I ladled chowder into mugs. My hair got moist from the soup’s steam. My sweatshirt had the smell of burnt hickory.

Behind me stood Pat Gilly, a lobsterman from the village. In his fist he squeezed a bulky stein that brimmed with frothy beer. Pat had ginger hair, freckles, a lot of size.

For the third time he said, “By God, I love your big ass, Paige.”

“Thank you again, Pat.”

“This is the worst since seventy-eight. In that one, we lost every tree in our yard and half the roof of our house. What a girl you are, tall as I am, only smart.”

“Thanks, Pat. Drink up.”

I loaded two more cups of chowder and passed them to Heather, the brawny teenager from the rock band. She’d been helping me.

“I like bein’ your assistant, but I miss my shaking stick,” Heather said. “It burned up.”

“We’ll get you another. Just take those around and hand them to somebody,” I said.

“I’m beach trash,” said Pat Gilly.

“Me too,” I said.

Pat said, “But I’m God-fearing. I fear God and I pray. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Me neither. You should go check on your kids, Pat. See that they have blankets and pillows and something to eat.”

“They ate. They ate before the wagon brought us over,” Pat said.

“Then you could make sure each has had his goodnight kick in the head,” I said.

“Look at your ass,” Pat said. “You are the girlie!”

“Pat, here comes your wife. I think it’s your wife and she’s gonna hear you praising my buttocks.”

“She ain’t here, she dropped over in the saloon. Anyway, she knows I like your big butt.”

“I’m careless with hot stuff. Really sloppy with it. You should stay back,” I said.

Dottie surfaced in the kitchen, dusting her palms, her face flushed and merry. “Everybody’s fed, just about. We have three more arriving from the Will O’Lee Rest Home. The Petkin boys are out on ski-mobiles collecting folks. I’m giving away gallons of beer. Want me to help bowl that chowder?”

“No, but you could kill Pat for me. All he’ll talk about is my can.”

“In jest, Dot,” Pat Gilly said.

“Act right,” she told him.

“With Paige? Hell, I’m friends with her husband. Raf and me are great friends!”

“Shut up about him,” I said, and left the kitchen.

In the taproom, there were twenty or so blanket cocoons on the floor. People stood or leaned. Couples held on to one another. Two Gilly children squirted by.

I saw a few older women from the village. “So kind of your mother,” one said as I passed.

A second asked, “Sweetheart? Do you have any aspirin?”

“In a minute. Can you wait a little bit?”

“Cold twists my bones,” the woman said.

I stepped over a body wrapped in an afghan.