8. Chapter 8 – Lucy
V i’s text Saturday took me a moment to decipher. I’d just finished adding new pieces to inventory, complete with pricing and tags.
Vi: Ahoy! Come o'er fer grub 'n we'll celebrate Natter Like a Pirate Day. Thar will be a forfeit fer failin' t' TLAP.
Either way, it was likely to be an entertaining evening. I was tempted to text Rae and make a side bet on how long it would take Lee to forfeit. My guess was two-point-five seconds. Then again, it was Vi. If it made her smile, he might be willing to adopt a funny dialect.
Lucy: Aye, I’ll be thar.
Vi: Arrrr.
An elderly couple wandered in five minutes before closing. As much as I wanted to turn them away, sales paid my bills.
“Can I help you find anything?” I asked, painting on my customer smile.
“Just browsing at the moment,” the woman said.
The man walked through the aisles of the showroom before taking up residence in the corner and pulling out his phone.
His wife proceeded to inspect each and every glass ornament, paperweight, and vase, asking questions.
How long did this piece take to make? About an hour.
Had I ever burned myself? Loads of times.
Is glass blowing dangerous? Only if you do it wrong.
My answers got shorter and shorter, my smile tighter.
She lingered, one hand on the sculpture of a fat cat with a decidedly Cheshire smile.
“He’s so whimsical. I’ll take him.”
“Good choice,” I murmured. Finally . I wrapped the sculpture in record time, taping up the brown butcher paper to protect the delicate ears and tail. Running her card only took a moment.
I waved jauntily as they left, then flipped the lock, turning off lights in the showroom. It was past five thirty. The pirates at Vi’s were probably knee-deep in rum already.
I sped through town on foot, grateful for my jacket to ward off the evening chill. The ferry horn blew down at the harbor, signaling the evening departure. Wind whipped off the water, making me huddle further into my coat with a shiver.
The daytime crowds had dwindled. Vi’s boutique and the other shops I passed were closed for the day.
The brewery down the block was lit up, their lot full of cars.
I trudged up the hill to Vi’s house, noting both Clay’s and Drew’s trucks were parked in the driveway.
Rae and Zach had likely walked up from the marina already, making me the last to arrive.
I slid open the back patio door, toeing off my shoes on the mat.
Laughter drifted from the living room. Vi had her back to me, facing someone I couldn’t see.
Anya and Drew cuddled on one end of the couch.
Zach and Rae perched on chairs dragged in from the kitchen.
Clay lounged on the other side of the couch, his messy hair jammed under a ballcap.
He’d traded his Park Service uniform for well-worn jeans and a navy plaid flannel that only emphasized how well he fit in.
Like he’d known us all for years, not months.
His ease with people was something I envied.
Maybe even admired. It’d taken me months to just say hello to the friendly girl on the yoga mat next to mine.
A few years later, Vi and I were fast friends.
She’d pulled me into her orbit, introducing me to Rae and Anya.
Making me one of them. But it hadn’t happened overnight.
Clay, though? He slid seamlessly into our friend group. Like he’d always been there. Always belonged.
Vi stepped aside, revealing Lee.
I hastily smothered a laugh.
Vi had let her dark hair fall loose, small braids framing her face. A flowy skirt and solid black tee completed the look. Normal enough.
Lee wore jeans and a Henley. Also totally normal. Except for the eye patch.
He scowled, glaring at me.
I snickered.
“Ahoy, me bucko. ‘Tis what happens when ye don’t follow cap‘n’s orders.” Vi gestured grandly to Lee’s eye patch.
“Ah-ahoy,” I managed to get out in between giggles.
Suddenly, the concept of a forfeit made sense. Vi took her games seriously.
“Knock it off,” Lee muttered darkly.
A wicked grin spread across Vi’s usually sweet face. “What’s dat? Another forfeit? I ‘ave the perfect hat fer ye.” She plucked a giant felt pirate hat from a stack of props on the coffee table, dropping it onto Lee’s head.
My gaze flicked to Clay’s. He winked. That small sign of connection sent a tiny thrill through me. One I’d deny.
“Ye be as witty as a drunken parrot, ye scabrous, black-spotted blighter!” Zach bellowed, jabbing a finger in Drew’s direction.
“May yer rum turn to vinegar, ye poxy, yellow-bellied swabbie!” Drew hit back.
Rae dissolved into laughter, nearly spilling her drink. “Ye couldn’t sail a dinghy ‘cross a pond, ye vile, gutless buffoons!”
“Arrr.” Lee scraped his forehead with the palm of his hand, shaking his head. It made his ridiculously large hat wobble.
I couldn’t help it. I cracked, shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Ye couldn't find yer own nose with both hands and a map, ye filthy, slimy rascal!” Lee hollered, finally getting into the spirit. Or just fed up with the extra costume pieces.
I arched one brow, sharpening the perfect comeback.
“Watch wha’ ye say t’ me lady,” Clay growled, expression fierce, “ye mannerless oaf.”
He launched from the couch, picking up a plastic sword from the prop pile and brandishing it toward Lee. The other man let out a booming laugh and snatched up a second sword.
They thrust and parried, darting behind furniture, theatrically hopping over the coffee table. I thought for sure Clay would take out one of Vi’s houseplants, but he steadied it just in time.
Their playfight came with a soundtrack of cussing and piratical insults. Each colorful taunt was more ridiculous than the last, but the fools grinned the entire time.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. At this rate, they’d both need eye patches for real.
It was too much and yet absolutely perfect. My sides hurt from laughing.
“Grog time, my crew,” Vi called from the kitchen. “Last one to the galley walks the plank!”
Clay slung an arm across Lee’s shoulders, bussing his cheek with a loud kiss. “Even pirates need a ceasefire. Truce… till next time.”
Thankfully, we got a break from the pirate talk during dinner, everyone more focused on inhaling the chili Drew made than exchanging pirate-themed barbs.
After dinner, we clustered around the kitchen table playing Plunder, rolling dice to move around the board and engage in combat. I’d just sunk the last of Clay’s ships when he turned to me, his grin my only warning.
“Will ye marry me?”
My laugh came too easily. “Nah if ye were the last scallywag on earth.”
The words were automatic. But the way he looked at me, eyes glittering, made my stomach dip. His tone had been teasing, sure. That was Clay. Always teasing. Until he wasn’t.
I shook it off, grabbing for the dice. Just a game.
So why did my cheeks feel too warm? Why was I suddenly aware of the brush of his knee against mine beneath the table?