I wailed to Chantilly, with both of us standing over the spilled tray of pulled pork in the trunk of Boone’s car, now parked at the Old Harbor Inn. “There’s barbecue sauce and meat everywhere. It’s a big sloppy mess. Boone really is going to kill me.” I cut my eyes to Chantilly. “And I’m not going down alone. You talked me into this.” “Hey, it’s all your fault,” Chantilly wailed back at me. “You took the turn too fast.” “You said we were late and we had to hurry.” “Not drive like a maniac.” Chantilly swiped back her hair and pulled in a deep breath. “Okay, we can fix this. I’m thinking Boone probably never opens the trunk, and to make sure we’ll glue it shut and . . . and the car’s going to smell amazing and guys love barbecue, right, so that part works and right now we got bigger problems.” “To tell you the truth I can’t think of a one,” Lamar, our friendly valet, said from behind us.
