piles of what appeared to be little beanbags. The sheriff was standing near these with a group of men who were smoking cigars.
Molly wasn’t sure what game this was, but she didn’t particularly care, either. Her gaze was glued to John Hartwell, who apparently planned to play . . . at least if the fact that he was peeling off his well-fitting jacket was any indication.
Molly’s knees suddenly felt weak. She looked around for somewhere to sit, but as they were out on the beach, there was nowhere to sit except on the ground, and she didn’t want to get sand in Joanne’s beautiful sequined dress (which had been too loose on Joanne and was subsequently a little too tight on Molly, especially now that she’d had so many crab claws).
“May I?” asked a voice to her right, and Molly turned to see Patrick—also known as Lady Patricia, the drag queen who volunteered at the library to read at Story Time—offering to lay his tuxedo jacket down upon the sand for her to sit on.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” Molly was mortified.
“Please do.” Patrick took a seat on the sand beside the folded jacket. “I was broiling in that thing, anyway. And I’d hate for you to ruin that lovely frock.”
“Well . . .” Molly looked down at the tempting folded jacket. In front of her, the sheriff was loosening his tie and undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. It was a white button-down short-sleeved shirt. She could see how closely the darkly tanned curves of his biceps filled those short sleeves.
Molly sat with a thump, spilling a little of her champagne.
Patrick glanced at her with amusement. “See something over there—or should I say someone—that interests you?”
“Not at all,” Molly replied, more firmly than she meant to. She took a restorative sip of her champagne and then asked, hoping to change the subject, “What game is it exactly that they’re about to play?”
Patrick had been taking a sip of the martini he’d brought along with him, which he now nearly spat out in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of cornhole.”
“Of course I have.” Had she? It was hard for her to remember anything when John Hartwell was standing just a few yards away, looking so tall and attractive in the waning light of the sun. “It’s, uh . . .”
“I can see that you’ve led a very sheltered life, tucked away behind all those books, Molly Montgomery.”
Molly didn’t feel like correcting him. People always thought this about librarians—that they were introverts who only wanted to stay indoors and read. Of course, this was true of some of them.
But Molly had always had a very active social life. Even when she’d been studying for her degrees, then working, she’d still made time for fun. That’s how she’d met her ex, Eric, a dark-eyed radiologist with whom she’d been teamed up at a local brewery’s trivia night, and with whom she’d always trounced the competition. He’d known everything about sports and science, and she’d known everything about pop culture and literature. All their friends had been sure they were made for each other.
It was only after they’d gotten engaged and begun discussing their future that she’d realized a talent for trivia was the only thing they had in common.
“Of course, this is charity cornhole,” Patrick was saying, “not regular cornhole. The object of this particular version of the game is to toss as many beanbags as you can into the hole. Whoever gets the kitty wins the pot, which our generous donor—in this case, the Little Bridge State Bank—then matches. The winner traditionally then donates their winnings back to the Red Cross, or some other charity of their choice. But on one or two occasions”—he sent a dark look in the direction of the men to whom the sheriff was talking—“players have been known to keep it.”
Shocked, Molly raised her eyebrows. “Really? Someone’s kept money meant to be donated for charity? Who would do such a thing?”
“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, but our city planner.” He pointed at one of the men to whom the sheriff was speaking, and Molly realized she recognized him because of the frequency with which his name and photo appeared in The Gazette’s “Cheers and Jeers” section—Randy Jamison, who was well known for delaying or even denying building permits for no good reason, including many the new library had needed. For this he often received “jeers.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “That doesn’t sound very sporting.”
“No,