Chapter 20
LUCY
I’m standing by the docks with Charlie, Lars, and a few of Lars’s friends, wrapped up in a long black overcoat that used to be my mother’s. It’s freezing, but it helps that we’ve been drinking hot buttered rum out in the street, along with half of Hideaway Harbor and dozens of tourists.
“This is delicious,” I say for the fifth time.
“So good. Like melted Werther’s candies with booze in them.
” I lift up my third or maybe fourth drink, my hand a little unsteady.
“I’m going to figure out how to make it into a latte.
You think I can melt the candy and then mix it with the milk, or would that be a fire hazard? ”
“Definitely a fire hazard,” says a deep voice from behind me.
I turn, but I already know it’s not Enzo.
I’m not waiting for him, obviously, but I’m not not waiting for him. I mean, he did say he was coming.
Hudson Locke beams down at me like he knows all about the hot buttered rum. Of course he does. He’s a Hidie, and this is a yearly tradition. If I’d been here longer, I probably would have been familiar enough with the buttered rum to only indulge in one of them.
“You’d know,” I say. “That’s too bad, because I bet it would be really delicious.”
“I’ll bet,” he agrees, his voice a low rumble. It seems like there’s some insinuation buried inside of that statement, but I’m too tipsy to tell for sure, and suddenly I need to pee.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I lean into Charlie and whisper, “I need to pee. It’s a desperate need.”
“The boat’s coming,” she says, pointing off the pier. Sure enough, the Hawthorne Fisheries boat is approaching slowly. Very slowly. I can see the mayor in his Santa costume waving from inside, next to a guy dressed like Larry the Lobstah.
“Is his claw supposed to be doing that?” I ask. It’s flopping down like a broken breadstick, attached with nothing but a hope and a prayer.
There’s a near roar of conversation as people take notice.
“Nope,” Charlie says, laughing. “It’s supposed to be fully erect.”
“I can’t bring you anywhere,” Lars says fondly, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.
Gosh, they’re adorable.
I shift my weight a little more, watching the boat as it moves toward us at the pace of a snail.
“I don’t know if I can wait,” I say, louder.
“You can’t miss this,” Charlie protests.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fun,” Hudson says, looking out at the water thoughtfully. “The lobster trap tree lighting was one of my favorite parts of Christmas when I was a kid.”
“Really?” I ask. “My neighbor likes it a lot too. But he also likes The Golden Girls, so we think he might be an old person.”
I can feel Hudson and Lars locking eyes, silently communicating, This girl is wasted.
“I’m not drunk,” I insist. “I just really, really have to pee. It’s getting worse.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, because I hadn’t intended to say that part out loud.
“Come on, Lucy, you can do this,” Charlie says. “Hold it until the lobster traps get lit. You don’t want to miss the big moment. You’ll always regret it if you were stuffed into a smelly Porta Potty when something major happened.”
“What could possibly happen? Do you think someone could get electrocuted? Mixing electricity and water does seem like a bad idea.”
“He does it every year,” Hudson comments, which reminds me that I’m casually discussing his dad’s possible electrocution. Goodness. Can’t take me anywhere.
I take a sip of my drink to buy a moment of silence, and Hudson says, “Isn’t that going to make you need to pee more?”
The man has a point. But it’s also really cold out here, so I take another half sip. Finally, I cave to nature’s demands: “I’m going to the Porta Potties. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Hudson offers, which is horribly embarrassing. There’s no way I want him waiting outside while I hover over the Porta Potty seat after drinking three or four buttered rums.
“It’s okay,” I say, patting his arm. “I’m not going to fall through and go to Narnia. I’ll go alone so you can see your dad flip the switch and shake the wobbly lobster claw.”
“You’re going to miss it,” Charlie says, her eyes wide. “It only happens once a year.”
“And then the tree’s on for weeks,” Lars says, smoothing her hair. “Let your friend pee.”
There’s been entirely too much discussion of my bladder, so I hand Charlie my half-finished drink and turn toward the Porta Potties, lined up by the pier.
Okay, calling them Porta Potties, plural, makes it sound like there’s a long line of them, but there’s not.
There are only two. At least no one’s waiting—probably because everyone’s excited to see the big moment.
As I approach them, I notice one of them has a sign across the front. “ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL.”
Oh, that’s certainly not promising.
The other says “occupied,” so I stand waiting, toggling between one foot and the other. Finally, a guy wearing an antler headband comes out.
“Uh, sorry,” he apologizes, and a cloud of stench follows him out.
Oh no. Suddenly the hot buttered rum in my stomach feels like it’s sloshing around.
I hold my nose and step inside.
It’s fine. All I have to do is lock the door, squat, and get out of here.
I lock the door, do my business, and use the hand sanitizer. But when I try to open the door, it won’t budge.
I try again, my heart pounding, everything inside of me going into high alert. Will Hudson have to call the firehouse and get them to come save me with the Jaws of Life? Will he even realize I’ve been gone for too long? Maybe he’ll assume I have explosive diarrhea and will be too polite to check.
Charlie’s a little tipsy, too, and she’s bound to be distracted by the lighting.
Oh no, oh no, oh no…
I start banging on the door, but at exactly the wrong time, because suddenly there’s a roar of applause from outside.
Everyone will be at the docks now, talking and singing and carrying on. No one is going to hear me. Maybe not ever. I’ll be in this stinky Porta Potty for the rest of my life.
I bang again, and again, and—
There’s a cracking sound, and the door flies open, spilling me into someone’s arms. I process his scent first, because I basically face-planted into his coat.
Enzo.
My first thought is relief. He saved me from the big, bad Porta Potty. But then I remember what it smells like in there.
“I didn’t do that,” I mumble into his coat.
He holds me out at arm’s length and tucks some of the hair that escaped my crocheted hat back into it.
He’s wearing the same coat as earlier, and in addition to his delicious cologne scent, there’s a hint of peppermint.
There’s a rock in his hand, which he must have used to bust the door open, and he sets it down.
“Didn’t get stuck in a Porta Potty?” he asks, guiding me several feet away from it. “I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”
“I only peed,” I say in an undertone, worried that Antlers will hear me being a narc. My face is burning with embarrassment now that the fear has passed. This is the absolute last place I wanted to run into Enzo.
“Good for you. I’ve heard a person should do that several times a day.”
“You’re making fun of me,” I say, glowering at him.
Someone swears loudly. “Who broke the last Porta Potty?”
Enzo gives me a conspiratorial look before leading me another few feet away.
Which is when I glance over his shoulder and see it—the lobster trap tree, lit up in all its glory. “Oh, I really did miss it.”
“But you’re no longer locked in a Porta Potty, so your day has improved.”
“How’d you know I was in there?” I ask. Then, because my mind isn’t working on all cylinders, I add, “I’m not wearing the red coat.”
He tucks more hair into my cap. “I know you too well to have expected it. I was looking for you, and I found your friends.” He gestures toward them, and I glance in that direction.
Hudson’s talking to Giovanni, possibly about popcorn safety, and Charlie and Lars are embracing.
“Someone should have come with you,” he continues, recapturing my attention.
“Oh please, I can go to the bathroom alone.”
He gives me an arch look. “Yes, I can see that. You know, you smell like—”
“Oh, my God,” I say, stomping my foot. “I did not do that, Enzo. I told you I only peed.”
He laughs. “I was going to say you smell like hot buttered rum.”
My cheeks are burning despite the bitter cold. “Yeah…I like it,” I say. “It tastes like these butterscotch candies my mom used to buy.”
“It’s disgusting,” he says easily. “Have you been eating?”
“First I can’t use the bathroom on my own, and now I don’t know how to feed myself?”
“Have you?” he asks again. “Because I know the guy who makes that stuff, and you’re going to have a hell of a hangover if you don’t load up on carbs.
” He gives me a longer look, tipping his head in to match the angle of my unfortunately timed unintentional wobble.
“You might be in for a hell of a hangover anyway.”
“I ate some candy,” I say. “And some of Lars’s pretzel.”
“They’re selling lobster stew. Will you have some?”
I make a face.
“You don’t like lobster,” he says with a knowing smile. “I wondered the other night, at the restaurant.”
“I love it,” I lie. “It’s stew that I hate.”
“Okay, Lucia, have it your way.”
“Why’d you rush off earlier?” I ask, hating the way my voice hitches slightly.
“You gave me an idea for Hidden Italy. I’d like to discuss it with you. Tomorrow, when you’re sober.”
“I’m not drunk,” I complain.
“No, you’re the picture of sobriety.”
He leads me over to my friends, his hand firmly planted on the small of my back.
He keeps it there as Hudson turns toward us.
I know I should make a point of pulling away.
I’m not Enzo’s property, and he’s made it clear he’s not interested in any kind of real relationship with me, not that I’d want one anyway.
But I like the feel of his hand against my coat, steady and firm.
“Oh, good, you found her,” Charlie says.