Chapter 10

The next morning, I pull the garbage bin up the driveway and put it where it belongs, grateful the trash guy was nice enough to take the boxes and the birdfeeder too. There are still some decent people in Sunset Harbor.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket and glance at the screen. No notifications. I’m waiting to hear from the realtor to see what his research has told him about how to price Grams’s house. Since she’s owned it for decades and people don’t tend to sell houses very often on the island, it’ll be a little tricky to list it at that sweet spot where it’ll sell quickly but at a favorable price. It’ll be even trickier if the real estate agent is slow or bad at his job, both things I fear more and more each day.

I’ll add it to the list of my current fears, which includes getting the house ready before I leave. Grams’s home is a comfy place—except that miserably hot attic—but it’s not about to appear in Better Homes and Gardens , and I’m still not done sorting through all the stuff upstairs.

Ideally, I’d have time to stage it, or at least remove some of the clutter so that it looks better. But I have just three days before I leave, and even though the week I booked for myself here felt like an eternity when I bought my flights, now I’m worried I seriously underestimated the work I’d have. Not to mention that I’ve barely spent time with Grams, and she’s one of the only good things about Sunset Harbor. I promised myself I’d check in at Seaside Oasis to make sure everything is going okay since the hunger strike.

That’s the real priority here.

I grab the keys to the golf cart and head outside, but I’m not optimistic it’ll start, given my last attempt. The engine rumbles to life immediately, however, and I sigh with relief. It always surprises me when things go my way here.

I drive the cart toward Seaside Oasis, feeling like a woman trapped in a windowless and doorless airplane in bad turbulence. Maybe we can include the golf cart in the house sale. Or maybe we’d have to pay the buyers to take it.

Whatever happens, I need Grams to never drive this again.

I pass the spot where Beau pulled me over the first night, and I give it the side-eye. I’m not sure when he’ll come to cash in on last night’s rain check, but I’m seriously regretting it. What do I care if he’s full-time or not? If he doesn’t have the fight in him, that’s his problem, not mine.

The cart comes to a shuddering halt in the parking lot of Seaside Oasis, and I make my way inside. Lo and behold, Beau is standing at the front desk talking to his brother, decked out in his blues, Xena at his heels.

Tristan waves at me, and Beau turns to see who he’s greeting, looking over his shoulder until his gaze finds me and his mouth pulls into an acknowledging smile.

Has every cop I’ve seen in my lifetime been hideous, or have I never noticed how attractive that uniform is? Maybe I shouldn’t write off the sexy cop calendars so quickly.

I make something between a smile and a grimace—my way of being polite without being too friendly. We have a family feud to maintain, and a couple of waves and smiles don’t undo all the garbage the Palmers put us through over the years.

“Do you know where I can find my grandma?” I ask Tristan.

He grabs a clipboard and runs a finger down a few lines. “She should be…doing chair yoga on the west lawn. ”

“West lawn,” I repeat, trying to think where that is and how best to get there. The only places I know here are Grams’s room and the cafeteria.

“I can take you,” Beau offers.

“Do I need a police escort at this place?”

“Now that your grandma’s here? Can’t hurt.” He winks and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, inviting me to follow.

I don’t think handsome cops should legally be allowed to wink.

“Stay, Xena,” Beau says to the ball of fluff bounding after us. “You’ll disrupt yoga.”

She stops in her tracks, her happy-go-lucky expression floundering.

“I’ve got her,” Tristan says, and he calls her to follow him into his office.

“How are the preparations for the house sale going?” Beau asks as we make our way through the high-back chairs scattered around the lobby.

“Slowly. Grams insisted on using Eugene as her realtor.”

Beau sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “Oof. Did Vivian say no?”

I snort as we turn down a long hallway. “As if Grams would give her the chance. She was convinced Vivian would list the house low on purpose.”

“And cut into her own commission?”

“Or price it too high so it wouldn’t sell,” I counter.

“And risk not getting a commission at all?”

“Hey, don’t ask me to try to fathom the mind of a Palmerite.”

Beau steals a glance at me, his mouth quirked up at one edge. “Palmerite, huh? What are we, the Hatfields and McCoys?”

“No. They made up in the end. ”

“So did we.” He bumps me with his elbow. “We work together now.”

“For an hour and a half. And it’s not working together . I’m consulting. Besides, it’s not just the Sawyers and Palmers who have to make up. A whole island of people have been invested in the drama, and more than half of them are probably waiting anxiously for Grams’s house to sell.”

“Of course they’re invested in who the newest residents will be.”

“The island is also invested in what kind of cereal their neighbors buy, so…”

“Corn Pops,” he whispers. “I buy Corn Pops.”

I shoot an unamused glance at him as we reach the west lawn, even though I’m secretly a little amused. Two dozen chairs are spaced at even intervals across the lawn, each one hosting a senior doing modified yoga poses.

“What’s he doing here?” Grams grouses, using her chin to point at Beau when we reach her chair.

He grins at her like there’s nothing in the world she could say to dim that smile of his.

I make my way to her, lean over and kiss her wrinkly cheek. “Apparently, your new home is dangerous enough I need a police escort, Grams.”

“She didn’t know where the west lawn was,” Beau explains, “and part of my job is helping the tourists.”

“I’m not a tourist,” I protest.

Beau raises his brows. “And how would you describe your relationship to Sunset Harbor?”

I flatten my lips. “Complicated. Why aren’t you participating, Grams?”

Grams shifts in her seat and adjusts the light cardigan draped over her shoulders, but she doesn’t say anything.

I look to Deedee, who’s finishing up a forward fold pose. “ She tripped on the grass yesterday trying to get a better view of Dax Miller in his shop. Shirtless.”

“Traitor,” Grams mutters at her friend.

“Jeez, are you okay?” I ask, feeling sick at the thought of her sprawled on the grass. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m fine,” she barks.

Deedee shakes her head subtly at me, and Grams smacks her arm lightly as Deedee starts into the cat/cow position.

“My knee has given me trouble for years,” Grams says, putting a hand on it and rubbing it fiercely. She winces.

“And now her hip is too,” Deedee adds.

Beau nudges me, and I look up at him, then follow his gaze. Just behind Grams’s chair, there’s a silver contraption. A walker.

My stomach twists into knots. “Did you see a doctor?” It’s a dumb question. I know the answer even before Grams looks at me as if I asked her which Beach Boy is the hottest. Anyone who knows Grams knows that answer is Dennis Wilson.

“A visit to the physical therapist tomorrow is the most we could get her to agree to,” Deedee says.

Hey, that’s more than I would’ve expected, and it tells me that, despite her insistence that she’s fine, she must be hurting quite a bit. And here I am, abandoning her in two days.

“Enough of this nonsense.” Grams squints at Beau suspiciously. “So, you escorted Gigi here because she couldn’t find the way.”

My gaze flicks to Beau, and the little spark in his eyes at the sound of my nickname resigns me to future teasing. Oh, joy .

“What’s your excuse for taking her to the cafe yesterday?” Grams asks like he’s on the witness stand. “Or for driving her here two days ago?”

“Grams,” I say. “Officer Palmer gave me a ride because your cart wouldn’t start. Remember? I told you.”

She perks up, bracing herself with hands on either side of her chair and tries to push herself up. “I’d better go talk to Dax about it.”

I hurry over and keep her from getting up. “It’s working now. I drove here in it.”

“Oh.” She lowers herself into the chair again with patent disappointment on her face.

Beau’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

I shoot him an annoyed look. My attention is quickly pulled back to Grams, when she grunts with discomfort, rubbing her knee.

I hate seeing her like this, watching an aging body rein in that fiery spirit. What if she falls again? Sure, she’s in a senior center, and they’ll take care of her. But she’ll have no family around. No one who knows her well enough to try to cajole her into letting the doctor take an X-ray.

Maybe I’m rushing home too quickly. The emails from Insight have diminished significantly, which means they’re doing better now.

“Any buyers?” Grams asks.

I shake my head. “The house isn’t even on the market yet. Eugene is still trying to decide how to price it.”

She gives a little hmph .

I hesitate for a few seconds. But I know what I need to do—and how I need to go about it so Grams doesn’t fight me on it. “Oh! I meant to tell you. I’m pushing back my flight a few days.” My heart sinks even as I say it, but I know it’s the right choice. This way, I’ll be able to leave knowing Grams is settled and as healthy as she can be, with a house ready to sell. She’s been in that house for over fifty years and wouldn’t have the first idea what to do to get it sold or how to work with a realtor. I shudder to think what her idea of negotiating with buyers would entail. Compromise isn’t a Virginia Sawyer strength. Seaside Oasis ain’t cheap, either, and she’ll need every penny from the sale to fund her life here. It’s almost six thousand dollars a month, and if Grams has anything to say about it, she’ll live past a hundred.

“What your granddaughter means to say,” Beau chimes in, “is that she can’t bear to leave Sunset Harbor so soon.”

Grams cackles, slapping her uninjured knee with a hand. “I’ve been trying to get my family back here for years. But they didn’t move all the way across the country for nothing.”

I cock an eyebrow at Beau as Grams tries to push herself up.

“You won’t hear me complaining you’re staying longer, Gigi,” Grams says. “Anyway, it’s time for lunch. I’m starving after all that yoga.”

“You didn’t even?—”

She falters, and I rush to her side, but Beau is ahead of me, both hands under her left arm to support her. Grams smacks one of his hands, but she still uses him to get up, reconfirming my choice to push back my flight. My grandma accepting help from a Palmer isn’t something to be taken lightly.

“I could’ve done that myself,” she declares once she’s up.

“I have no doubt about that,” Beau replies, picking up the light cardigan that fell to the grass in her struggle to stand. He gently shakes it out, then places it around her shoulders before grabbing the walker for her.

My chest tightens. It’s normal to be affected by watching a full-grown man take care of an elderly woman who would use him as a dartboard if given the chance, right?

That’s gotta be right at the top of the list of personal Kryptonites.

“What about that job of yours?” Grams asks as we make our way slowly toward the cafeteria.

I wave away my career like an annoying mosquito rather than the shrine to my hard work it is. “They’ll be fine. I’ve been in touch with them this whole time to help here and there. Plus, they owe me like fifty vacation days at this point.”

Grams looks at Beau, who’s walking next to her and watching the unsteady rolling of the walker wheels on the grass with a slight frown. I have no doubt that, if anything went wrong and Grams started to fall, he’d be right there to stabilize her.

“Shoo, fly!” Grams says, gesturing him off. “My granddaughter doesn’t need a police escort. She can hold her own.”

“I absolutely believe that,” Beau replies as we stop at the door. He opens it to let through the incoming seniors, greeting each one by name, followed by little jokes and comments specific to each person.

It’s impressive, actually. And a little weird. Beau Palmer has the muscles of a cop you wouldn’t want responding to your bank robbery, but his actual demeanor is the farthest thing from intimidating I can imagine. I’m genuinely curious if his approach to a bank heist would be less “lower your weapons” and more “have you heard the joke about the frog and the spatula?”

An old man I vaguely recognize but can’t put a name to stops and looks at me, then Beau, judgment in his eyes. “Never thought I’d see the day Virginia Sawyer would allow her own blood to go steady with a Palmer.”

My jaw slips open, and I look to Beau to quash this ridiculousness, but all he says is, “How are you, Harold?”

Ah. Harold Shuman. He’s always been a Palmerite.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grams says in disgust.

“Seems anytime I see one of you, I see the other,” Harold says to Beau and me. “And I’m not the only one to notice. Word is you were seen canoodling together around town last night. I’d say the evidence is pretty clear.”

Feeling my cheeks go red from annoyance and embarrassment, I take drastic measures. “I’m dating someone.”

All three gazes whip to me, and I do my best to look like a person who has a boyfriend instead of one who got ghosted during her most recent attempt at dating. It’s not considered making a false statement to a police officer if the statement wasn’t directed toward him, right? He was just present at the time of the crime. And, really, how do you define dating? If it’s about gauging the suitability of someone as a romantic partner, then why wouldn’t watching Outlander on repeat count?

“Hmph,” Harold scoffs, but after another look at Beau, who’s still all pleasant smiles and no attempt at all to come to my aid, he heads through the door.

“Pot-stirrer,” Grams mutters in the most amazing pot-calling-kettle-black moment of the century.

“Forget him,” I say. “Let’s get you some lunch.” My phone starts buzzing in my pocket, and I pull it out. Meredith is calling. She’s my direct superior—and the person I need to clear more time off with.

“I can take her the rest of the way,” Beau offers.

“Try it and see what happens,” Grams threatens, pulling her walker out of his reach. “I don’t need either of you babying me.”

Beau and I catch eyes, and I give a little nod to let him know she can go on her own. I’m sure this carpet is made with walkers and wheelchairs in mind. She’ll be fine.

“I’ll be right there, Grams.”

She nods, shoots Beau a suspicious glance, then starts toward the cafeteria as the buzzing of my phone stops and turns into a missed call notification.

That’s okay. I could use a minute to gather my thoughts. It’s not like I made it a secret at the office just how much I was dreading this trip. And now I’ll be asking to extend it.

Beau watches me, a curious look in his eyes.

“So much for Protect and Serve,” I say. “You couldn’t give me a little help back there with Harold, Officer?”

His brows go up. “Oh, did you want help? Something tells me you’re not the Be Protected and Be Served type. Besides, I knew you could handle him. And you did.”

He’s referring to my fake boyfriend, and I avoid his eyes, my guilty conscience persuaded he can see right through me and read the big ol’ TOTALLY AND UTTERLY SINGLE sign hovering over my head.

“You ever consider that the city council doesn’t want to hire you because the detective work on this island is already being done by everyone else?”

He laughs, and we both turn our heads as Xena charges toward us, apparently just released from Tristan’s office.

“Hey, girl,” Beau greets her.

But it’s me she comes to.

Beau’s expression turns shell-shocked, and mine is all smiles as I crouch down to receive the furry ball of delight.

“Good girl, Xena,” I say, reinforcing her by losing sight of both my hands in her voluminous fur. I glance up at Beau, unable to stop grinning at my good fortune. “Mission: Convert Xena to Team Sawyer in progress.”

He crouches down next to me and scratches her behind the ear. “Xena’s above all that. She’s Team Sunset Harbor.”

“Or,” I say as our fingers collide in the mess of fur, “you’ve got a double agent on your hands.”

A throat clears loudly, and we look up to find Harold staring at us.

I extract my hand and get to my feet. “Harold,” I say, with a formal nod. And then I walk away.

My call with Meredith goes well. Really well, actually. She has no problems with me extending my time off. It was almost too easy, probably because she was in a rush. But she knows how much I’ve given to Insight, and she gets why I’m here. Plus, I told her I’m reachable at all hours, so they have no reason to worry with me gone.

I head to the cafeteria and have barely taken a seat when Grams says, “What’s this about a boyfriend?”

I take a strategic drink, giving myself time to come up with an answer. Is she concerned after Harold’s comments? Or is she just curious about my dating life? “About that…I might’ve stretched the truth a bit.”

She narrows her eyes at me.

“I don’t want to deal with the rumors,” I defend. “This place exhausts me with all the gossip. How do you still live here?”

“You get an appetite for it,” she chuckles. “Keeps things exciting. Besides, Harold is just trying to throw the attention off himself.”

“Oh? What sort of attention is that?” Never hurts to have a little ammo to fire back at him next time he tries to bug me.

And that’s how I spend the next hour, hearing all the latest gossip at Seaside Oasis—how Harold supposedly has a sugar mama on the mainland, how Marge Wentworth and Les Erickson might be having an affair, and that there’s a celebrity hiding on the island at the Belacourt Resort. The usual stuff.

“Well,” I say, my eyes a little wide as I get up with my tray. “That was…enlightening.”

“That ain’t the half of it!” Grams crows, and I wonder if the half I haven’t heard are all rumors about her .

“The other half will have to wait,” I say. “I’ve got to get back to work at the house. Make sure to go to physical therapy tomorrow, okay?”

She gives a harumph as I lean in to kiss her on the cheek, balancing my tray on my hands.

“And call me next time something happens, Grams. What do you think I’m here for?”

“There won’t be a next time,” she says grumpily.

“Of course not,” I say. “Love you.” I turn, not waiting for her to say it back. Grams has never been one for verbal expressions of emotion. I get it. I’m not either. Except with her.

And with Jamie Fraser from Outlander .