“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
The tradition had resulted from 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
“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
“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
