11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

The meeting of the island elders was being held at the community center, which was just down the road from the Town Center Grocery Store.

Dom and Wyatt had to stay at the restaurant and work, and Jagger agreed to watch the kids, so it was just Bennett and Clint who climbed into Clint's truck and headed to the meeting.

When he'd arrived all frazzled, out of breath and sore from the mental self-flagellation, Bennett informed him that the rumor-mill was busy on the island. And the interest in Bonn Remmen's land was keen. Everybody wanted it.

Clint's heart deflated until it resembled nothing more than a six-month-old balloon that had swirled behind the couch, clinging to the last molecules of air that were slowly seeping from the pinprick hole in its side.

"Shit," Bennett murmured when they pulled into the packed parking lot. "Everybody has the same goddamn idea."

"Never seen an elder's meeting this packed before," Clint replied.

He circled the parking lot, but all the spaces were full, so he pulled back out onto the road and found street parking on the shoulder a hundred yards down the way. It was still light out since they were in early May and the days were just getting longer. People—most Clint recognized—walked the road from their vehicles toward the grass-roofed community center. Half a dozen goats lazily chewed grass from their keen vantage point on the roof, some of them eyeing the visitors with interest, but most of them just ignoring everyone.

For as long as Clint could remember, the community center on the island had goats on the grass roof. It was one of the many tourist attractions, and there was a small petting farm behind the center as well. From what he could tell, at least two of the nannies were sporting wide bellies, which meant they would be giving birth to kids soon. He'd have to bring Talia and the other children by to visit once the babies were born.

Conversations inside the community center—with its open double doors—turned into nothing but loud white noise that became almost deafening the closer they got.

"Standing room only now," said one older gentleman, a fishing guide located on the north side of the island. He couldn't remember his name, though. It was unusual and quite possibly made up. Zepploid? Gromoid? He was pretty sure the guy's name had -oid at the end of it.

"Thanks, Lloyd," Bennett said, slapping the man on the shoulder as he pushed his way through first.

Well, Clint wasn't wrong: the man's name did have -oid at the end of it; it just wasn't unusual.

Bennett knew even more people on the island than Clint did. And Jagger knew more than Bennett. But it made sense since those two handled the cabins and the tourists, so they made sure they had amicable relationships with all the activity and sight-seeing establishments. They recommended each other. It was win-win for all. Clint was back of house and hated small-talk. He knew a lot of people, but when he could, he stayed in his brewery away from people and their endless questions.

Bennett was half an inch taller than Clint, but they both towered over most people inside as they made their way to a patch of empty wall along the far-east side of the center. Folding chairs were set up in rows in the gym, but there was a butt in every single one. And there was barely any standing room left either.

"As good a place as any," Bennett murmured, leaning back against the wall.

Clint sidled up beside him, and they pressed themselves as thin as they could, so people who had been behind them could pass through the pencil-tight row and find their own place to stand.

"You gonna be okay?" Bennett asked. "I can stay if you need to step outside, away from the crowd."

Bennett wasn't wrong in assuming Clint would be on edge.

Because he was.

He'd never been a fan of crowds, but that loathing intensified after he had Talia, then quadrupled after Jacqueline died. Too many bad things happened in crowds. Children went missing, people got trampled, wayward bullets ended up killing innocent bystanders. And of course, crowds were where psychos with bombs and sniper rifles decided to take out their anger on society. Crowds were where common sense went to die. People abandoned all sense of consideration and altruism, and when shit hit the fan, they looked out for the nearest exit and number one, not caring who they stepped on to do it.

He took a deep breath. "I'll handle it for now. But if it goes on too long, I might need to leave."

Bennett nodded. "Okay."

A few friendly waves and head bobs of acknowledgement occurred as people continued to filter in. But eventually, the meeting was called to order.

The elder at the center of the long table always changed. There was no "leader"; they were a collective of equals, so it rotated monthly who "ran" the meeting. Hattie Granger was in the middle this time, her frail and bony hand wrapped tightly around the gavel. As always, her long gray hair fell down her back in two long braids. She wore peacock feather earrings that nearly touched her shoulders, and her dress was probably handmade—by her—and looked to be an array of fabric scraps sewn together like a patchwork quilt. It hung off her slender frame like a gunny sac.

Hattie slammed the gavel onto the sound block with more force than Clint expected. The sound carried throughout the room, echoing off the walls. "I call this meeting to order," she said in a scratchy voice. Over the last few years, since all the elders were getting on in age, they'd invested in a small microphone system so they didn't have to holler.

The islanders all knew better than to not listen to the elders—or Hattie for that matter—so there was no need for her to bang the gavel a second time. The room quieted down immediately.

"We all know why we're here," Hattie said. Her thin bottom lip wobbled slightly, then she swallowed. "Bonn was sick. That was no secret. But his energy and love for this island convinced me that he would outlive us all. Her voice held a quaver to it now. Abe Jeffries, who sat next to Hattie, rubbed her back. "Bonn's wishes following his passing were very clear." She lifted a piece of paper from in front of her and cleared her throat.

"Well, I guess I'm dead now."

Snickers and hushed laughter flowed like a tide through the crowd.

Hattie smiled before she continued. "I had a good life. So don't any of you cry. If I find out you cried, I'll come back and haunt you. Don't think I won't. What else do I have to do now? I want a party. A big one. Celebrate. Dance. Drink. Be merry. I lived most of my life on this island, and more of you are like family than friends or strangers. I will miss you all. I've allocated funds for my party. Spend every penny. If there's money left over, I'll come back and haunt you."

More laughter.

"And finally, in regards to my land ..."

Hattie lifted her head.

The room went even quieter, and nearly everyone leaned forward to hear better. Breaths were held. Fingers were crossed.

Hell, buttholes were probably clenched, too.

Hattie continued. "My land is my land. I moved onto this island in nineteen sixty-five and barely left. I put a small house on it but kept most of the area as Mother Nature intended. I could leave my land in trust, but, honestly, even that worries me. The government ..."

Hattie lifted her head.

"He didn't say anything to elaborate on the government, but we all knew Bonn. We all know how he felt about Uncle Sam."

More murmurs of laughter.

"I want goodness. I want my land to be used to bring hope to the island. To continue on with the legacy and uniqueness that we have cultivated and preserved for decades."

Clint and Bennett exchanged looks.

Bonn could be so cryptic. He was also eccentric and quirky as fuck. It would come as a surprise to absolutely nobody if Bonn decided to make them all do some kind of competition to win his land. A feat of strength or something to prove their loyalty to the island.

Clint's hope of acquiring the land and expanding their business started to slip away like it was covered in seaweed.

"It will be the council's decision who gets the land. There will be no purchase. Just a transfer of title. For now, I put the land in trust with my fellow elders until they decide who is worthy. Who has the best, most honest intentions for my land. Who will keep its integrity." Hattie exhaled, rolled her eyes and shook her head, muttering, "He always did like to make things difficult for the rest of us, the old fucker."

But because of the microphone, the whole gymnasium heard her and erupted into laughter, which seemed to dissolve the growing tension.

Poor Hattie's cheeks went bright pink. But the other island elders were laughing and smiling with her. She also had tears in her eyes. A few of them did.

Clearing her throat, she set down the piece of paper and leaned forward to the microphone. The room went quiet, politely waiting to hear what she had to say next. "The council has decided—since Bonn didn't include any instructions in his will—that we will accept submissions from all interested parties until Labor Day. After that, we will observe and discuss. We have no deadline to decide. But we're all getting on in age, so we'd like this wrapped up quickly."

Abe Jeffries leaned forward, his salt-and-pepper beard touching the table. "However, if we need more time to decide, we'll take it. We're not rushing into this. Bonn's land was his only legacy. He has no family. No heirs. Whoever gets his land must honor Bonn and all that he brought to this island and community."

Hattie nodded in agreement. "Submissions with your plans for the land and how you intend to honor Bonn can be handed in here at the community center. We'll have a box at the front desk."

"Can't we just email it?" came a male voice from the crowd.

"Nope." Hattie shut him down real quick, which elicited more laughter from the crowd. "We're old school here."

Abe turned the microphone toward himself a little more. "The celebration of life for Bonn Remmen will be held in the field across from the Town Center Grocery Store this Saturday night. Bring pictures, stories and dry eyes. Food will be provided. As will drinks and other accoutrement to enhance your enjoyment. Since we all know how big a fan Bonn was of his out-of-body experiences."

The crowd jiggled with amusement.

"Children are welcome. Just be smart," Abe added.

Hattie gave one curt nod in agreement, then banged the gavel once more.

And that was that.

Meeting adjourned.

Almost the second Hattie hit the table with her gavel, the community center once again roared into an overwhelming din of white noise in the form of a million different conversations.

Clint's mind reeled at everything he'd just heard.

Bonn's land was going to be a gift. Meaning he and his brothers wouldn't have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to buy it. They'd just have to come up with the most convincing submission imaginable in order to win over the elders.

He caught snippets of conversations as he followed Bennett toward the door. It was bumper to bumper people inside the rec center and it was probably bumper to bumper in the parking lot, too.

Clint's nerves began to get the better of him.

It didn't help that as much as he loathed crowds, Jacqueline had been drawn to them. She'd loved festivals and concerts, parades and county fairs. Anything with lots of people, noise and energy, and she was in her happy place.

Meanwhile, Clint would rather saw off his own foot with a butter knife than go to a music festival or the county fair. It was just another way they'd been completely incompatible. Being in a crowd sent him into a state of panic. While she wanted nothing more than to spend time with dozens of people she didn't even know who could potentially trample her if things went sideways.

It didn't make sense to him when she was alive, and it made even less sense to him now. When their marriage was at its worst, she took every opportunity she could to go somewhere with a crowd. Deliberately putting tons of people between them. She was pushing him away while running into the arms of his biggest fear. It was nothing but a giant middle finger at him, their marriage and his very legitimate phobia. Now, crowds not only scared the shit out of him, but they made him bitter, too.

After Talia was born, his enochlophobia got even worse. He especially avoided taking his child anywhere there would be a crowd. But even without her, if he or Jacqueline got trampled, shot or blown up, then his kid would be an orphan. And now that she only had one parent, if anything happened to him, she'd definitely be an orphan.

It was just safer to avoid crowds.

Bennet craned his head around and lifted his brows at Clint. He knew Clint's hangups about crowds and was checking in.

Clint's body grew hot, his brain crackled like static, and he rubbed his thumbs and fingers together at his sides. He could see the parking lot over top of the heads of the crowd. He could feel the fresh air flowing in from outside, but he was trapped in a sea of slow-moving people. Everyone was on island time and had nowhere to be. So they trudged and meandered, sauntered and mozied.

He scanned the area for any sign of a threat.

There wouldn't be one.

Not here on the island.

This was the safest place to raise a child, in his opinion. But that didn't stop his mind from going to the worst-case scenario. From going dark.

The fact that all four of their wives had died tragically at the same time was proof enough that freak accidents did happen. So there was no room for complacency.

Finally, they reached the outside, and the crowd dispersed. He sucked in huge gulps of fresh evening air and got out of the way of the droves behind him before he pinched his eyes shut. He knew Bennett was beside him and keeping an eye out.

Clint just needed a second.

He couldn't completely avoid crowds. That wasn't realistic. Talia's school had a winter talent show every year. Then there was the Halloween carnival and the farmers' market and beer fest. The list went on. He could not live under a rock and avoid people all together—even though he wanted to. He had a kid to raise, and he was hellbent on raising her to be as normal a human as possible.

"You okay?" Bennett finally asked, shifting on his feet and causing the gravel to crunch beneath his shoes.

"Yeah," Clint said, opening his eyes and facing his brother. Bennett now shielded Clint from the majority of the people while Clint faced the wall and dealt with his anxiety attack. Because that's what it was.

When he spun around, he noticed a few curious glances his way, but nobody seemed too concerned. It was no secret that Clint and his brothers were all retired marines. Everyone on the island knew, and even though the island was founded by those who dodged conscription, there seemed to be no ill will from the elders toward the McEvoys. Nor was there ill will from Clint and his brothers toward the elders.

It was a different time.

Clint and his brothers enlisting was their choice.

Nobody should be forced to join the military.

They made their way toward Clint's truck when the crunch of gravel behind them, indicating someone was walking quickly, made Clint turn around.

His hackles had barely even started to lift before they dropped back down when he saw that it was Trace Palmer, one of the four guys who owned Hardwood Distillery on the island.

"Hey," Trace said, catching up to them and slowing his roll when he fell in line beside Bennett.

"Hey, Trace," Bennett greeted. "How's it going?"

"Can't complain." Trace shrugged and shoved his big hands into the pockets of his jeans. The man gave off serious farm-boy vibes. He was tall, broad and blond, and sported Wranglers and a red flannel shirt anytime Clint ever saw him. His eyes were crystal blue, and he seemed to always have a flush to his cheeks. His voice was ridiculously deep, and the way he carried himself with confidence turned a lot of heads.

He and three other friends—all single dads who met at their daughters' soccer matches—opened up Hardwood Distillery and Spirits two years ago and were making a killing. It made sense if they were looking to expand. The space they were in now was too small for the volume they were putting out.

"You just come out of curiosity or are you guys looking to submit for Bonn's land?" Bennett asked.

Trace shrugged again. "Outgrowing where we are. Would like to expand, maybe do something like what you guys have going on where you live where you work. Right now, the four of us are on different corners of the island."

"Small island," Clint added. "Takes twenty minutes to drive all the way around."

"True," Trace said, unruffled. "But no harm in submitting, right? What about you guys?"

"Thinking about it," Bennett said casually. "More just came to hear Bonn's last wishes. Knew the old guy wouldn't disappoint on the laughs."

Trace's chuckle sounded more like a lion's purr. "He did not." He stopped at the road. "Well, I'm parked down here." He hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction from Clint and Bennett.

"We're this way," Clint said, jerking his head the other way.

Trace shook both their hands, waved, then made long strides toward his truck.

Bennett and Clint had barely even spun around before another voice—this time a feminine one—interrupted their companionable silent walk to their truck.

"Why do you guys need Bonn's land?"

Bennett and Clint exchanged looks. They recognized that voice.

Gabrielle Campbell from Westhaven Winery.

Clint and his brother tossed on big smiles. "Hi Gabrielle," Clint said. "How are you?"

Gabrielle—not Gabby, never Gabby—plunked her hands on her hips and smiled. "I'm fine, thank you. Curious, though."

"Yeah, about what?" Bennett asked.

Her gaze narrowed at Clint's brother. "What you two could possibly want or need Bonn's land for?"

"Who says we do?" Clint asked. "I doubt every single person in there is after the man's land. A lot just went to pay their respects to the elders and hear the old guy's last words."

Gabrielle's lips twisted. She was a very pretty woman, probably in her late thirties or early forties, with alert amber eyes and voluminous dark brown curls past her shoulders. She was known on the island as being someone who was not only blunt, but lacked a sense of humor. She was all business, all the time.

She and three of her cousins—all women—had recently inherited the vineyard from their aunt, and they moved their families to the island to run the winery. All four women were single mothers, too. Many of their kids went to school with the McEvoy kids.

"Wasn't that why you came?" Bennett asked her coyly, dangling the bait to see if she'd bite. Trace had been more upfront about his and his fellow business partners' intentions, but Clint got the feeling—as did Bennett—that Gabrielle was going to play things closer to the chest on this one.

Her contorted lips slowly spread into a smile. "Yes, yes, it was. To pay my respects and find out when the celebration is going to be."

"Us too," Clint said, plainly. "Guess we'll see you there."

"Guess you will."

She turned to go first, and they stood there for a moment before spinning around to head to Clint's truck.

"Better book it so we're not stopped by anyone else," Bennett said.

Clint chuckled, but they picked up their pace and closed the distance between them and his truck in under thirty seconds.

Once they were in the safety of his truck cab, they glanced at each other. The worry Clint felt, and knew his brother felt was palpable.

"We've got some competition," Clint said with an exhale as he turned over the ignition.

"We sure do," Bennett agreed. "Better make sure we make an appearance on Saturday and let the elders know that we're all about maintaining the integrity of the island and community involvement.

Clint rolled his eyes and groaned as he pulled out onto the narrow road. "Great, another crowd. And ass kissing. Two of my absolute favorite things."