He rocked back on his heels with an unkind smile and I wanted to do more than push back. I wanted to push him off the remnants of the dock and watch while he splashed in the water and flung jellyfish out of his designer suit.
“That brings me to my next point,” I said. “While operating this way might’ve been cool when you didn’t have any neighbors, that’s not the case anymore. I’m sorry you’re dealing with messy family and business stuff, and that you have an FBI agent as your shadow, but that doesn’t entitle you to be a jerk. You don’t own all of Small Point. You have to play nice.”
“For fuck’s sake, Sunny.” He shot an arm out over my chest and forced me to take several steps back as the speed-demon forklift rolled by again. His fingers flexed on my bicep several times before he released me.
He retreated, shaking out his hands. “I’ve noticed you don’t like looking out for yourself,” he said.
I put real effort into killing him with my eyes. I was all about peace and love, and live and let live, but this iceberg of mine was a frosty bitch. “And I’ve noticed you’re an outrageous douchewaffle.”
His scowl deepened. His brow creased. He seemed authentically shocked to hear his behavior was out of hand. As usual. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can beg all you want,” I said, bold and frigid and completely unlike my usual self. “You’re not getting anything from it.”
“I am getting whatever I—”
“Hello there!” a voice boomed.
Beckett and I turned away from our glare-off to find an older white man dressed in athletic gear cutting through the construction and heading toward us. At his side was a thin man with golden coloring and a wide straw hat perched on his head. But that wasn’t all.
A group of people followed, emerging from the paved trail that snaked along the edge of the cove and out onto Small Point, the rocky peninsula jutting into the bay, past the narrow strip of beach belonging to Friendship, through several residential areas, and emptied out behind the library in the center of town.
The man leading the group approached, a hand outstretched toward me as he said, “Ranger Dickerson. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He gestured to the man beside him. “My partner Phil Collins.”
“Sunny Du Jardin,” I replied, smiling. I’d noticed these two walking the trail over the past few months, but our paths never crossed at the right moment to stop and talk. It was nice to finally meet them.
“Phil…Collins,” Beckett echoed. “Am I in a skit? I really think I’m in a long, complicated skit.”
“Ah. You’re thinking of the English singer-songwriter. That often confuses people. This Phil Collins is an actuary. Not a musical bone in his body,” Ranger said.
“I’m definitely in a skit,” Beckett murmured. “Or a really long stress dream.”
The group from the trail filed in between the heavy machinery and congregated behind Ranger. Not a single forklift blazed out of nowhere to nearly pancake them.
Ranger held out his hands, saying, “We planned today’s expedition of the Friendship Walking Club through the cove to visit Naked Provisions though we didn’t expect to run into such a calamity. Should we come back another day?”
“No,” I said quickly, thinking of double-chocolate cookies. So many cookies. “No, not at all. We’d be happy to serve you.” I pushed up on my toes to get a better look at the group. At least fifteen people. Probably more behind the crane. Enough to make Muffy crack a smile and allow Meara to fully inhale for the first time this morning. “All of you.”
“You don’t mind?” Ranger asked. “We don’t want to impose, what with this project under way.” He eyed Beckett, a knowing set to his mouth as he nodded. “I hope the Faro kids learned a valuable lesson about maritime safety. It’s a good thing they’re strong swimmers.”
“And the water is barely eight feet deep at high tide in this part of the cove,” Beckett added.
“Grown men can drown in a ten-inch bucket of water, Loew. The depth isn’t the factor.”
“We have plenty of room for everyone,” I said, placing myself between Beckett and Ranger. “Our chef made a special batch of her secret recipe double-chocolate cookies too.” I caught sight of Agent Price looming nearby. “And our famous hand-pressed basil lemonade.”
Ranger pivoted toward his group. “Refreshments,” he called with a sharp gesture toward the café, part drill sergeant, part team mom. “Thirty-minute break before we roll out for the final leg of the trek.” As the walking club marched toward Naked’s front door, he surveyed the work on the new dock and ramp. “The crew’s making good time. They’ll be finished before sunset.”
“Yes,” Beckett replied, sliding his hands into his pockets. “They will.”
Ranger noticed the cool cut of Beckett’s response but he didn’t react. Instead, he turned an affable grin in my direction. I liked this guy’s style. We were going to get along just fine. “We’ll see you at this weekend’s asparagus festival?”
Beckett audibly rolled his eyes though he made no move to exit the conversation. He stayed there, the whole hulking lot of him in shoes that probably cost more than my car, and stared at us like a sigh.
“You will,” I said. “Bethany, another one of Naked’s partners, used to operate Roots and Shoots Juices. She registered for all the local events before we came together. We decided to keep those events and attend as Naked Provisions with our baked goods and her juices.”
“How serendipitous,” Ranger said, and that word sounded strange coming out of a man who seemed to be the human definition ofrigorous. I had the impression he ate plain oatmeal every morning and topped it with half a banana as a “treat.” He studied the freshly painted exterior of the café. “Bait shop no longer!” To Beckett, he added, “Isn’t change wonderful?”
“It does make me wonder,” he said under his breath.
