pleasure coursing through me. It’s nice to smile with someone. “Well, then what do they do?”
Maggie tilts her head. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
I burst into laughter, and after a second, she joins me.
“I’m not sure what’s weirder: that your goats don’t yoga or that any goats do,” I say as tears blur my vision.
“Definitely that any goats do,” Maggie hiccups. “So should we let Fisher know to watch out for the goat?”
“That’s all you,” I tell her, waving as I go. I’m avoiding Fisher. And, apparently, the goats.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
fisher
“Dammit.”With a grunt, I yank Betty’s collar again. “I know you love the strawberries as much as Sutton does, but Todd is going to turn you into goat stew if you keep breaking into his greenhouse.”
“Maaa,” she bleats, stubbornly digging her hoofs into the dirt floor.
I don’t know why Doris needed a white horned billy goat, or why she can’t keep the damn thing in its pen—or why it’s my job to deal with the damn thing—but apparently, these are all facts I’m supposed to accept.
“Grrwoof.” Bing pushes his head against Betty’s side, forcing her from the berries.
“Thanks, buddy.” I can always count on my dog to help herd the goat.
Together we get her through the greenhouse door and out into the chilly June air. The days are getting warmer as we move into summer, but it’s still only about fifty-five.
“Tell Doris she needs a higher fence, or we’ll kick Betty off this rock.” Todd points a crooked finger at me. “I’m taking this back to the town meeting. This island should be menace-free.”
I nod, still leading the goat to the dirt road. Now that we’re away from the fruit, I suppose she’s the one leading me. I release her and follow as she trots happily back to the fenced area behind the general store, where tourists stop and put quarters into a machine to buy food for her. Summer is her season. People from all over love to feed her and watch her scale the bridged towers that Doris’s husband renovates weekly.
“I mean it, sheriff,” he calls after me. “I’m going to take matters into my own hands. I will get bear traps.”
The threat is nothing new, but he’s never followed through. He’s cranky, but not cruel. He won’t hurt the goat. He won’t even force her out of the greenhouse. If he would, it would make my life a whole lot easier. Although I don’t respond, Bing barks in answer, then takes off. He makes his way past the gray building with sky blue trim that serves as the town’s art gallery and the much plainer souvenir shop next door, heading for the dock, probably to beg Cank for attention or treats.
