Page 5 of Summer People
“Yet they won’t think what you do.” He rubs his beard, covering his smile. “You got to live a little, Sheriff. You know what you need?”
I huff. I know exactly what he thinks I need. Cank believes a happy man has three things. A boat. A cold beer. And a warm woman.
That might make him happy, but not me. Ihavea boat—that I don’t want—dry-docked in the yard. And women are too much damn work. All day, every day, I’m surrounded by people calling my name, needing something from me. I don’t need to add a person who comes with a honey-do list.
The beer? Yeah, if I’m lucky, I’ll find myself one of those today. The island’s brewery is just starting to crank out the spring season beer in preparation of the Memorial Day rush, so a Balmy Days ale is calling my name.
If I get to meet up with my buddy Wilder and his niece Lindsey for the Boston Revs game later, I might actually get an ice-cold brew. The likelihood depends on whether the fog burns off and the satellite can pick up the major league game.
Some days I miss the hell out of Boston. Scratch that. Every day I miss Boston.
“Save your breath, old man. Just because you’re happy as a cow in crap with your wife andGlory Days”—I tip a chin out to the water, where his boat is moored—“doesn’t mean I need either of those headaches.”
“Mind your elders,” Cank teases. “Sutton’s not helping tonight?”
“It’s way too cold for our sweet pea.” My niece, whom I’ve been raising since my brother and his wife died three years ago, is even less acclimated to Maine winters than I am, even though she’s never lived a day of her life off this island.
“Too bad.” He shakes his head. “She’d have been excited about the new gossip.”
I wave him off before he can start. Gossip flocks to the island like gulls in summer. I have no interest. I’m only here for the supplies on Cank’s boat. The position of sheriff of Monhegan comes with some not-so-traditional duties. Making deliveries being one of them.
I glance at the boxes that need to be delivered to the inn and the small island grocery store, considering how I want to arrange them in my truck. When I catch sight of a Louis Vuitton suitcase and matching carry-on bag, my eyes narrow.
“What’s that?”
“Summer people.” Cank shrugs, but one corner of his lips pulls up.
“Can’t be.”
It’s not time yet. Not a single rental on this island opens before Memorial Day. Even the inn isn’t ready for guests until next weekend. The only tourist coming to the island today canceled her chopper. And thank God for that. The last thing I need is a spoiled superstar hanging around.
“She arrived about a half hour ago on the trash boat.”
I cock my brow. No way.
“You heard that right.” Cank puffs out his chest. “The infamous Elizabeth Sweet just climbed off the trash boat and is now officially on our island.”
“Fucking hell.” With a huff, I pick up the first box and get started loading.
Elizabeth Sweet is Hollywood’s pampered princess. My life will suck if the media or her crazed fans follow her the twelve miles off the coast to our island. I refuse to get ahead of myself and stress about that right now, though. There’s no way the twenty-five-year-old starlet will last one week in this godforsaken place.
“Don’t forget her bags.” Cank smirks as I drop the last box onto the flatbed of the rusted truck I refuse to call mine.
My already overworked muscles lock.
“Island hospitality,” Cank reminds me. “I promised her a personal drop-off.”
I hate this place.
“You know, she’s prettier in person.”
“Not interested.” I yank her suitcase off the dock and sling her carry-on over my shoulder. I toss them into the back seat on the passenger side, then haul myself into the driver’s seat. “Come on, Bing.”
My dog, who’s lounging in the mostly dead grass, hops up and takes off down the dirt road toward the small store. Dog knows the drill as well as I do. And Doris, at the grocery, will be waiting with another treat for the spoiled boy. I shake my head as I put the truck in gear and move the half mile, rolling at the snail’s pace the pitted single-lane dirt road allows.
“Sheriff.”
The truck has barely come to a stop when I’m hit with two syllables that feel like a wildcat clawing the insides of my ears. Yeah, she’s my late sister-in-law’s cousin, so maybe I should have more patience, but I hate most people. Plus Flora’s hair is too bright red and her voice is too nasal. Not to mention she doesn’t respect personal space.
