Page 4 of Summer People
I launch my upper body over the counter and grab the man by his suspenders, tugging him closer. “Listen, I need to get to the island. It’s a necessity. I need to disappear. Yes, I’m that girl. The one who spent her childhood and the entirety of her teenage years onGrady Party of Two. Yes, they killed my character off via drug overdose. Yes, everyone says I’m difficult and demanding, and I know I’m not helping my cause right now, but I need you to get me on that boat. I flew ten hours—incoach—next to a woman who got sickthreetimes while her kid screamed bloody murder. I missed my helicopter over to the island after I swore to my father that I could do this on my own. I can’t fail at anything else. I just…can’t.I’ll do anything—pay anything—just, please, get me on that boat.”
The man blinks and swallows, fear haunting his gray eyes.
I drop my hands immediately. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Head hanging, I turn away. Oh god, I can all but guarantee that the media will catch wind of my location within the hour and news of a supposed mental breakdown will run rampant.
They wouldn’t even be wrong.
For once.
“Well, ya coming?” a gruff voice calls.
Blinking back tears, I zero in on the man in the suspenders. He’s on this side of the counter now, fingers gripping the handle of my suitcase. “Just tell Cank that you’re my friend. They’ll take care of ya, kid.”
Relief washes over me with such intensity that it knocks loose the tears I’ve been holding back, and now I really am crying.
“Oh no. Don’t do that.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a grayish-looking tissue, and pushes it toward me.
Unable to be rude to someone who’s being so nice, I take it. Crumpling it in my hand, I try not to think about how long it’s been in his pocket or whether he’s used it before.
“Come on, now. We’ve got garbage to pick up. Just ignore Gus. Kid’s a bit weird.”
Who’s Gus?
Before I can voice the question, a gaunt-looking guy in a very dirty shirt with grayish teeth smiles at me.
Yeah, I’m going to ignore him.
CHAPTER THREE
fisher
“Dammit, Bing,”I mutter as my golden retriever once again leaps from the passenger side of my truck before I stop. One day the dog is going to hurt himself.
Maybe.
Okay, fine. Probably not, since I have theonlycar on the entire pea-sized island. But a handful of residents cruise around on golf carts. And I’m setting a bad example by allowing my dog to fling himself out of a moving vehicle.
“Don’t listen to your daddy.” Cank sinks to his knees, and the dog races across to the old wooden planks of the dock, straight to the man who always brings treats.
As a dog with no shame, Bing flops onto his back, legs splayed, begging for tummy rubs.
The moment I slide off the seat and step onto the dry-ass dirt we call a road, a gust of cold salt air lifts my hair off my forehead. Shoulders lifted, I tuck deeper into the collar of my coat, hiding from the evening chill. “You’re not going to be able to stand back up, old man.”
His arthritis is always worse during the change of seasons.
Cank’s chuckle turns into a cough. “Careful there, Fisher,” the old man warns as I step onto the dock, my boots thunking heavily. “You’re heading over the hill yourself.”
Like hell I am. Though it feels like I’ve been back on this godforsaken island for a lifetime already, and maybe I’m feeling every one of my years, but I’m only thirty-four.
With one bare forearm against his denim-clad knee, he pushes himself up. Damn, I don’t know how he does it. Even without the ever-present New England wind, it’s barely fifty degrees, and yet the old man is decked out in his token welcome to the island uniform. White shirt and overalls. Man swears he’s never cold.
He’s got his signature butt-ugly floppy hat on too. As it flutters in another gust of wind, my eye catches on the new patch front and center.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him. “Do you like the puffin? Blue picked the spot.”
Blue. I should have known. Only the island’s oldest and most inappropriate resident would insist the patch be stitched on in a way that makes it look like the bird is doing unmentionable things to the damn whale patch.
“Kids see that,” I grumble.
