Chapter 16

The photographer arrives late the next afternoon, and I’m feeling pretty confident about Grams’s house. It’s been cleared of clutter, and Cat’s cleaning gave it that extra oomph.

At some point, the remaining stuff will have to be dealt with. The few boxes Grams wants to keep will go to Seaside Oasis with her or to a storage unit on the mainland. The furniture…well, that’s something I’ve got to figure out. Maybe Eugene can see if anyone on the island wants to buy it. Or maybe Cat and her uncle could use some of it at the B&B.

I’ll figure it out. One thing at a time.

I hate to admit it, but I’m a little surprised I haven’t heard from Beau. And by surprised, I mean bugged. There’s no way he’s gone this long without some police duties, right? Even if it’s just everyday patrolling. He has my number, but I don’t have his, so the ball is in his court.

Deep down, I’m wondering if he’s avoiding me because of the note in the kitchen drawer. He thinks I’m secretly obsessed with him, and that is the most humiliating thing I can think of.

“I’ll grab a few photos of the exterior first,” the photographer tells me as he pulls out his gear from the trunk. “The dock and deck we’ll want daylight shots of for sure, but I’ll get some of the front and side as well. Then I’ll move to the interior. I’ll finish off at sunset outside again, with all the exterior lights on. It makes the place pop. ”

“Sounds great,” I say. “Is it more helpful for me to be here while you work, or should I leave?”

He thinks for a second. “Probably easiest for you if you do some errands or something. Otherwise, you’ll be having to move constantly as I go from room to room. I’ve done this a lot, so you can leave me to it.”

“That’s great.” I’ve spent way too much time in this house since arriving anyway. I deserve to celebrate getting things to this point, right? “When should I plan on coming back?”

“Let’s say around…eight thirty?”

“Done. Let me know if you run into any issues.” I grab the keys from the entry table and jog to the golf cart. I stick the keys in the ignition and shoot a last glance at Grams’s house as the photographer starts clicking away from the sidewalk.

That’s when I notice it. My hands go still on the keys, and I blink forcefully. But it’s definitely there.

The birdfeeder. The one I put out with the garbage days ago. It’s sitting on the Palmers’ side of the knee-high fence that separates our property from theirs.

“Beau, you little…” I climb out of the golf cart. “Wait!” I call to the photographer.

He lowers his camera, looking a question at me.

I stride over to the Palmers’, a woman on a mission. I grab the pole that holds up the ugly feeder and yank as hard as I can. It would be really satisfying if that was enough, but I have to give it a few more yanks and shimmy it around before it comes out of the ground. I take it with me around the short white fence, find a spot just on our side of the property line, then stab the grass with the pointed end of the pole.

I wiggle it and push down until it feels stable, then I brush off my hands. “There.”

The photographer looks at me with an almost-worried expression. “You want…that…in the pictures? ”

“Yes,” I say definitively. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. This weird half-eaten-apple birdfeeder increases the curb appeal of Grams’s home exponentially. It adds character and a little quixotic somethin’ somethin’, and it will remain here forevermore. I should probably have a cement truck come to pour a permanent post.

“Okay,” the photographer says in an it’s your funeral tone. “I’ll get to work.”

I head back to the golf cart with a smile on my face—a smile that gets shaken off by the force of the cart’s tremors as I drive toward town. I don’t even have a plan. I’m just happy that progress is happening on the house. It’ll be listed tomorrow, then all the offers will start pouring in. We’ll be drowning in over-asking-price offers, and there’s nothing Mayor Barnes or anyone on this island can do about that.

I pull into a parking space in front of the ice cream shop and wait for my skull to stop vibrating before heading inside. I recognize the middle-aged woman behind the counter: Elaine Pruitt. She’s Team Palmer, but I don’t let that bother me. No one can bring me down right now.

But it doesn’t seem like she wants to. She serves me with a smile and side of small talk, going so far as to tell me she’s glad to see me back. Weirdly enough, I believe her.

I walk out, waving with one hand while I keep my double scoop of mint brownie steady in the other as I almost run smack into someone. I lean back and step away, and so does he.

He’s got brown hair and a tank top showing tattoos on both arms. The hands he has out to prevent us from colliding have remnants of grease.

I know just who it is: Dax Miller, island mechanic and Grams’s cougar crush.

“Sorry,” he says in a kind voice at odds with his bad-boy appearance. “Didn’t see you coming out. ”

“It’s my fault,” I reply. “It’s Dax, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re Gemma.” It’s not a question. Not only is it pretty easy to tell who the new people are on an island like this, I was only a grade behind Dax in school back in the day. We’ve both grown up, but neither of us looks that different.

“Grams says you gave her cart a little help a while back.” I cock a brow to let him know how I feel about it.

He chuckles. “She was adamant she needed more power.” His gaze goes to the cart. “How’s it doing?”

“Shaking like a 7.5 earthquake.”

“Yeah, I offered to fix that for her, but she insists she likes it better that way—she said it loosens her joints. Had any more issues with it starting?”

I furrow my brow. I know Sunset Harbor is a hotbed for gossip, but I didn’t think something as mundane as the cart not starting one time would make it to the mechanic. “It’s been fine.”

He nods. “I was pretty sure it was just the one loose wire, but if it gives you any more trouble, let me know.”

“Wait…sorry.” I hurry to take a lick of my melting ice cream. “You mean you fixed it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Beau had me come check it out a few days ago because it wasn’t starting. I figured he’d told you.”

“Nope,” I say, trying to decide how to feel about it. Beau having the cart secretly fixed is half interfering, half-thoughtful. “Thank you for doing that. I need to pay you, though.” I reach for my phone in the pocket of my shorts, but he puts up a hand to stop me.

“That’s not necessary. I owed Beau a favor. Besides, your grandma tossed me a few dollar bills on my way back from working on some boats the other day. We’re even.”

Oh, Grams. “And here I thought you might be reporting her for voyeurism.”

He chuckles. “She’s harmless. ”

“Try telling that to the Palmers,” I say, taking another lick. “I still think you should’ve pretended the cart was past help rather than giving in to her demands.”

“You and Beau both,” he says.

“Really?” I ask, licking the drips around the top of the cone. I’d love to hear what else Beau’s said about Grams. I’ll take whatever ammo I can against him.

Dax rubs at a stubborn grease spot between his thumb and finger. “He worries about her.”

I pause mid-lick, staring at him. That wasn’t quite the ammo I had in mind. Beau worries about Grams?

Stop it, heart . This isn’t that kind of worry. I’m sure he worries she’s losing her mind and is going to harm somebody while driving her rickety cart.

Dax looks up and cocks a brow. “She’s lucky her driving privileges are still intact given the number of times he’s pulled her over.”

“You know he pulled me over within half an hour of my arriving. I’ll be lucky if I leave the island before he can stick Grams and me in that holding cell of his together.”

Dax smiles slightly. “He’s had plenty of opportunity to put your grandma there already. He loves Virginia Sawyer, which is why he tries to strike a balance.”

“What balance?”

He shrugs. “Pulling her over enough to remind her to be careful without actually taking away her independence.” He nods at my increasingly melted ice cream. “I’d better go. Let me know if you have any trouble with the cart, though.”

I nod and try to do damage control as drips of mint brownie reach my hand, but my insides are melting too. It’s more reassuring than I care to admit, knowing that Beau is looking out for Grams, even if it’s secretly. She’d absolutely hate it if she knew. But I don’t.

I take what’s quickly becoming ice cream soup and do my best to drive back toward the biggest beach on the island. I liked my evening stroll the other night, and I may just make a nightly tradition of it. I’d much rather be doing this than acting as paparazzo for Beau. Maybe.