Page 131 of Just One Little Bargain

“I have asked. That’s how I know.”

I slide into the gap between the pair of them and the porch, where Evie is bent over a plate of pastries, blessedly deaf to all of it.

Gravel crunches, and a patrol car rolls up the drive.

Lucas Vaughan climbs out, shuts the door with his hip, and surveys the gathering with resigned amusement. He gives the impression that very little surprises him, though I’ve learned that beneath the jokes, he misses almost nothing.

“Peter. Maureen.” He says it mildly, but both of them straighten anyway. “Got a call about a vehicle blocking the turn at the bottom of the lane. Wouldn’t happen to be your green sedan, would it, Maureen?”

“That’s not blocking anything.” But she’s already backing down the path.

“Then this should be a nice, quick conversation.”

“There’s plenty of room if people know how to drive.”

“I’ll be sure to note that in the report.”

Maureen narrows her eyes, but Lucas only smiles.

“We’ll finish this later,” she tells me.

He turns to Peter. “Frank’s been trying to get hold of you. Something about a delivery. Says it’s urgent.”

“Frank didn’t mention any—”

“Urgent,” Lucas repeats.

Peter goes, casting one last mournful look at the camera.

Once they’re out of earshot, Lucas’s grin widens. “There was no delivery.”

“I gathered.”

His gaze drops to the container in my hands, then to Evie.

“So you live here now?”

“Just while I help out Evie.”

His radio crackles.

“Lucas, we’ve got another one on Maple. Mrs. Whitmore says the goat’s back.”

He closes his eyes. “Inside or on the porch?”

Static, then, “Kitchen.”

“Four times this month,” he tells me, already reaching for the car door. He drops into the seat and leans out the open window. “Call the station if this lot gets out of hand again.”

Caroline arrives at eleven thirty with an armful of chrysanthemums in rust, wine, and burnt orange, the stems bundled in brown paper already darkening where the water has soaked through.

I’ve followed Evie through the market often enough that Caroline has stopped treating me like a visitor and started handing me crates, sacks, and unsolicited opinions. Three produce runs and six bags of compost later, she apparently decided I understood Brindlewood sufficiently to be trusted.

She sails past Evie, who is brokering an uneasy peace between Zia and the position of the sun, and comes to me instead, unloading the flowers into my arms.

“They grow up so fast.” She watches Evie work, one hand shading her eyes. “I remember her at seventeen, dragging laundry through that door in a basket twice her size and ordering grown men out of her way.”

“She’s still bossy,” I offer.