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.

When this happened, Socks would whine to be taken for a walk, and Rick would be forced to pay up and leave. I’d see Rick weaving down the street to the next bar, Socks trotting proudly beside him, excited to have an owner at last.

However, occasionally when Socks whined to go, Rick had not finished his drink and did not feel like leaving.

And so instead he’d nudge Socks in the ribs with his foot—though not always gently enough to be called a nudge.

Rick had received plenty of warnings about his treatment of Socks from all of us, but especially from Ed Hartwell. Several times Rick had even been ordered to leave the Mermaid altogether and not come back until he was sober. Little Bridge Island offered plenty of services for anyone looking for help in this area, almost all of them free. There were several large and enthusiastic Alcoholics Anonymous groups, one of which met regularly at the long back table of the Mermaid, calling themselves Anchors Aweigh.

But Rick refused to admit that he had a problem, or that his treatment of his dog was wrong.

Since Rick was so pathetic, and Socks so cute, Mrs. Hartwell often overruled her husband’s orders and allowed Rick back into the café, even when he was obviously inebriated, if only so that she could give both Socks and his owner the proper food and water that they needed to stay alive.

I hadn’t noticed the man in the button-down shirt sitting on a high-topped chair over by the pool table until the dog on the patio tiles beneath him began to cry.

But as soon as this happened, all eyes were upon him, including Drew Hartwell’s.

Drew had just lifted his beer to take a sip. Now he lowered it and said, in a voice so cold it could have chilled even this steamiest of summer nights, “Excuse me, but did you just kick that dog?”

From the droopiness of his eyelids and the unsteadiness with which he was perched on the stool, it looked as if Rick might have been consuming more than just beer.

“Me?” His weather-beaten face assumed an expression of overexaggerated astonishment. “Aw, no! Hell, no. No, sir, that wasn’t me. I wouldn’t kick a dog.”

It was clear from both the demeanor of the dog and the accusing expressions on the faces of everyone in the nearby vicinity that Rick had, indeed, just kicked the dog.

But Drew hadn’t seen it himself, so there was no way he could prove it. And no one was talking. Everyone in this crowd, it seemed, felt too sorry for Rick, probably remembering the wife and kids he’d abandoned (or, more likely, who had thrown him out of the house).

The salsa music playing from the speakers on the back porch seemed uncomfortably loud in the silence that followed, during which Drew stared at Socks’s owner.

Ed Hartwell was the one to break the silence. “Rick,” he said, in his deep voice, one that was generally hoarse from lack of use. “I’ve told you before not to mess with that dog.”

Rick’s own voice turned self-defensive. “Ed, you know me. I’d never kick no dog.” When drunk—which was most of the time—Rick’s grammar became erratic. He also developed a Southern twang, which was odd given that he claimed to be from Rhode Island. “I love dogs!”

Drew pointed straight in Rick Chance’s face. “I think you did kick that dog,” he said, in the same cold tone. “And if I catch you doing it again, I will lay you out.”

Even though it was the warmest of tropical nights, with only the softest of breezes stirring the tops of the palm fronds, I felt a chill up my spine. Drew Hartwell wasn’t kidding around. Small lines had appeared around the corners of his blue eyes that I’d never seen before, not even the day Leighanne had thrown her keys and saltshaker at him.

He was angry. If I’d been Rick, I’d have left the party immediately.

But Rick only laughed foolishly and took another slug from his beer bottle. “Well, no worries, cuzzy. That ain’t goin’ to happen because I ain’t the type to kick no dog.”

Drew lowered his arm and said in a voice dripping with disdain, “I am not your cousin.”

Then he turned and walked back toward the pool table, since it was his turn once again to shoot.

I didn’t realize until he was gone from my side that I’d been holding my breath during the entirety of the two men’s exchange. It was only after Drew turned away that I exhaled, and oxygen began to circulate through my lungs again.

“Wow,” I said softly.

Angela, beside me, took a long sip of her drink. “Yeah. That was intense.”

“I’ll say. Hasn’t Drew ever met Rick before?”

Angela shrugged. “You mean from before he got the way he is now? Yeah, I’m sure. Everyone knew Rick when he was riding high. He had the biggest rental property business in town. But now? Drew’s more of the breakfast crowd, remember? He’s always gone before Rick gets in for lunch.”

This made sense. The breakfast and lunch crowds rarely mingled.

“I need a refill after that drama,” Angela said, holding up her empty cup. “How about you?”

My own cup was empty as well. I nodded and the two of us began to make our way toward the little grotto by the pool where Mrs. Hartwell was keeping the wine on ice—