“That’s your job. And you’re killing it.” He scanned her figure in that clinging wool dress. “If he can’t see that, I don’t know what to tell you.”
She hoisted the bin full of dishes into her arms. “Maybe next time I should wear a boat canopy.”
Chuckling, he took the bin from her and followed her out of the lighthouse. The first stars were finally winking into view against the darkening sky. The pure air hit his lungs like a shot of adrenaline. At the bottom of the steps, she turned and put a hand on his chest.
Which felt like another shot of adrenaline.
“Look, Alastair, whenever you’re ready to talk about this inheritance of yours, I’m here. Until then, I won’t say a word. Your secret is filed away in my highly organized archives.”
“Thank you.”
She grinned at him as they strolled across the property toward the original homestead, which was where the chef’s kitchen was set up. Someone had turned the lights on, probably Chrissie or Toni. He could see someone moving around inside. The sight was so homey that it made his heart yearn for…something. He wasn’t exactly sure what.
“See what a good friend I am?” Ruthie was saying. “This could be the biggest news to hit Lost Harbor since Bash Rivers moved back. I’m really good at keeping secrets, wanna know why?”
“Something tells me this is going to be good.”
“It’s thanks to the imaginary friend I had when I was little. I learned pretty quickly that if I shared any of our secrets, people looked at me strangely.” She cocked her head at him. “You know, sometimes you remind me of him. He could be kind of grumpy too.”
“Your imaginary friend was a boy? Are you sure it wasn’t Ralphie?”
“Don’t be mean. Of course it wasn’t Ralphie. I only played with Herrington on the days Ralphie’s mama didn’t bring him to our house.”
“So in other words, they’ve never been seen in the same place at the same time?”
She cast him a scathing look. “My imaginary friend was part fish. He wasn’t Ralphie. Herring-ton. Get it?”
“Fascinating. Part fish. Why was he part fish?”
“That’s a ridiculous question to ask. Would you ask a real person that? Just because Herrington was imaginary doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve respect.”
He had to laugh at that. Ruthie was one of a kind, that was for sure. “Apologies to Herrington. If you see him again, tell him I’m sorry.”
They passed a small group of brewery customers lingering outside the yurt where the tables were set up. They were clowning around giving each other piggyback rides and taking selfies. Hoots of laughter floated through the grass-scented night air.
Their happiness gave Alastair a pleasant sense of satisfaction. His potstickers and smoked salmon toast points had probably contributed to their good time. Even though he’d stumbled into restaurant work rather than sought it out, he liked putting a smile on his customers’ faces. For a time, that had been his only joy in life.
“Of course I don’t see Herrington anymore,” Ruthie was saying. “But I wonder what age he’d be if I did? Did he age along with me?”
“Can you summon him? How did it happen when you were little?”
“I really don’t know. I was alone a lot, you know. That’s what happens when you have artists for parents. They get wrapped up in projects. I’d get lonely, and then I’d look up and suddenly Herrington would be there. Dripping seawater on the floor. Anyway, I guess I don’t need him now. I have you. You don’t disappear when other people are around. Generally you don’t drip on the floor, either.” With a wink, she pulled open the screen door of the homestead and slipped inside.
Shifting the bin of dishes to his hip, he followed after her. How did he feel about being Ruthie’s new and improved imaginary friend? Fine, he decided. However they labeled their relationship, he enjoyed it.
As he stepped inside the homestead, Chrissie came forward to take the bin from him. The entire ground floor of the space was filled with kitchen and brewing equipment, which must be quite a change for Chrissie. She’d grown up in this house with her eccentric inventor grandfather. After he’d left it to her, she’d come back to Lost Harbor with the intention of selling the entire 140-acre property.
But then she’d met Dr. Ian Finnegan, neurosurgeon, and fallen in love and decided to transform the property into a destination spot for anyone interested in an authentic Alaskan experience.
“I’m cleaning up!” Ruthie announced. “No arguments.”
“I’m not arguing. Are you arguing, Alastair?”
“No chance.”
He lingered by the front door while Ruthie rolled up her sleeves and headed for the kitchen. “Anything I should know about before I head for bed?” he asked Chrissie.
“Nothing we can’t cover in our next team meeting. Tomorrow,” she reminded him when he looked at her blankly.
“Hell’s bells.” That damn letter had made him forget all about the weekly meeting. “Thanks for the reminder.”
“End-of-summer brain,” she explained. “It always happens around here. We all run around like insomniac chickens all summer long and we’re burnt to a crisp by August.”
“Sounds like you just called me a crispy fried chicken. Gives me an idea for tomorrow’s menu, so thanks.”
She laughed at him, her blue eyes sparkling. “You’re a gem. I don’t know how we got so lucky to hire you as our chef, but I’m grateful every day.”
Ruthie popped her head in from the kitchen. He noticed she already had a blob of soap suds on her face. She was incapable of washing dishes without making a mess. “Oooh, is it time to suck up to Alastair?”
“Yes, do you have something to add?”
“No, but if it is, I’ll put my headphones on and listen to a murder podcast.” She made a sassy face at him and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Chrissie shook her head in amusement. “Half the time you two are like squabbling toddlers, the other half you’re BFFs. It’s hard to keep track.”
“You left out the half where I’m imaginary,” he murmured. But he didn’t elaborate when she looked puzzled, then said goodbye a moment after that.
He strolled to his newly purchased twenty-year-old Toyota pickup truck with the broken dashboard. No clock, no radio, sketchy transmission. It was the first vehicle he’d ever owned, so he loved it anyway. In New York, he hadn’t needed a car, and in Scotland he’d been too young to drive. But it was hard to function in Lost Harbor without one—unless you were Boris Clancy, who rode his bike everywhere—so he’d purchased this dilapidated vehicle after he’d committed to the chef job here.
Did that count as putting down roots? Hardly, because he could simply drive the truck out of here whenever he wanted. He could drive it all the way back to New York, if he chose. His old restaurant probably wouldn’t hire him back—they’d gotten irritated by all the time he’d spent on his sister’s investigation. But he could get another—
The truth hit him like a pie in the face. He didn’t need another job. He’d never need one again. As soon as he signed the paperwork and everything was processed, he’d be a multimillionaire. He could go anywhere and do anything.