“Can I help?” It was Sullivan.
“Would you give me a hand, darling?” Amelia said, extending an elegant arm in his direction.
“Sure thing.” He went over to her and put his arm around her, helping her up.
“You’re quite a charmer,” she said, then puked on him.
I mean right onto him. It hit him in the throat and slid right down his shirt. I felt my own gorge rise.
“Whoopsy,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry. But I feel much better now.” She puked again, just in case Sullivan missed the point. “Did I eat butter, perhaps? Was there butter in that asparagus? I’ve been a vegan for so long, any animal product upsets my stomach.”
“No butter,” I said. “Uh, Sully, my bathroom’s right there. Towels and stuff. I’ll be right back.”
He gave me a look and went in, and I ushered Amelia down the hall to the other bathroom—Poe’s, not the powder room Jake had been using, and handed her a washcloth.
“What a beautiful boat!” she said, cleaning up. “Do you know who the architect was?”
“I don’t. But thanks for coming, Amelia. Let’s get you home, okay? It’s getting late.” It wasn’t even eight-thirty. I steered her down the hall to the dock, where the others waited.
“Well, safe home, guys,” I said. “Where’s Mr. Carver? I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“He left already,” my mom said, pointing to a set of taillights heading down the road. “Uh-oh.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Watch out for the deer, Henry!” she called. “Henry! The deer! Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
The rest of us watched in horror as Mr. Carver ran smack into one of the wild residents of Scupper Island.
Xiaowen made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
I ran down the dock. Mr. Carver’s car was only about fifteen yards from where he’d parked it, but apparently he’d been going fast enough.
The poor deer was panting, lying on its side. Oh, God, the poor thing! We’d have to call the police chief to shoot it, and God knew how long it would take him to get here.
Its eyes were wide. Should I pet it? Then again, that might scare the poor critter. Also, ticks. But if it was in the throes of dying, maybe I should comfort it? Her? It was a doe.
“Is it dead?” Mr. Carver sobbed. “Is it hurt?”
“Um...it’s not dead yet,” I said. I pulled out my phone and called 911. No signal, of course. Shit. I got on the hood of Mr. Carver’s car, held my phone up. Aha. Two bars. That was enough.
“Nine-one-one, please state your emergency.”
“Hi, this is Nora Stuart on Spruce Brook Road. A deer was just hit by a car.”
“Hi, Nora, it’s Mrs. Krazinski! How are you, honey?”
“Well...not that great. And you?”
“I’m fine. Your mother said you were having a dinner party tonight.”
“I am, and well, I’m afraid Henry Carver hit a deer, and—” I lowered my voice “—I think it needs to be put down.”
“Damn. And the chief’s away. His daughter, you remember her? Caroline? Well, she had a baby! A boy. Her third.”
“That’s great. But what about the dying deer?”
“Can’t your mom take care of it?”
“Probably, yeah.” Chances were high my mom could do one of those Jason Bourne neck twists and Bambi would be on the way to heaven.
The entire dinner party had made its way down the dock.
“With a little physical therapy, you never know,” Xiaowen said. “Could be eating hostas by next week.”
“I’ll put it outta its misery,” my mother said. “Nora, run home and get my butchering knives.”
“What?”
“It’s a fresh deer,” she said, as if I was the stupidest person on earth. “I’m not gonna let it go to waste.”
“Mind if I take a haunch?” Jake asked, popping another beer.
“Oh, God,” wailed Mr. Carver. “Beatrice... She loved animals.”
“When I was a child at our camp in the Adirondacks,” Amelia said, “a fawn walked into our house and lay down next to the dog. It was utterly adorable. Until our Irish setter killed it, that is. Whiskey, that was his name. A beautiful dog.”
“You don’t mind if I stay to watch, do you?” Xiaowen asked. “I’m kind of crushing on your mom.”
“You’re a horrible friend,” I said.
My mother came back down the dock, knife in hand.
He reached out and his hand closed on the biggest knife handle in the block.
Ice-cold fear slithered down my back, and for a second, the dark Maine sky and heavy half-moon were gone, and I was in my apartment, the door so close. Would I make it? Would he grab me again? The door handle, smooth and hard under my aching fingers, me out, running, screaming...
Nope, nope. Not gonna go there. That was my mother, the world’s most capable woman. Not a killer, not a rapist. And behind her, Sullivan Fletcher, shirtless in the waning light, his puked-on shirt in his hand. Focus on that. Focus on him. You’re safe. You’re safe. You made it.
My heart rate slowed. There was a calm about Sullivan Fletcher that tugged at me. Maybe because he was a father. Maybe because he was spared from some of the chatter and buzz of this world. Maybe because he’d been hurt, too, and recovered.
I guess I should’ve offered him a T-shirt. Then again, I’d had a spewing boss and a dying deer to contend with.
Also, shirtless Sully was a very nice view.
Suddenly, the deer gave a lunge. I jumped back as it scrambled to its feet and ran off crookedly into the woods.
No one said anything for a minute.
“Okay!” I said. “What a fun night! Take care! Mr. Carver, are you okay to drive?”
“It didn’t die,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Maybe it was Beatrice, working a little miracle.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I lied. “Bye. Thank you for coming.”
They all got into their cars. Xiaowen hugged me, shaking with laughter. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she managed before sliding into her silver Porsche. Then she was gone, and I was alone with Sully.
“Come on in, and I’ll get you a T-shirt,” I said, starting down the dock. He followed.
“I was kind of hoping to see your mother skin that deer,” he said, and suddenly, I was staggering with laughter. Sully’s smile flashed in the darkness, and he took my arm so I didn’t fall into the water.
I laughed all the way inside.
My place was a disaster—plates still on the table, the coffee table, the floor. A thousand glasses, it seemed. Food everywhere. I went into my room and got the biggest T-shirt I had—Blackbeards Bait & Tackle, a leftover from a long-ago trip to Cape Cod with Doctors Without Spouses, back when Bobby and I were just friends.
“Here you go,” I said, handing the shirt to Sullivan. He pulled it over his head in a quick movement, the muscles on his rib cage flowing, his shoulders rolling in a perfect example of male anatomy.
Xiaowen was right. I could do far worse than Sullivan Fletcher.
But a summer fling was not what I was looking for. In August, I’d be back in Boston. Sullivan would never leave this island. And he had a kid, besides. Also, there was the fact that I had no idea if Sullivan was looking for a fling himself. He had a daughter, an ex-wife, a business and a troubled brother to contend with.