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You know you’re in the Lowcountry when the steering wheel in your old red pick up is slippery from humidity, the news on the radio is all about the projected path of the latest Atlantic hurricane and the road kill you narrowly miss smearing further is a five foot long alligator.

I shuddered as I passed the sludgy reptile remains and held my breath. Lifting my ponytail off my neck, I hoped the hot South Carolina breeze coming through the window would at least feel cool against my damp skin.

The upside of fall was the tourists had gone home. The downside was the county stopped spraying for mosquitos and no-see-ums, so the little fuckers got to gorge themselves in a type of ‘eat local’ frenzy. There was one inside the cab of the truck, and I tried very hard to ignore him as I went over the cross-island bridge. But, if he dared circle my bare ankles, I was going to have to pull over and hunt him down.

I checked the rearview mirror and started to change lanes, but a loud honking and growl of an engine made me swerve back. My insides lurched as a motorcycle emerged from my blind spot. I’d nearly side-swiped it. The driver pulled up alongside and looked over as I raised my hand in a gesture of apology.

His helmet had a dark visor so I couldn’t see in. After a few seconds he lifted a gloved hand in salute and took off ahead with a roar, his white shirt billowing out like a sail. California plates. Tourist. That figured.

I was late for my shift at the grill. Following the biker’s example, I floored it too, assuming any police officer would pull over the out-of-towner before me, or at least only give me a friendly warning. When you live in a small town, you either went to school or church with just about everybody. Not that I’d been in either for a while.

Making it home with minutes to spare, I dropped off my truck and hotfooted it to work.

* * *

The small seaside town of Butler Cove Island had nine thousand off–season, full time residents, and some days it felt like they all had an opinion. I tried to paste on a smile and nod as I listened politely to yet another nugget of sage advice from Pastor McDaniel. The good pastor was pretending to drink plain iced tea, not laced from the little flask in his jacket pocket. Seriously?

His portly frame was wedged into a booth and the buttons on his dress shirt looked to be taking some serious strain.

I wondered if I would get a reprieve from him going on about my house again. The Pastor sat on the town council and seemed to think this entitled him to lay it on thick. “Now, Miss Keri Ann, yo’ gran-mamma would fair turn in her grave to see the last remainin’ bit o’ real estate in your family turn so dog eared.” Nope. He was on it again. “You need to keep that place up.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Why don’t I send my Jasper on up there on Sunday after church to give you a little hand?”

“That’s very nice of you, Pastor.” I hated to turn it down, truly. My family home was the last thing left for the Butlers of Butler Cove, and it was falling apart. I needed the help, but not at the price of the pastor doing me a good turn. And from the way his beady eyes shifted, I felt sure the idea of Jasper and me together had crossed his mind. What better way to get his hands on the house? Luckily, I was certain Jasper and I were on the same page of our platonic relationship. “I’d be glad to pay him, if he wouldn’t mind some sanding and painting.”

The Pastor puffed his chest out a little. “Well now, there’ll be none o’ that. My Jasper’s a gentleman helping out a lady, is all. Did he tell you he was accepted into Charleston College of Law?”

I nodded.

“He’s a smart boy that one, going places. Good with his brains and his hands. I’ll send him over Sunday.” He adjusted his gaze and seemed to peer down his nose at me, even though I was standing a good three heads above his sedentary frame. “I’ll be seeing you at service, I hope.”

How did he do that? There must be school for teaching pastors how to guilt people. I smiled slightly and set down the water I was holding right in front of him.

“How about some water, Pastor?” I asked, looking meaningfully at his spiked iced tea. I hadn’t been back in church for six years. I might be struck by lightning if I went this Sunday.

It was a slow night; finally calm after the crazy tourist season. The only other people left in the dimly lit restaurant were up at the bar. One was my best friend Jazz, nicknamed for her love of the genre, and the other, a hunched up guy with a ball cap and hoodie who’d just walked in five minutes ago and literally curled onto a bar stool in the corner. He was fishing a phone out of his jeans pocket.

It was almost closing time, I seriously hoped he wasn’t going to stay long, I could really use an early night and closing the place down on time sounded like heaven.

“What can I get you?” I called over to hoodie guy as I went back around the bar. He mumbled something, not looking up from the phone he was busy texting on. I sighed and went further down the bar so I could hear him. People could be so rude. I’d had enough of them this summer, and I don’t think I was the only one. Reportedly, there were a few cases of locals blowing their gaskets. Not a surprise. The county even had to post billboards reminding residents most of their funding came from tourism.

“A burger, medium, with fries. To go,” Hoodie Guy repeated not looking up, the peak from his burgundy ball cap hiding his face completely. “And a Bushmills on the rocks while I wait.” His accent was most definitely out of town. He went back to texting. I sighed and jabbed the order onto the touch screen. It was a good thing I had the patience of a saint. Ten seconds later Hector leaned out of the kitchen shaking his head at me.

“Sorry, Hector. Last one, then you can turn ’em off. I’ll close it down out here. I smiled at his grumpy face. We both complained at times, but it was good-natured. We loved our jobs at The Snapper Grill. The salary and tips were huge all summer long, and in the off season, when most of the other seasonal employees moved on, we pretty much kept the place ticking. It was only really busy on the weekends when it became more of an islander’s bar than a restaurant. It helped that our owner, Paulie, had a subscription to the local sports games. Most residents took offense to having to buy a premium package on their cable contracts just to watch the Tigers or the Gamecocks. Hector ducked his dark head back in the kitchen muttering something in Spanish.

“Sooo, what’s new in the world of entertainment?” I nodded at the magazine Jazz was devouring while I filled a glass with ice and some fine Irish whiskey.

Jazz looked up and groaned in happiness. “This is such bliss. I haven’t been able to sit around and read a trashy magazine for months. You know my mom won’t let me even have them at the house, says I’m liquefying my mind while she’s paying my tuition. I can’t wait to move out, as much as I’ll miss her.”

Jazz was going to college up at USC Beaufort, but living at home to save cash and working in a local boutique. I smiled in sympathy at my friend and delivered the stiff drink down the bar.

Hoodie guy was still scrolling through his phone with his long fingers, mindless of the drink I set down with a napkin on the polished wood in front of him. I sighed and strolled back to Jazz.

“You know you can move in, Jazz. It’s just me knocking around there while Joey finishes up med school.” She pretended not to hear. I had made the offer a million times, but Jazz and my brother, Joey had dated briefly one summer when Joey came back from college. To say he broke Jazz’s heart when he left was an understatement. I wasn’t sure anyone realized how much Jazz cared for him, least of all Jazz herself. For my sake they had patched a makeshift and delicate friendship for when Joey returned for holidays. But now, between school and interning and an upcoming residency, he was home less and less.