Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
BECKETT
I roll up to the little parking lot at Chapel Island on Saturday morning in a state of complete disbelief over the fact that I’m here.
Festival bunting flutters from every lamppost, each strip of green and gold catching the sunlight until the whole street looks like it’s been strung with liquid light.
There’s a giant banner stretched between two maples that reads “WINSOME brINE: GET YOUR PICKLE ON!” in green glitter paint so aggressively sparkly and loud it has to be violating a noise ordinance.
And I think to myself, Holy fuck, is this what an out-of-body experience feels like?
I swear to you, the idea of being Winsome’s Big Dill has never crossed my mind.
Not once in my thirty-six years in this town.
Not in the “maybe someday” sort of way, like when you think about how great it would be to climb Kilimanjaro while scarfing potato chips on your porch.
Not in the “maybe if I were drunk enough” kind of way, like when I heard about Gary and Gordon Lapierre dressing up in tights and doublets for King Richard’s Faire.
Not even in the “maybe if you paid me” way, like when my mom prodded me to audition for American Idol back when I was a sullen teenager who could strum precisely two songs on my secondhand guitar.
But three things happened in quick succession that led me to this place.
First and foremost: Griffin Mercer, King of Chaos and Lucky Tennis Rackets, came to Winsome.
I keep telling myself I can’t stop thinking about him because I’m worried about access to my land. About my company. And that’s fucking true.
But in the dead of night, when I finally give in and jerk myself off just to get to sleep, it’s not the damn financial projections that have been looping around in my brain.
It’s the way he kissed me like he was a fire and I was oxygen.
It’s the little moans he made when I kissed him. It’s how his body fit under my hands.
Apparently, there’s no room in this town for Griffin and my common sense.
Second: My mother stopped by the office two days ago and oh-so-innocently mentioned that Griffin was running for Big Dill.
Her exact words were: “You shouldn’t even try to compete, Beck.
Absolutely not. I know it’s tempting, since the Big Dill gets the tiebreaker vote on the town council and could influence their recommendations about the easement at the treehouse, but I know how much you hate these silly town events.
Besides, from what I saw of him, Griffin’s pret-ty determined. And so sweet. He’ll definitely win.”
Vivian Axford’s acting skills are terrible, and her reverse-psychology game is transparent as glass. But apparently, I’m still falling for it because I actually considered the idea.
But the third and final straw… was the fucking sign.
I’d been walking down Whether Street yesterday morning, on my way to do Kurt Trachtenberg a favor and look over some storm-damaged trees in his yard, when I’d spotted a half-dozen Winsomefolk gathered around the front window of the Pickle Jar, gasping like they’d just witnessed the second coming of Cucumber Christ.
I’d rolled my eyes and kept on walking, obviously, because the only thing I wanted less than becoming Winsome’s Big Dill was to gossip about whatever new tourist crap Miss Ada was selling.
But then Perky from the grocery store shifted just as I was walking by, and I caught a glimpse of what they were gawking at, and I stopped dead.
A sign in the window read GRIFFIN MERCER: FRESH IDEAS FOR WINSOME.
“Gotta hand it to the kid. He obviously wants to be Big Dill, and he’s pulling out all the stops,” Perky said admiringly. “I heard he’s got Ada’s vote, and Bathsheba might endorse him.”
“You can’t be serious, Perky.” That had been my dad’s voice, and my head whipped around to find him in the crowd. “Griffin’s been in town less than a week. He doesn’t understand a dang thing about what Winsomefolk like or need. He doesn’t even realize we never do campaign posters for Big Dill!”
“But maybe we should,” Miriam Tringali said thoughtfully. “Sure would make things easier. I think I might like his ‘fresh ideas.’”
“And I think Griffin understands more than you give him credit for, Grant,” Mrs. Chen from the post office chided.
“He stopped by the library Thursday night to do some research on the town, and while he was there, he offered my Celine some advice on her science fair poster. He suggested gluing real leaves to the trees, rather than just coloring them with markers. To add texture, he said. Turned out beautiful.”
There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd. I caught the words “so kind!” and “dang thoughtful” and even “genius.”
“I heard he’s committed to doing every single Brine activity.” Old Walt Lehmann gave an indulgent chuckle. “Makes me more excited about it than I’ve been in years, getting to see it through a newcomer’s eyes.”
“Anyway, he’s not just a random tourist,” Perky pointed out. “He owns the treehouse, which means he’s one of us now.”
“Think he’d be open to advocating for a crosswalk at the intersection of Quilter Road once he’s Big Dill?” someone else wondered.
Predictably, everyone ignored this lone sensible suggestion.
Dad turned his head and caught my eye. He looked pretty damn concerned, and I can’t say I blame him since it’s been almost a whole week and I still haven’t come up with a solid way to approach Griffin about accessing the Far Tract—aside from getting acquainted with his tonsils and the little moans he makes when he’s aroused, which was counterproductive.
I’m concerned too.
So here I am, forcing myself out of my truck, dodging kids hopped up on sugar, hotfooting it over the bridge that spans Chapel Creek, and following the excessive signage to the check-in table for the Wild Gherkin Chase—the unofficial kickoff to the Brine-related festivities.
The check-in table is staffed by two women, only one of whom I recognize: Mrs. Pratt, my no-nonsense fifth-grade teacher who’s not exactly a big Beckett Axford fan. The other is younger and has long, blonde dreadlocks, a nose ring, and a baby strapped to her chest.
“Hey. I’m, ah, here to check in,” I say, forcing my voice into something resembling civility.
“Why, Beckett Axford, it really is you.” Mrs. Pratt looks me up and down like I’m still ten and she wants very badly to ask about my math homework and why I haven’t returned my copy of My Side of the Mountain to the school library.
“When I saw your name on our list, I told Posy there had to be a mistake,” she adds, nodding toward the other woman.
Posy doesn’t seem to catch her disapproving undertone because she beams at me. “But here you are!”
“Here I am,” I grind out. I give the registration papers in front of Mrs. Pratt a pointed look. “If you could check me in—?”
“Good morning!” a throaty and annoyingly familiar voice says from beside me. “I’m Griff Mercer. I’d like to check in for the scavenger hunt, please.”
I turn my head, and there’s my new rival, all golden, tousled hair and a smile that could probably power half of Vermont.
He’s in head-to-toe tourist gear— formfitting jeans, a pristine cream-colored fleece, and boots made for city streets.
I should scoff—I mean, I do scoff, under my breath—but the first thought in my head is I wouldn’t mind getting this guy dirty.
Hearing my scoff, Griffin gives me the briefest side-eye—a look that could freeze hellfire—before turning his megawatt grin on the volunteers.
“Griffin!” The Posy person clasps her hands together. “So nice to meet you. I was sorry to hear about your uncle Jim. I met him at the bookstore maybe a year ago, and he was a treasure.”
“Oh.” Griffin’s smile flickers for just a second, and I catch a glimpse of something uncertain underneath before he locks it down. “Thanks. Thank you. That’s… very kind.”
I have to admit—grudgingly—that Griffin’s got a decent poker face. Better than mine.
“Well now,” Mrs. Pratt says. “Isn’t this exciting?”
Her gaze bounces between the two of us, and I wonder if she’s expecting us to throw down right then and there. If so, she’s destined to disappointment because there is no realm in which I’m going to allow Griffin to out-charm me in front of these women.
Today’s contest isn’t just about winning the scavenger hunt; it’s about winning hearts and minds or some shit. And it begins here and now.
“So exciting.” My voice is dripping with enough false cheer to sweeten an entire pitcher of iced tea. “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
Three sets of skeptical eyes swing my way—which is honestly fair, since at least two of them must see on their paperwork that I hadn’t decided to do this damn thing until yesterday morning.
But Griffin’s smile never wavers. “Same. Everything’s so festive! You’re fortunate you’ve had the opportunity to do this for years, Beckett.”
My name on his lips makes complicated things happen in the neighborhood of my groin, but it’s not enough to distract me from his game.
“Alas,” I say, shaking my head sadly, like alas is a word I say out loud all the time. “I haven’t had the pleasure before, so this is my first time too. I’ve been busy working for Axford Lumber, my family business.” I shrug modestly, letting the unspoken weight of the Axford name hang there.
This isn’t something I do often—not consciously anyway—because I don’t actively try to be a douche, but Griffin Mercer brings out my worst impulses.
I’m slapped down for my bad behavior almost instantly.
“Oh, yes! Your dad helped my wife pick the hardwoods for our whole downstairs,” Posy gushes. “Grant’s amazing. Must be so awesome working for him, huh?”
I really hope my poker face is functional. “Awesome,” I manage. “Every single day is just… awesome.”
“And how are you settling into town, dear?” Mrs. Pratt asks Griffin. “I hope you’ve felt welcomed?”