She leaned back against the counter in a pose that mirrored his. Only a foot or so separated them, and for the first time, she found it uncomfortably close. Not in a bad way, but in a hyperaware way.
“What exactly does she want?”
“She wants me to stake her in her battle with Tate Berenson. She’s hoping my hate for Tate will translate into support for her.”
“Hmm. Well, are you considering it?”
“I don’t know. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even want the money. She said if I decline the inheritance, it’ll simply never get paid out. But I don’t know if that’s true. If I don’t take the money, maybe it goes to Tate. That, I won’t stand for. I’ll take the bullet.”
“By bullet, you mean all those millions?”
“Yeah. Better they come to me than to the Berensons.” He dug the heel of his hand into his forehead as if to rub out a headache. “I haven’t been tracking the family business. Why the devil should I get involved?”
She tilted her head and inhaled the aroma of stone-ground corn drifting from the oven. “It sounds like you need more information.”
“Aye, I think you might be right. Know any good researchers, oh family of mine?”
“Now I’m family? When you need something from me?”
“Isn’t that what family’s all about? You’re there when you’re needed?”
The timer dinged. He swung around to take the taco shells out of the oven, giving her a nice glimpse of his rear end in his khaki trousers.
“I don’t know, Alastair, I have so much going on.” She handed him a platter for the tacos. “This oral history project is taking off! Ever since Greta Desroches talked to me, all the older people in town started chasing me down and telling me about ancient Lost Harbor scandals. Affairs, secret babies, feuds, you name it. The weird thing is that every time I try to ask about the explorers, they lose interest. Doesn’t anyone care about history anymore?”
Alastair held up one hand. “Never mind. I’ve got it handled. You don’t need to worry your pretty beet-colored head.”
She made a face at him. Pretty head. Was that something a brother might say, or was it more in the work spouse realm?
Alastair put a platter of fried halibut on the counter, along with the grated cheese and other taco fixings they’d prepared. Side by side, they assembled their own tacos the way they liked them. Ruthie preferred a high cheese to fish ratio, while Alastair liked lots of a particular kind of hot sauce that he ordered online. Their movements were so coordinated, they might have been choreographed, thought Ruthie.
“Oh, I’m just complaining,” she told him as she carried her plate into the living room, where the flat-screen TV was located. Her parents didn’t have a television, and she got tired of streaming everything on her little laptop. Alastair’s TV was the way to go. “I was at Eller’s Drugstore the other day and I got penned in by two shopping carts. Janet Holt insisted on telling me about her husband’s beef with the Coast Guard and the time he dumped a seal carcass on their cutter. Pedro Davila wanted to pass along a story about the missing tribe that disappeared into the glaciers. It’s like there’s this pent-up demand for an oral historian.”
She plopped onto the couch, only losing a few stray shreds of cabbage in the process.
“Honey, that’s not a thing. There’s no pent-up demand for a historian. Demand for oral, yeah, that’s probably true.”
“Ha, ha.” She picked up her taco and took a large and satisfyingly crunchy bite. “Anyway, I’m going to stick close to the museum for a while. I have a lot of material to sort through. In other words, I can look into the financial situation with your family, or at least the publicly available information.”
“Please don’t call them my family,” he growled through a mouthful of taco. “But thank you. I’m available for oral historian guard dog duty if you need me.”
“Thanks. You are a superb big brother.” She winked at him and took another huge bite. So delicious. So spicy and crunchy and salty and delicately fishy.
He rolled his eyes a bit as he chewed. For a moment they ate in comfortable silence. They always waited until they were done eating to turn on the flat-screen because then they had to choose what to watch. That always took a while. Maybe they weren’t “family” so much as an old married couple.
The thought made her nearly choke on her taco.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I just had the funniest thought. Did you ever notice that we act like we’ve been married a dozen years? Look, we aren’t even bothering with table manners. I burped a second ago and didn’t even close my mouth. If I had to fart, I’d—”
“I get your drift,” he said hurriedly, clearly not wanting to discuss the potential fart situation. “But no, I don’t think we act like that. If we did, we’d be having sex at least once a…week? Month? Year? Just how long have we been married?”
She laughed. “I guess a pretty long time, based on the zero times we have sex. Oh!” She put down her taco. “Speaking of which, I totally forgot something I was supposed to ask you.”
“Something about sex? Yes. I’m in favor. Of the concept,” he added quickly.
She got the point. He wasn’t talking about sex with her, specifically. “Not about sex, per se, or really at all, it just made me think of it. The Lighthouse Brewery was invited to participate in this year’s volunteer fire department auction. It’s an annual tradition and just about all the businesses in town donate something. It’s great publicity.”
“You want me to contribute a meal? Done.”
“It’s a little more than that.” She bit her lip, bracing for his reaction. “We already committed to a meal, as well as a private party at the brewery. This year they’re adding something new. A bachelor auction. So…Chrissie wants to know if you’d…uh, be willing to represent us. Be our bachelor.”
“No,” he said right away, at the same moment she added, “I already said yes.”
“What?”
She scrunched up her face in apology. “I thought you’d enjoy it. Big brother.”
Nine
Friday nights were always the Lighthouse Brewery’s busiest time. On Fridays, Ruthie offered extended hours in the museum, along with a “Fun Fact Friday” display that was the corniest goddamn thing Alastair had ever seen. Every week, she picked one obscure piece of Lost Harbor history—the first piece of mail ever to arrive at the tiny one-room post office, or the location of the first-known native fish camp—and built a small exhibit around it.
But people seemed to love it, and afterwards they traipsed over to the brewery to try Toni’s Friday brew-of-the-week. To go with it, Alastair offered a Friday burger special. The brew-and-burger special with a side of Lost Harbor history was fast becoming a local tradition.
That meant all hands on deck on Friday nights. As soon as Ruthie closed the museum in the lighthouse, she would join the rest of the crew in the homestead building. At first she’d helped out as a server, but after a few drinks mistakenly ended up in the laps of tourists, Alastair had insisted she stick with him in the kitchen, where he could keep an eye on her.