Chapter 11

The change fee and fare difference for my flight hurts, but you know what hits harder? The extra seven days I’ll be here. Harold Shuman’s comments and the way he looked at Beau and me when we were petting Xena have been like a sliver under my skin. It’s not about Harold, either. There’s no privacy on this scrap of land. Grams may thrive on that, but I don’t. I like my life in LA, where I can be invisible walking down the street, where my company is as big as the entire population of Sunset Harbor.

Still under my covers, I refresh the email app on my phone, but I have no new emails, despite Meredith telling me they’d be sending me some things to look over and give my approval on yesterday.

I exit the app as a call comes through from Eugene. He’s finally back with suggestions on pricing, and we go back and forth for fifteen minutes before settling on where to list the house. In our situation, it’s a gamble. We just have to list and see how much interest we get. We’re listing on the higher end of what we discussed, which means I have some work to do to get the house ready for photos. It needs to look its best, and right now, it does not.

Right after we hang up, I spend time making a game plan on a piece of paper because how do you get anything done without lists, right? I write out what furniture to put where, and what to put in the garage to get it out of the way. I’m still not done in the attic, but I’d rather get this part of the house looking good. No buyer coming through for a showing will expect the attic to look pristine, but their impressions will definitely be affected by how the rooms they’ll spend the most time in are staged.

I start in the living room—the heart of the home—and work on the small items first, clearing clutter and moving a side table to the garage. The way Grams has the room set up, the couches are pushed up against the walls, and I know from a LOT of Pinterest scrolling—something that gives me the equivalent of a degree in interior design—that this is a big no-no.

Feng shui-ing the room will require a lot less stuff and a lot of moving furniture. Old furniture. And the thing about old furniture is that it’s heavy. Like, really heavy. You pick up a couch from 1960, and you have no trouble believing its frame came from an actual tree.

I consider myself a strong woman, but my skill set doesn’t include winning the caber toss competition at the Highland Games, so after a couple attempts to move the couch and loveseat, I stand with my hands on my hips to rethink things.

I could call Eugene, but the man is sixty-five and has rheumatoid arthritis.

Ask Beau .

“Not on your life,” I say to myself.

He’s your neighbor. That’s what neighbors are for , Gemma. Put those muscles to work!

“He’s not my only neighbor,” I argue. “And he’s not the only one with muscles.”

Before my brain can provide a counter-argument, I head for the door, down the front steps, and march right over to Grams’s other neighbors. Mr. Daines is probably well into his fifties by now, but I bet he can still move a couch a few feet.

I ring the doorbell and wait. And wait some more.

I ring it again, then knock for good measure just as the door opens, revealing a shirtless guy in his early twenties with the most intense bedhead I’ve ever seen. He rubs his eyes and tries to run a hand through his long blond hair, but that mess cannot be tamed without drastic measures. The waves are sticking up in every direction—except for the chunk on the right side of his head that’s matted to his skull. That’ll be a doozy to brush through. Supposing he does brush his hair, which isn’t at all certain.

“You’re late,” he mumbles, shuffling away from the door and leaving it open.

“Huh?”

“There are a few drinks left. Maybe.” He gestures lazily to the left as he turns into the living room. “Kitchen’s that way.”

“What? No, I’m not?—”

I hear a slumping sound and am sure even without looking that he’s already passed out on a couch.

I sigh. So much for getting any help from these neighbors.

When I was young, the Daines family lived in this house, but it looks totally different now, even from my limited view of the hallway and a portion of the living room. It’s got new flooring and paint, and the two pieces of artwork I can see have that sterile, generic look that tells me they were probably purchased at Hobby Lobby on clearance.

I hesitate for a second, then take a few steps inside the house, wondering if this is what I should be copying as I stage Grams’s house. I peek into the living room, and my brows go up at the sight of passed-out bodies littering the floor and couches. It’s hard to tell from the random arms and legs splayed at all angles, but I count three guys and two girls. One of the girls—wearing a big T-shirt and either underwear or a bikini bottom—stirs, and I decide against exploring more of hangover land.

Maybe if I come at two or three, they’ll be sobered up. And dressed.

I shut the front door behind me and go down the steps, trying to think if there’s anyone on the island I could reliably ask for help. That’s the trouble with making enemies and then leaving for fourteen years, I guess. It’s not like we had no one on our side of the feud, but I don’t have people’s numbers or even know if they’re still around.

I glance up at the sound of an approaching golf cart, and my breath catches at the sight of Beau pulling into his driveway, hair and shirtless body glistening, surfboard on top of the cart.

He kills the engine and gets out, his bare feet hitting the pavement. He reaches for the surfboard, giving me an unsolicited view of what that uniform has been covering. The muscles in his back shift and ripple as he unties the board, pulls it off the roof of the cart, and tucks it under his left arm.

Which is when I realize I’m still standing on the neighbor’s sidewalk.

Beau runs a hand through his wet hair as his gaze comes up. “Gemma,” he says, his walk slowing. His eyes flick to the neighbor’s house behind me, and his brow furrows ever so slightly.

“Surf patrol?” I ask.

He glances at his board, and that’s when I notice the spot just above the hem of his swim shorts. I can’t tell if it’s a scar or a birth mark from here, and he shifts the board so it’s covered. Probably trying to help me rein in my roving eyes. He should probably wear a wetsuit, then.

“Just catching a few waves before I start my day. Did they keep you up last night?” he asks, lifting his chin to indicate the house behind me.

“What? Oh. No.” I walk toward Grams’s house. “I just went to ask for some help moving something, but…”

“Hungover?” he asks knowingly.

“A bit, yeah. The guy who answered the door assumed I was there for the party.”

“So…not hungover. Still drunk.”

“I’d say it’s pretty likely. Is it his house? ”

“No, they’re just this week’s guests. It’s a short-term rental. Can I help you? I’m not drunk or hungover.”

But you’re half naked. “No, that’s okay. I can…” I trail off because, what exactly can I do? At best, I’ll scrape Grams’s nice hardwood floors. At worst, I’ll have to call 911 because I’ve broken my back.

Beau is offering his very capable arms and back to spare me those scenarios, and honestly, that’s as it should be. He and his family have a lot of reparations to make.

He smiles when I don’t finish my sentence. “Let me help.”

I grit my teeth. “Fine.” My gaze flits down to his body. “Go…get a shirt on. I’ll be inside.”

He salutes me, and I head back to Grams’s to work on making sure I know exactly what I want so it can be done as quickly as possible. After a couple minutes analyzing the living room, I’m second-guessing the placement I’d decided on for the couch and loveseat. I stand at the edge of the room, eyes closed, trying to visualize things and make the room into a Pinterest pin.

“What’re we looking at?”

I startle, whipping around at the sound of Beau’s voice so close behind me and bringing our faces within a foot of each other. He’s got his uniform on again, hands on his waist, and his eyes on me.

“Hey, you,” he says, the edge of his mouth tilting upward. It’s a very nice mouth.

“Sheesh, Beau,” I breathe out, my heart beating erratically as I pull to a safer distance from his lips. “Don’t they call that breaking and entering?”

“For it to be breaking and entering, there’s got to be intent to commit a crime. Are we stealing your grandma’s furniture? I do like that loveseat.”

“Good,” I say, “because you’ll be moving it over there.” I point to a spot across the room. It’s not where I have it going on my trusty list, but my vision has suddenly morphed, requiring Beau to move everything the farthest distance possible. Penance and all that.

He rubs his hands together like this is a real treat for him as he goes to one end of the loveseat. “So, you’re staying on the island.”

“For an extra week.” I take my position on the other end of the loveseat. I probably should have realized I’m also punishing myself by forcing him to move things farther than planned. “One, two, three.” We lift, and it feels like a different couch with him holding up one end. It’s so manageable.

My gaze flits to his arms and the muscles in his forearms flexing as he adjusts his grip and leads the way to the other side of the room. Why does he have to be so helpful and so capable?

“Right here?” he asks.

“A little farther. Just the front legs on the rug.”

His phone starts ringing as we lower the loveseat and stand up straight. His hand goes straight to a Velcro pocket on his belt, and he pulls out his phone.

“Officer Palmer,” he says.

There’s a pause, and I tweak one side of the loveseat to make it straighter.

“I’ll be there right away.”

I glance at him, and my heart stutters at the sudden energy in his grim expression. “What’s wrong?” I’m picturing Grams on a stretcher.

“Fire at Seaside Oasis.”

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper as he hurries toward the door. “I’m coming with you.”

He doesn’t protest, and I follow him at a run to the golf cart, my heart thudding.

“Hold on tight,” he says, and I’ve barely grabbed the bar next to the seat when the cart roars backward out of the driveway, then forward. “Grab the light out of the back, would you? ”

I reach behind me for the single light in the backseat. It’s got a suction cup on the bottom and a switch on the side. I flick the switch, and it starts flashing red and blue.

He puts his hand out for it, his eyes on the road.

“I’ve got it.” I grab the bar along the roof and stand up to stick the light on top of the cart.

“It’s got a little lever.” He’s got a hand out, his fingertips grazing my thigh like he’s ready to grab me if he sees me waver at all.

“Found it,” I say, pushing it down and feeling the suction tighten.

“Thanks.” His hand drops.

I watch as two carts pull to the side of the road to let us pass. My eyes search the distance for any sign of smoke, and I try to keep my mind from wandering into all the fiery paths it insists on exploring.

Beau glances at me, his alert eyes filling with sympathy. “It’ll be okay.”

I nod again as we pull into Seaside Oasis, which shows no signs of smoke. That’s got to be a good thing, right?

We dash toward the entrance, and Sandra Barry emerges, heading us off. “It’s okay,” she says. “False alarm.”

I let out a gush of air, then look at her intently. “No fire?”

She shakes her head, but her gaze lingers on me, her lips pulling into a flat line. “You’d better come inside. You too, Officer.”

Beau nods and follows behind me.

Sandra leads us into the lobby, then down the hallway until I realize where we’re going: Grams’s room.

She’s sitting on her bed, a deep frown on her face and the walker nearby.

“Grams?” I rush over and crouch down so I can look up into her face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, shooting an annoyed look behind me .

I look at Sandra, a question in my eyes. Why did she bring me here? And, more importantly, why did she tell Beau to come along?

“She pulled the fire alarm,” Sandra says.

Beau’s brows shoot up, and I look at Grams.

“What happened?” I ask. Did she fall and the closest thing within reach was the fire alarm? I grasp her hand, fully expecting her to withdraw it, but she doesn’t.

Her eyes finally meet mine, and there’s a mischievous gleam in them. “I didn’t want to go to physical therapy.”

I stare at her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Beau’s fist come up to cover his mouth.

“Grams,” I say, trying to control the twitch at the corner of my lips. “You can’t be pulling fire alarms to get out of PT.”

“I pulled an alarm, not alarms,” Grams corrects. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

Beau clears his throat. “Virginia?—”

“Mrs. Sawyer to you, buckaroo.”

“And ‘Officer’ to you ,” Sandra shoots back.

“Mrs. Sawyer,” Beau says, completely calm, “pulling a fire alarm for no reason?—”

“I had a reason,” Grams interrupts.

Beau nods. “Let me rephrase. Pulling a fire alarm when there is no fire is a misdemeanor.”

“Add it to my tab,” she says with an obstinate set to her jaw.

“Grams,” I say with censure. At this rate, she’ll have a rap sheet a mile long by the time she dies.

“It’s not just that, Mrs. Sawyer,” Beau continues. “There are potential fines to cover the cost of diverting limited emergency resources.”

“I’ll send you gas money,” she sneers. “What important business did I divert you from?”

“Actually,” Beau says, “I was?—”

I send him a warning look. I don’t need the questions or the scolding that’ll come if Grams knows there was a Palmer inside her house. And I definitely don’t need Sandra spreading it around the retirement home to the likes of Harold Shuman.

Beau clears his throat. “I’m afraid that’s confidential information, ma’am. Where’s Tristan?” he asks Sandra.

“He should be back soon,” she replies.

I shut my eyes. If word of this incident gets to Beau’s dad, it’s over for Grams.

“Can I have a minute alone with my grandma?” I ask.

Beau and Sandra nod, and Beau’s gaze lingers on me for a minute. I know exactly what his eyes are saying. I’ll wait .

Right. Because I need a ride home. Again.

The door closes behind them, and I take a seat next to Grams on her bed.

“Don’t you lecture me, Gigi,” she barks. “I’ve wiped that butt”—she slaps the part of it she can access while I’m seated—“and seen you with boogers down to your chin.”

“Thanks for the visual. I’m not here to lecture you. I’m just letting you know that standing up the physical therapist might cost you big. You were already on probation after the hunger strike.” I turn toward her. “I’m going to ask one more time: are you sure you don’t want to try a different retirement com?—”

“No.”

I grimace.

“This is where I want to be. I can’t have family near, so I want to be with the closest thing I have.”

A sliver of guilt niggles at me at the I can’t have family near part, but I cock a brow. “The Palmers?”

She grabs me by the cheek. “You watch that smart mouth, young lady.” But then she smiles. She loves my smart mouth. She basically gave it to me.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you want to stick around, you need to play by the rules and behave yourself. ”

Her lips turn down at the edges like I’ve just sucked the joy out of her life.

“You can have fun,” I say, “but it’s got to be harmless fun.”

Her gaze meets mine through those thick-rimmed black glasses, and I see the first glimmer of worry. “You really think they’ll kick me out after today?”

“I don’t know, Grams. It’s a real possibility. I’ll see what I can do, but there’s only so much groveling a Sawyer can bear.”

“Let me do it.”

My eyes widen, and I put my hand out to stop her from getting up. “No way. Let me.” Seeing Grams groveling would destroy me. Assuming she’s even capable of it. She’d probably go in meaning to apologize but end up inciting a riot.

She smiles and squeezes just above my knee. “You’re a real gem, Gigi. And you deserve better than me.”

From her, that little squeeze is the equivalent of a seven-page love letter.

“Wish me luck,” I say, standing up and tugging down the hem of my shirt.

“Go get ’em, tiger!”