Queen V.'s Arc

Chapter 3 of 13

Queen V. woke Friday morning to the sound of glass clinking against glass. She walked to the kitchen window and saw water pooling along the property line, twenty-three cases of Molson floating in the runoff from last night's rain. Hank's shack must have flooded. She pulled on her boots and walked outside. The cases were stacked three high in some places, tipped sideways in others, spreading across the grass like a cardboard dam. Some had split open, bottles rolling toward her garden house. She could already picture it: her guests arriving at three, the caterer's van pulling up to this mess, the woman from Alberta stepping out and seeing beer cases where the rosé table view should be. Queen V. pulled out her phone and called Paul. "I need the utility bin from town. The big one. And I need it here in an hour." When the bin arrived, she positioned it directly on the property line, wheels locked. Then she walked to Hank's porch and knocked. He opened the door in bare feet, holding a coffee mug. "Your beer is on my property," she said. "You have until noon to move it into that bin, or I'm doing it myself." She didn't wait for an answer. Back at her own place, she hammered a wooden sign into the ground beside the bin: ALCOHOL NOT PERMITTED. The letters were thick and black. Anyone driving up would see it before they saw the garden house. By eleven-thirty, Hank had moved eighteen cases into the bin. Five remained, stacked neatly on his side of the line. Queen V. stood at the kitchen window and watched him drag the last one onto his porch. The grass was clear. The bin was full and sealed. She texted the caterer: "Setup at 1pm as planned." Then she walked to the garden house and checked the sight line from the door. No beer. No bottles. Just glass walls, the fire pit, and the lake beyond. She locked the bin and pocketed the key.