Byron said, holding his tumbler of rum out for a three-man salute. Harold grinned, and the old deck boards creaked under his weight as he shifted in his rocker to clink glasses with Byron. “And here’s to not getting in trouble for it.” Feeling a little warm under the collar, despite the cool fall breeze that would soon drive the three poker-playing buddies inside until next year’s Spring Fling, Errol adjusted his shirt and watched the last of the autumn leaves fall to the ground. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” he said, thinking how he’d nearly gotten into trouble with Adam. Lord, the boy had looked like he was about to throttle him when he found out he’d tweaked the dang psychic reading. Byron and Harold both laughed out loud and tossed a handful of chips into the center of the table, but Errol threw his cards down, leaned back in his rocking chair and folded his arms across his chest.
