“Yet,” Britt says in a sing-song voice and with a gleeful chuckle. “Sharky’s is going to be a clusterfuck, but they always find space for me.”
I’m so glad she doesn’t push for more information, and we wade our way to Sharky’s through the steady stream of visitors. The fair is now in full swing, and we pass Miss Ashleigh Lake, a beautiful teenager perched on the front of a horse-drawn buggy decorated with ribbons and flowers, the only vehicle allowed on the street.
“When did that happen?” I ask Britt as we step onto the sidewalk.
“Last night. Friday night before the fair is always the Miss Ashleigh Lake crowning at the country club. It’s more for the younger crowd, thank god.”
We watch the buggy go past and Britt shakes her head. “Tonight she gets to open the dance floor at the clubhouse and they’ll auction off her first dance for charity.”
“Sounds like fun. Or not. Poor girl.”
“I know, right? That tradition is over seventy years old but don’t worry, they’ve changed it so that the old guys with money have the winning bid, but she gets to pick who she dances with.”
“Phew.”
“Yep. Keeping the creep factor out if you know what I mean. We like our traditions here, but we’re also good at letting things go that were great seventy years ago but now just seem gross.”
Once inside Sharky’s, we get drinks at the bar and make our way to the deck, where we sit down on a bench to wait for a table. It doesn’t take us long to be seated, and we order lunch.
“Have you heard from the company you’re planning to work for in September?” Britt asks as we hand back our menus to the waiter.
“Yes. It isn’t happening.”
“Gosh. You’re looking for something else?”
“I’ve put out some feelers, but so far nothing.”
“You don’t seem too worried. I suppose the tiny house is taking up all your worry space.”
“Not really. With Raiden in charge, there’s not much to worry about.”
“That’s great to hear. You two get along now?”
“You could say so.”
“Hmm. It’s the best when he feels so comfortable around you that he stops stuttering.”
“Yes.” Don’t I know it. Raiden and I have crossed that territory into something much more intimate.
“He never used to stutter, you know,” Britt says. “When he woke up in the hospital after the accident, he initially didn’t speak. When he eventually did, he stuttered so badly nobody could make out a word of what he was saying.”
“God.” I never thought how Raiden got his stutter, but after everything he told me last night and the visual it created in my head, a chill scrambles down my spine at Britt’s words. It sounds like a PTSD reaction to the trauma of the accident, his own issues with dyslexia, his dad’s singing voice, and mom’s eyes forever on him.
“I don’t know Raiden that well, but I’ve worked for Hunter for almost six years now and I’ve learned some things along the way.”
“I bet you did.” It’s clear Raiden got speech therapy at some point, but I’ve wondered if he gave up on it or got to a point where he could mostly manage it. For some reason I don’t want to discuss him with Britt anymore and deflect. “Are you still keen to go work somewhere else? I know we spoke about Miami a few weeks ago and that you should visit me.” At the current rate, with me not going home, that isn’t going to happen, but I’ll wait a couple of weeks before I put that out there.
“I’d love to go somewhere else, even for a little while.”
“My best friend’s mother owns a recruitment agency. I bet she could help you spruce up your résumé and help you find something in Miami. After all, you do have a lot of experience already and I bet Hunter would give you a glowing reference.”
“Are you for real?”
“Of course. Hunter might not approve, but—”
“He’d find somebody, for sure. He plans to expand and will have to recruit in any case.”
Our food arrives and we both dig in like two marathon runners. After lunch, we walk through the bottleneck to the small fairground that’s been set up for the weekend on an open field.