Page 17 of No Judgements

“Yes,” I said. “But you can go inland. You don’t have to stay on the beach—”

“What do you care?” Those bright eyes glittered at me a little too intensely. “Why is what I do during the hurricane so important to you?”

I took a sip of my wine to escape his smirk. “It’s not. Trust me, whether you live or die makes no difference to me.”

Drew grinned. “Now you’re starting to sound more like a local, Fresh Water. So where are you hunkering down, if you’re so intent on staying?”

I’m sorry to say that I flipped my hair. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t even drunk, I’d only had one Jell-O shot and a few sips of wine. “Oh, I have a lot of options.”

“Really?” He was still grinning. “Like where?”

“I invited her to stay with me,” Angela said mildly, leaning over between us to scoop some spinach dip onto a corn chip. “But apparently, she got a better offer, since she said no.”

I almost choked on the sip of wine I’d taken. This statement was a complete falsehood, and Angela knew it. What she’d actually said earlier that day back at the café was that she’d be staying at her mother’s during the hurricane.Mrs. Fairweather’s home was a historic Spanish-style bungalow made of concrete and not situated in a flood zone, and so ideal for hunkering down during storms.

I was welcome to join them, Angela had said, but her brother’s rottweilers would be there as well, and might not be too thrilled to see Gary.

I had not taken her invitation seriously.

“Um,” I said. No way was I going to mention that Drew’s own aunt had invited me to stay with her. That seemed like it would be walking into whatever mischievous trap Angela was setting for me. “Yes, well, Lady Patricia invited me to stay with her in a fourth-floor suite at the Cascabel—”

His grin vanished. “The Cascabel? You’re not staying there, are you?”

“Well,” I said, noting that his objection appeared to be over the hotel, not whom I was staying with. Lady Patricia was the most well-liked drag queen in Little Bridge, and everyone bought fabrics for their curtains and outdoor furniture at Patrick’s fabric shop. “Well, yes, I thought I might. Pat says it’s rated Cat Five, too—”

“The building itself, sure. But the lobby and stairwells flood every time there’s even a minor rainstorm. Why doesn’t anyone ever remember that?”

“Remember what?” Ed Hartwell was approaching with a platter still sizzling from the grill. He appeared to have almost every variety of barbecue possible, from burger patties to hot dogs to kebabs to portobello mushrooms.

“The Cascabel,” Drew said. “What’s the point of being safe from wind damage on a high floor when you can’t exitin an emergency because there’s three to six feet of floodwater on the first?”

“They have a generator,” Angela pointed out.

“Sure, to power the rooms,” Drew said. “Not enough juice to handle the hallways or lobby. And I wouldn’t trust the electricals anyway under those conditions. Salt water will have flooded the elevator shafts, corroding the cables. So you’re still going to have to walk up and down a dank, dark, smelly stairway every time you need to go out for anything—”

Who knows how long I would have been forced to stand there politely listening to these locals argue the pros and cons of riding out a hurricane at the Cascabel Hotel if the dog that had been whining up until that point hadn’t suddenly let out a yelp of pain? All four of us swiveled our heads toward the sound.

“Oh, no,” Angela said.

That’s when I noticed for the first time that we had a hurricane-party crasher.

Chapter Eight

Avoid consuming alcoholic beverages before, during, and after the storm. Although seemingly refreshing, these can be dehydrating and impair judgment.

Rick was a Mermaid regular, though many of us who worked there wished he’d visit less. He never missed the lunch special, always ordering the same thing—half a Cuban sandwich and a cup of soup for $6.95—every day, but he augmented it with several Bloody Mermaids (Bloody Marys, only with a cocktail shrimp on a skewer).

Except that Rick’s Bloody Mermaids were always doubles.

I’d have felt sorry for him if it weren’t for one thing. Rumor had it that before the ravages of alcoholism had stolen them away, he’d once had a wife, kids, and a successful rental property business. I still saw faded Rick Chance Rentals signs on the sides of various bus stops around town, and Rick himself was usually stylishly dressed in an impeccable white button-down and khaki pants, and often informed me that he was waiting on a million-dollar property deal to go through (but somehow it never quite came to fruition).

But then there was Socks.

Socks was a scruffy but cute black and white dog (well, would have been black and white if he’d ever been given a bath. He was more black and gray) with one ear that stuck up, and another that seemed permanently to droop. Socks had somehow attached itself to Rick, out of all the people on Little Bridge.

Socks followed Rick Chance everywhere, including into the Mermaid, even though technically we allowed only service animals.

But I suppose in a way Socks did provide assistance to Rick, since the dog didn’t approve of his owner’s lifestyle, and often grew impatient sitting beneath whatever barstool Rick was haunting.