“As requested,” he says, placing the box in my arms.
Inside, clanging together like tangled wind chimes, are a dozen bottles of various colors. The deep crimson of pinot noir. The honey brown of bourbon. The pristine clarity of dry gin.
“Pace yourself,” Eli says. “I won’t be making another trip until next week. And if you breathe a word of this to your mother, I’m cutting you off. The last thing I need is an angry phone call from Lolly Fletcher telling me I’m a bad influence.”
“But you are a bad influence.”
Eli smiles in spite of himself. “It takes one to know one.”
Know me he does. During my childhood, Eli was an unofficial summer uncle, always in my life between Memorial Day and Labor Day, mostly forgotten the rest of the year. That didn’t change much in adulthood, when I visited Lake Greene less frequently. Sometimes years would pass between visits, but whenever I returned, Eli would still be here, quick with a warm smile, a tight hug, and whatever favor I needed. Back then, it was showing me how to build a campfire and properly roast a marshmallow. Now it’s illicit trips to the liquor store.
We retreat into the house, me burdened with the box of bottles and Eli carrying the grocery bag. In the kitchen, we unpack everything and prepare to make dinner. It’s part of the deal we made my first night back here: I cook dinner anytime he brings me booze.
I like the arrangement, and not just because of the alcohol. Eli is good company, and it’s nice to have someone else to cook for. When it’s just me, I make whatever’s fast and easy. Tonight’s dinner, on the other hand, is salmon, roasted acorn squash, and wild rice. Once everything’s unpacked and two glasses of wine have been poured, I preheat the oven and get to cooking.
“I met the next-door neighbor,” I say as I grab the largest, sharpest blade from the wooden knife block on the countertop and start cutting the acorn squash. “Why didn’t you tell me there was someone staying at the Mitchell place?”
“I didn’t think you’d care.”
“Of course I care. There are only two houses on this side of the lake. If someone else is in one of them—especially a stranger—I’d like to be aware of it. Is there someone staying at the Fitzgerald house I need to know about?”
“The Fitzgerald place is empty, as far as I know,” Eli says. “As for Boone, I thought it would be best if the two of you didn’t meet.”
“Why?”
I think I already know the answer. Eli met Boone, learned he was a recovering alcoholic, and decided it was wise to keep me away from him.
“Because his wife died,” Eli says instead.
Surprise stills the knife, stuck deep within the squash. “When?”
“A year and a half ago.”
Because Boone told me he’s been sober a year, I assume the six months after his wife’s death were a self-destructive blur. Not quite the same situation as mine, but close enough to make me feel like shit for the way I behaved earlier.
“How?” I say.
“I didn’t ask and he didn’t volunteer the information,” Eli says. “But I guess I thought it would be best if you two didn’t cross paths. I was afraid it would dredge up bad memories. For both of you.”
“Bad memories are already here,” I say. “They’re everywhere I look.”
“Then maybe—” Eli pauses. It’s brief. Like the tentative halt a firewalker makes just before stepping onto pulsing-hot coals. “Maybe I thought you wouldn’t be the best influence on him.”
There it is. The ugly truth at last. Even though I suspected it, it doesn’t mean I like hearing it.
“Says the man who just brought me a case of booze,” I say.
“Because you asked me to,” Eli says, bristling. “I’m not judging you, Casey. You’re a grown woman. The choices you make are none of my business. But Boone Conrad has been sober a year. You—”
“Haven’t been,” I say, mostly so Eli doesn’t have to.
He nods, both in agreement and in thanks. “Exactly. So maybe it’s best if you keep away from each other. For both of your sakes.”
Despite being rankled by what he said, I’m inclined to agree with Eli. I have my reasons for drinking, and Boone has his for not. Whatever they are, I’m sure they’re not compatible with mine.
“Deal,” I say. “Now give me a hand. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small talk and hurt feelings left unexpressed.