3. Fisher
CHAPTER THREE
fisher
“Dammit, Bing,” I mutter as my golden retriever once again leaps from the passenger side of my truck before I stop. One day the dog is going to hurt himself.
Maybe.
Okay, fine. Probably not, since I have the only car on the entire pea-sized island. But a handful of residents cruise around on golf carts. And I’m setting a bad example by allowing my dog to fling himself out of a moving vehicle.
“Don’t listen to your daddy.” Cank sinks to his knees, and the dog races across to the old wooden planks of the dock, straight to the man who always brings treats.
As a dog with no shame, Bing flops onto his back, legs splayed, begging for tummy rubs.
The moment I slide off the seat and step onto the dry-ass dirt we call a road, a gust of cold salt air lifts my hair off my forehead. Shoulders lifted, I tuck deeper into the collar of my coat, hiding from the evening chill. “You’re not going to be able to stand back up, old man.”
His arthritis is always worse during the change of seasons.
Cank’s chuckle turns into a cough. “Careful there, Fisher,” the old man warns as I step onto the dock, my boots thunking heavily. “You’re heading over the hill yourself.”
Like hell I am. Though it feels like I’ve been back on this godforsaken island for a lifetime already, and maybe I’m feeling every one of my years, but I’m only thirty-four.
With one bare forearm against his denim-clad knee, he pushes himself up.
Damn, I don’t know how he does it. Even without the ever-present New England wind, it’s barely fifty degrees, and yet the old man is decked out in his token welcome to the island uniform.
White shirt and overalls. Man swears he’s never cold.
He’s got his signature butt-ugly floppy hat on too. As it flutters in another gust of wind, my eye catches on the new patch front and center.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him. “Do you like the puffin? Blue picked the spot.”
Blue. I should have known. Only the island’s oldest and most inappropriate resident would insist the patch be stitched on in a way that makes it look like the bird is doing unmentionable things to the damn whale patch.
“Kids see that,” I grumble.
“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. I have a 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 and Glory 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.
Fighting the sigh working its way up my chest, I step out of the truck and face Flora.
“It happened again.” She points a long red nail at the roofline of the tiny white cape.
I don’t need to look up to know there’s a gray puff stuck up there.
“I’ll get him.” I hold in my huff of frustration. At this point, I’m so intimately acquainted with the damn rodent that I’m aware of its status as a him.
“You’re my hero.” She shoots me a crooked-tooth smile.
Fucking ridiculous. I’m not fighting a war or keeping a town safe.
I’m no one’s hero. I’m just the man who is going to once again yank a fat squirrel out of a rain gutter.
I lean into my truck, flick open the center console, and remove the gloves that do little to protect my hands and arms from the feral beast. Then I stomp across the road to Flora’s house.
“I’ll hold the ladder, Sheriff,” she offers, like she does every time.
I don’t need her help, and her offer has nothing to do with being helpful anyway.
“Did you hear that Elizabeth Sweet arrived on the garbage boat?”
I grunt in Flora’s direction and leave it at that. This won’t be the last time someone in town brings it up.
“And she didn’t even have a coat .”
Add that to what I can only imagine will be a long list of fun details I don’t care about. Though I can only imagine I’ll end up having to give the woman my coat so she doesn’t die of hypothermia.
I spend the next five minutes ignoring her yammering as I wrestle with the damn squirrel who keeps trying to squeeze his entirely too large body into the freaking gutter.
The second he’s free, he squirms out of my grasp and takes off with a running leap off the roof. For as thrilled as he is to escape, one would think he’d stop getting himself stuck like this. But I can almost guarantee I’ll be back to rescue him again tomorrow.
“Thanks so much for your help. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
I grunt. Because what am I supposed to say? My pleasure ? Fuck no, it’s not a pleasure. Happy to help ? Yeah, no. I’m definitely not.
“Want to come in for a drink? I picked up a six-pack of Balmy Days.”
“Gotta get to Sutton.” Without turning to see her pout, I stomp back to the truck.
I’ve got two boxes in my arms and am hardly through the door when Doris starts in on me. “Did you see she’s here?”
I fight a sigh and drop the boxes on the counter.
“Not only did she come on the trash boat, but she didn’t have a coat. And worse? She was in heels.” Her eyes bulge. “Heels, Sheriff.”
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Heels aren’t a crime. Completely impractical? Of course. But nothing about Hollywood’s golden girl will be practical.
“Only two more,” I inform her as I step outside. Then I can haul ass away from the woman who never shuts up.
Next, I roll the five hundred feet to the inn, where Sutton is helping Mrs. K get ready for opening weekend.
If not for Sutton, I wouldn’t be doing this shit.
I swallow back the pain that comes with thoughts of my brother and sister-in-law. Life isn’t fair, that’s for damn sure. I’m all Sutton has, and she deserves the life her parents wanted for her.