Page 45 of Never Invite a Vampire to Dinner

CHAPTER 10

“Butter,” Lucy says three days after the storm. The power is back everywhere, the dory has been removed from the roof of the bait shed, and Theo has enough temporary decking down that the Widow’s Lantern can resume serving people who apparently suffered greatly from having to drink beer twenty feet farther inland.

“You’ve written butter on this list four times, Pen,” she adds. “In four different places. In two different pens.”

“I know.”

“And then you came home without any butter.”

“I am aware of the butter situation,” I say, “and I would like the room to move on.”

Lucy has already found the list, read the list, and photographed the list. She is sitting on my prep counter, which I have asked her repeatedly not to do since I moved into the building, and she has no intention of moving on.

“Day one,” she says.

“Don’t.”

“The day after the storm you stood in your own walk-in for ten minutes.”

“I went in there for something.”

“You have never established what.”

“It was a cold day and I lost track.”

“It’s a walk-in, Penny. It’s cold by design.” She hops down. “Yesterday, you smiled at a bin of shallots. You made an excellent hollandaise and then couldn’t remember doing it. This morning you forgot the butter.”

I look at the ceiling of a building I have owned for nine years and in which I am supposed to be a professional.

“There’s an explanation,” I say.

“There had better be.”

Here’s the thing about being a terrible liar. There’s no defense available. There is only the speed at which you give in, and I give in at roughly the speed of light.

“Julian and I have been kissing.”

Lucy sets both coffees down on my counter with tremendous care. I have learned over twenty years to be frightened of that. Then she screams at a volume that brings Young Dennett from the boatyard next door to my loading door to check whether anyone has lost a hand.

“We’re fine, Denny,” I promise, considering murder.

“Sounded like a hand,” says Denny, looking almost disappointed before he leaves.

“Ten dollars,” Lucy says when she can talk.

“That’s what you took from that?”

“It’s not the only thing I took from that. It’s just the part I can put in my wallet.” She grabs my wrist. “Sit down. Start at the beginning and don’t skip anything.”

I skip a great deal. She knows I’m skipping and lets me do it anyway, which is one of the best things about Lucy Carver and always has been. At the end she goes quiet for a second, which she does about four times a year.

“Was it good?”

I have to put my face in my hands.

“Oh,” says Lucy, delighted. “Oh, no.”

“We’re not having sex.”