Chapter 15

Sunset Harbor is quiet as a church mouse on Saturday night. There are no texts or calls—and definitely no rock-throwing at my window—to interrupt the evening. Which confirms what I’ve been suspecting since I got back to the island: Beau’s not a real cop. I mean, what kind of police officer doesn’t get some kind of call on a Saturday night? No wonder he’s having a hard time convincing the city council to bring him on full-time.

I’m considering calling him myself just to help the man earn his keep. I mean, where’s the honor in protecting and serving if you never have to do it, right? Meanwhile, my neighbors are having a grand old time on the deck of their rental, jumping off into the canal in various states of increasing drunkenness. Their music gets a few decibels louder every couple minutes, so it wouldn’t be out of bounds to call in a noise complaint.

But after the note incident, that music would have to be shaking the window panes in the attic so much they broke before I’d call Beau. He’d definitely think I was just making excuses to call. Which is so cocky of him.

Instead, I change into my PJs, call in a delivery order from the Beach Break Bar and Grill, and turn on Outlander while I sort through more stuff in the attic. A near-perfect night.

Not for the first time, I make my way to Seaside Oasis with a bit of dread in my stomach the next morning. There’s no doubt in my brain that I’ll be getting a stern talking-to from Grams after that phone call last night.

But when I find her, she’s sitting on her deck chair next to Deedee, their noses in books. When I greet them, there’s no response for a good twenty seconds.

Grams finally lays the open book on her chest and starts fanning herself. “Woo! That Sunny Palmer sure can write romance!”

Deedee puts hers down too, all smiles.

“I can almost forgive her that awful last name,” Grams says with a disgusted turn to her mouth.

“Hi,” I say, reminding them I’m still here and they have yet to acknowledge me. I’m not too broken up, though, that after greeting me, their main interest is discussing the scene they just read. Not only is it highly entertaining to hear these old ladies talk romance, it’s a welcome alternative to being cussed out.

Grams’s knee and hip are doing a bit better, but she’s still got the walker placed near her chair. When I ask her about physical therapy, she goes on a tirade about paying people to hurt her.

By the time I leave, the ladies’ noses are back in their books, and they’ve been joined by two other women and one man who are also part of the retirement center’s book club. I hear a cackle of laughter from Gram once I’m outside, and it makes me smile. Spending some time with Beau Palmer is worth that sound. Grams has been alone for so long that she deserves the constant companionship she has here.

It’s even worth the whispered conversations and stares I get from some of the Palmerites as I walk through the halls and lobby to the golf cart. I don’t know nor do I care why they’re staring and talking about me. I’ve got just seven more days until I can leave it behind again .

I stop by the general store on the way home to grab a six-pack of La Croix for Cat Keene. While I’m at it, I get a couple things from their incredibly small selection of home decor to spruce up the kitchen area for pictures later.

Cat shows up at one o’clock, hair pulled back and cleaning supplies in hand.

“You are a lifesaver ,” I say, letting her in and refusing to glance at the Palmers’ house, but I see in my peripheral vision that Beau’s cop cart isn’t in the driveway and Tristan’s cart is. I give Cat a quick rundown on what needs cleaning. “Obviously, you can prioritize what you think is most needed,” I say as I show her the bedrooms. “Kitchen, living room, and bathrooms will get the most scrutiny, I assume.”

“I’ll start with the kitchen,” she says. “I’ll probably have time for that and both bathrooms today. I can finish up the rest tomorrow. I’ll get it all done, though. Don’t worry.”

“Perfect.” I lead the way downstairs and to the kitchen. “I’m hoping the house will sell quickly. It’s hard to know, though, when so few properties on the island go up for sale.”

“Yeah, most people tend to stick around. The Daineses next door only sold a couple of years ago, though, and if I remember right, the house got snatched up pretty quickly.”

“That’s encouraging,” I say.

“How long ago did your family move away, again?”

“About fourteen years.” I open the fridge to check whether her drinks are cold yet.

She starts pulling supplies out of the bins she brought in. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. And I can’t believe they’re trying to fund a new pool after all the drama with the old one.”

I pause with my hand on the can. “What?”

Cat looks at me, her brows up. “Oh. I figured you’d have heard. Yeah, they’re trying to figure out how to raise money for a new community pool since the council was too divided to allocate city funds to it.” She pulls on her gloves .

I scoff. “Unbelievable. And yet so very believable. As long as the Palmers got what they wanted, right?” They got their retirement center, the island will get their pool, and the Sawyers are pushed out in the process. Everyone wins except us. We’re just collateral damage.

Cat grimaces and runs her sponge under the tap. “Sorry. I really thought you already knew.”

“I’ve kept to myself since being back, so it’s not surprising I haven’t heard anything.” I frown as I shut the fridge door and set the can on the counter. “I’d have thought Grams would’ve said something. It’s not something she’d keep quiet about.”

Cat smiles and sprays cleaner along the island countertop. Like anyone who knows Grams, Cat realizes there’s very little that falls into the category of What Virginia Sawyer will keep quiet about . “But you seem to be on decent terms with Beau, right?”

I snort and lean my back against the counter opposite the island. “If by good terms , you mean I haven’t strangled him yet, yes. I’ve needed his help to prevent his family from kicking Grams out of Seaside Oasis, so now I’m paying my dues by helping him with a little work project.”

“It’s not easy working closely with someone you dislike,” she says.

“You sound like a woman with experience. I take it you and Olivia Belacourt didn’t make up after we left the island?” The two of them had a short-lived friendship that turned sour before we moved away. It sort of tainted the whole Belacourt family for her—that and their obscene amount of wealth.

“No,” she scrubs hard at the grout between the countertop tiles. “It got way worse.”

“And now you’re working with Noah,” I say sympathetically. “Is he as bad as his sisters?”

“Is anyone?”

“The Palmers,” I say.

She laughs. “I should’ve known better than to ask.” She pauses her scrubbing and cocks her head to the side. “Noah’s definitely not like his sisters. But he’s still a Belacourt, you know? So rich it’s hard to relate.”

“No wonder they and the Palmers are friends. Two families used to getting their way. Maybe Beau can marry Olive or Bree.”

“Oof,” she says, wincing. “They’re too flighty for him. I know you don’t like him, but he’s not one for the spotlight, and that’s oxygen for the Bela-babes.” She says the last words with a Valley Girl accent, referencing the Belacourts’ latest TV show, Bela-babes Take Manhattan . “Beau needs someone who’ll be happy on the island.”

I stare at Cat as she rinses out the sponge. “Like you?”

She shakes her head. “No. Beau’s nice, but I don’t feel that way about him at all.”

Why do I feel such relief hearing her say that? Beau would be crazy lucky to land Cat Keene.

Beau’s words replay in my head. You tell Jamie for me that he’s a very lucky man. He doesn’t mean that. He was just trying to get me to admit I was lying.

I leave Cat to her cleaning and get back to my work in the attic. When my phone pings, I hurry over to check it, wondering what “emergency” Sunset Harbor might be experiencing. But it’s a work email.

I tap it and quickly scan the contents. It’s from my boss, asking for some information on one of my longtime clients. I smile and grab my laptop for easier typing. “Still got it,” I say to myself. The stuff she wants to know is the type of information that only comes from experience working directly with a client, and this one is probably the most difficult to please. I answer Meredith’s questions and diplomatically let her know that it’s a complicated relationship that might be best left for once I’m back in the office.

Cat leaves after two hours, and the rest of the night is totally uneventful. So much so that I go out for a little nighttime stroll on the beach. I park the golf cart in the almost-empty lot, slip off my sandals, and make my way toward the shoreline.

The evenings are when Sunset Harbor is at its best. The blazing midday heat has given way to less hell-like temperatures, and the breeze that often picks up in the afternoon makes it feel almost, dare I say, pleasant.

I look out over the waves rolling to shore, then down to my feet. It’s dark enough, I might be able to pretend I’m back on the beach in Santa Monica. Except that it’s way too quiet here. And the sand feels different. It’s so much softer. It smells a lot better too, thanks to the dense vegetation lining the shore.

It’s too bad there’s so much nonsense to deal with on this island because otherwise, it would be a pretty nice place to live. Hot as a sauna this time of year, but with plenty of places to cool off.

Like a new community pool.

I kick at the sand with my foot. Mad as it makes me to hear they’re gunning for a new pool, it hurts a little too, if I’m being honest. Why couldn’t the Palmers have built their retirement center somewhere else? Why did it have to be on the piece of land they knew meant so much to us? Couldn’t the city council have at least offered an alternative location to rebuild the pool? Dad would’ve much rather built a rec center here than in LA where the intense regulations cost him a small fortune.

My eye catches on a piece of trash blowing in the breeze.

“Where are you now, Officer Palmer?” I mutter.

With a sigh, I chase after the trash, stomping it with my foot to keep it from tumbling into the ocean. When I reach the garbage can, I hold up the Styrofoam and stare at it.

“This is for Mother Earth,” I say. “Not for Sunset Harbor or Beau Palmer.” And then I stick it in the trash can.