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“Ignore him,” I said, stacking the glassware under the bar.
“I’ve thought about it,” he said, scratching his beard. “You’re fired.”
I rolled my eyes. “You fire me at least once a week. Who else is gonna close for you tonight?”
“Nah. This time I mean it. When I hired you, it was only because you promised you would get out of here. You swore to me you’d move on to bigger and better things.”
“And I’m doing just that. When I’m not behind this bar, I’m busting my ass doing research.”
“But now you’re stuck with a Gagnon boy. And not even one of the good ones with the good jobs and educations. Nope, you got the youngest.”
Lydia laughed. “Now Jim, that’s not fair.”
“Life ain’t fair, missy. We all had such high hopes for Hazel.”
“Deliver these to the bikers down at the end of the bar,” I said, pushing three drafts at him and shooing him with my hands. “You’re not firing me. And quit distracting me. I’m not here to make friends.”
He laughed. “Good. I hate friends.”
“Me too. They slow me down.”
He collected the beers and headed toward the other end of the bar, but halfway there, he turned and pinned me with a look over his shoulder. “Maybe you aren’t as dumb as I thought.”
The weather had been mild, and people were in a generous mood that night, if my tip jar was any indication. I was rushing around making drinks, wiping down the bar, and mentally planning a trip to Bangor so I could buy more supportive shoes before next weekend when Jim caught my arm.
“Can you deliver a food order to booth three?” he asked, pouring a draft and nodding to the order waiting in the kitchen window.
I nodded, slinging my towel over my shoulder and heading that way.
Plates balanced, I weaved between tables, headed for the table of men speaking in hushed voices. As I approached, they fell silent and stared at me. Mitch Hebert held court in the middle of the corner booth, flanked by his younger brother, Paul, and a few cronies I didn’t recognize.
The Heberts were sort of like the Kennedys of Lovewell. An old timber family and by far the richest, with the most land. They even owned their own mill a few towns over—the opening of which was one of the reasons the mill here in town closed in the nineties, costing us hundreds of jobs and devastating most of the town.
Mitch Hebert walked around town with his nose in the air, like he was better than the rest of us. His hair was dyed black and slicked back, his fingers covered with gaudy rings, and he wore the kind of smirk that suggested he was really, really pleased with himself.
He had five sons. They’d gone to school with us, every one of them the epitome of a spoiled rich kid. Always traveling to hockey tournaments or getting new trucks for their sixteenth birthdays. Their charmed lives couldn’t have been more different from how Dylan and I had grown up.
And so I’d always harbored a low-level disgust for the family. They’d never done anything to me personally, but the Gagnons hated them. There was bad blood between the families going back at least a few decades, and both sides stayed far away from one another.
Mitch ran his business with Paul. A shorter, dumber version of his brother, who drove around town in a Mercedes G wagon and was known to have too many drinks and then sexually harass half the female population of Lovewell. I’d had to cut him off several times in the last few weeks, and he was a shit tipper to boot.
They made my skin crawl. So it was no surprise when Mitch whistled at me like a goddamn dog to get another round. Bastard. He was lucky I was too classy to seriously contemplate spitting in their beers.
How unfair that people like him got to roam this earth with their money and status and comfort while hardworking, loving people like Mr. Gagnon or my sweet grandma were taken too soon.
These days, the younger Hebert boys kept a low profile. A couple of them had moved away. One was a plumber, and I think another joined the military. Remy had mentioned working with the oldest, Gus, out in the woods a few times, though he hadn’t elaborated.
I was grateful. The fewer assholes in this town, the better. Rural communities like ours had enough problems. We didn’t need entitled shitheads running around, making life harder for the rest of us. But the Heberts were everywhere. Always throwing money around, putting their names on things, and reminding the rest of the hard-working citizens that they were better than us.
I forced a smile as I returned with the round of beers.
“One more, Hazel, dear,” a voice called from behind me, then Chief Souza slid into the booth to my right, giving me a wink. Our chief of police was a graying man who had been in his position for longer than I’d been alive. As an adult and a public health professional, he was ineffective at best, but I could never dislike him. He had shown great kindness to Dylan and me, as well as my mom, several times throughout my childhood.
“Of course, Chief,” I said. He was a regular, so I didn’t bother asking what he’d like. Allagash White—he only drank local beer—and a glass of soda water with lime.
“How’s the research going?” he asked kindly, then turned to his companions. “Not sure if you know, but Hazel here is a brilliant student on her way to a doctorate. She’s an opioid expert, and my office has been helping her connect with some of the bigwigs in the state for her research.”
I forced a smile. Helping was an overstatement. He’d given me a few phone numbers, and then he’d shrugged when I asked for drug arrest data, saying he’d get to it. So I wasn’t holding my breath.
