Perfect Partners

were a universal problem that cut across all social boundaries. And the Anchor existed to serve both the high and the low.
    In a larger town a man in Escott’s position might have found another place to do his serious drinking, but in Echo Cove, there was not much choice.
    Escott was sitting on a stool at the end of the bar, hunched over a whiskey in the best traditional style. He was wearing a maroon and white V-necked sweater and cuffed trousers. The outfit did set him apart, sartorially speaking, Joel decided. Most of the rest of the clientele in the Anchor were dressed in heavy work boots, denim pants, and plaid shirts.
    Joel felt a brief jolt of pity for Escott. It could not have been easy being married to the princess of Echo Cove. And working for Victor Copeland was probably sheer unadulterated hell. It occurred to Joel that he had had one heck of a narrow escape fifteen years earlier.
    It was not the first time that thought had flashed through his mind. Not that the realization changed anything.
    Fifteen years ago he’d had some crazy notion of trying to rescue Diana from her golden cage. She’d encouraged him to think she needed him to snatch her away from her domineering father and carry her off on his white horse.
    Convinced he was in love and that his love was reciprocated, Joel had vowed to play knight-errant. He could only shake his head in disgust now over his youthful naïveté.
    Diana had not needed or wanted rescuing. She had just been looking for a taste of the forbidden, and Joel Blackstone was definitely on her father’s list of forbidden things.
    Joel was not in a conversational mood tonight. He scanned the row of stools at the bar and chose one at the opposite end from where Keith Escott sat.
    “What’ll it be?” the stout, balding bartender demanded.
    Joel looked at him. “I’ll have a beer, Stan. Whatever you’ve got on draft these days. Not the light stuff.”
    Stan frowned blankly. “Do I know you?” Then his furrowed brow cleared. “Hell, it’s you, Blackstone. Heard you was back in town. Working for that Thornquist woman or something, ain’t you?”
    Joel set his teeth. “Yeah. Something like that.”
    “Is it true about Thornquist Gear ownin’ a chunk of Copeland Marine?”
    “It’s true.”
    Stan rested his elbow on the bar and leaned closer. He kept his voice low as he picked up a glass and started polishing it. “There’s a rumor goin’ ‘round that Thornquist Gear is gonna shut down Copeland’s yard.”
    “I see the rumor mill still works real well here in Echo Cove. You going to get me that beer, Stan, or do I get it myself?”
    Stan sighed and pushed himself erect. He shoved the glass he had been polishing under the nearest spigot and pulled the lever. When the glass was full and foaming, he set it in front of Joel. “So?”
    “So what?”
    “So is the rumor true or what?”
    “It’s true.”
    “Christ Almighty.” The whispered words were a fervent prayer. Stan shook his head in despair. “It’s gonna kill the town.”
    Joel scowled into his beer. “Blame Copeland. He’s the one who got his yard into a financial mess. Thornquist Gear has kept him afloat for the past year. Can’t expect me…” Joel cleared his throat with a swallow of beer. “Can’t expect us to go on rescuing him forever.”
    Stan’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “You never were too fond of Copeland, were you?”
    “You know anyone who is?”
    Stan’s gaze locked on to Joel’s. “So he’s an s.o.b. Most guys in his position are, if you ask me. One thing I’ll say for him—he’s kept a lot of people in this town working for the past thirty-some years.”
    “He didn’t keep everyone working, Stan,” Joel said softly. “Some people got fired real easy, as I recall.”
    Stan was quiet for a moment. “What the hell did you expect after he caught you messing around with his daughter?”
    Joel shrugged. “I figured he’d probably try to beat the crap out of me. Run me out of town.”
    “So you got off light. He didn’t beat the crap out of you.”
    “He tried.” Flashes of the grim scene in the old barn went through Joel’s head. “Used a length of solid teak that he brought with him from the yard.”
    Stan eyed Joel thoughtfully. He picked up another glass and started polishing it. “I didn’t hear about that part. I take it you survived.”
    “Mostly because he was almost as big and slow fifteen years ago as he is now,” Joel admitted.
    “So he fired