Chapter 30

There’s no scenario in which telling Grams that Beau Palmer and I are dating doesn’t cause an uproar. It’s just a matter of what shape that uproar takes. I’m hoping she yells or throws stuff at me, because if she cries? I shudder as I open the lid of the final box in the attic.

Beau is in the opposite corner, sweeping dust and heaven knows what into a dustbin while he hums—the perfect picture of a domesticated cop. He’s on lunch break, and he’s using it to help me.

I smile as he moves his hips with the chorus of “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” and butterflies flutter against my ribcage. I can’t believe I’m dating him. Today on patrol, I didn’t even take any video. I just enjoyed myself. A lot.

I can’t wait long to talk to Grams, given the way word spreads on this heap of sand. It’s a heap of sand that’s admittedly grown on me a lot since I got here.

I pull open the box lid and pause at the sight of some of Mia’s and my old stuff—Barbies, stuffed animals, and the like. I pull out one of the Barbies, whose brown hair is a matted mess, complete with grains of sand. We used to take these dolls everywhere.

I look around at the almost-bare attic. It was so full when I arrived a month ago. It hardly looks like the same place. But it’s nothing compared to how this house will look once Mr. Wallace gets his hands on it .

It makes my stomach roil to think about.

“I don’t want to sell the house,” I say.

Beau stops, and his gaze flicks to me, hovering for a second. He lowers the broom and dustbin and comes over. He puts out his hands and pulls me to my feet. His fingers interlace with mine, sitting at shoulder height between us.

“Then don’t,” he says.

I shake my head. “It’s Grams’s house. Not mine.”

“Does she want to sell it?”

“I don’t think so. But she has to.”

“Why?”

“To afford your ritzy retirement center, mister,” I say, pushing our hands in his direction. I look around again. “I’m just being sentimental because it’s getting closer. I’ll be fine. Until Grams kills me when I tell her about us.”

“I like sentimental Gemma.” Beau presses his lips against my neck, and my eyelids flutter and close. “Want me to tell Grams?”

“Gosh no,” I exclaim, pulling back with wide eyes. “She’d end up in handcuffs.”

He chuckles. “You’re right. Not a good plan. What, then? Do I need to butter her up with some ice cream? Offer to expunge her record?”

“Could you do that?”

“No,” he says.

My phone pings, and I pull it out of my pocket.

Eugene

We’ve had a few more showing requests for this week. I let Mr. Wallace’s agent know, and he said they’d like to go ahead and sign. The boundary issues can be addressed during the due diligence period—we’ll just set that deadline out far enough that we can be sure we have the report back.

I sigh, unsure whether to feel relief or sadness .

“What?” Beau asks.

I turn off the screen and slip my phone back in my pocket. “The buyer wants to sign a contract because we’re getting more interest in the property.”

“Ah,” he says. This whole thing affects him too, after all. He’ll be neighbors with Mr. Wallace—or his guests, I suppose. He can’t be thrilled about that.

Jimmy and his ilk checked out this morning, and I’m crossing my fingers for a nice, well-behaved family to replace them. Frat boys can’t be the only people interested in renting on this island, right?

“Are the other buyers investors too?” Beau asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. But there’s no way they’d be as motivated as Mr. Wallace and be able to pay cash.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything.

“If the house is going to be sold, better to have it over and done with,” I continue. “And with Mr. Wallace, we could close before the end of the month, which we really need to do. Marlyss Gapmeyer warned me that short-term rentals are on the chopping block at the August council meeting. Which reminds me—I need to get going on putting together your presentation.”

“Gemma,” Beau says, “you don’t have to do that. I gave you a hard time about it because you were leaving. And now you’re not.”

“Oh, I want to do it,” I reply.

“You do?” He couldn’t look more perplexed if he tried.

“Going through hours of footage of you in that cop getup? Sounds like a dream.”

He smiles and steps away. “What, you like this?” He shimmies and runs his hands down his sides.

“I can’t resist,” I say. “In fact, I may just offer to give your presentation.”

His teasing disappears, and his eyes widen. “Are you joking?”

I laugh. “No. I know you hate the idea of standing up there and talking about yourself. And I’m used to doing presentations for clients.”

I try not to smile as he turns and grabs my hands, pulling me against him again for a long, deep kiss.

Walking into Seaside Oasis feels a little bit like heading to the gallows. An email comes in from Eugene with the purchase contract for Grams to sign as I’m walking to Grams’s room. At least I’ll have some positive news for her. I find her having just showered after her water aerobics class. She opens the door for me.

“There you are,” she says with a smile. She’s in a good mood—and I’m not sure whether that’s a pro or con given the purpose of my visit. “Watch this.” She shuffles away from the door. Without her walker.

I raise my brows. “Look at you! Those water aerobics are doing you good.”

She moves her hips a little, only to wince. “Bah,” she says in frustration.

“All in good time, Grams.” I come inside and shut the door. “Guess what? I’ve got a contract on the house for you to sign.”

“About time,” she says. “My bank account is looking sad.”

If that’s not a sign this sale needs to happen, I don’t know what is. I pull out my phone and guide her through the signing of the document. Her hand pauses on the blank spot for her digital signature, and I watch her.

She’s frowning, and there’s some sadness in her eyes.

“I wish you didn’t have to sell it either,” I say softly.

She makes an entirely illegible signature with her finger. “No use crying over it. That house served us well, and now it can serve someone else well. ”

A lot of someone elses. Different ones every week, in fact. But it is what it is.

I hesitate too with my finger over the submit button, but only for a couple seconds. I press it, then email Eugene to let him know it’s done.

“I brought you something to celebrate,” I say. Beau’s idea of ice cream wasn’t so bad, and I pull a carton of rocky road out of my bag.

Grams’s mouth pulls into a big grin. She puts out her hands and wiggles her fingers. “Gimme the goods.”

I hand the carton to her, and she rips off the plastic and pries open the lid right away. She pulls open a drawer and takes out two spoons, handing one to me.

I don’t even like rocky road, but I obediently scoop some onto my spoon. I’ll hold my nose today for Grams.

She’s full today of the gossip that resulted from book club on Saturday where they discussed Sunny Palmer’s book.

When she ends, I take it as my cue. Be brave, Gemma . “Speaking of Palmers…”

Grams grunts like she has no desire to pursue that topic.

“Remember our conversation a few weeks ago?” I say, focusing all my energy on scooping the perfect spoonful of ice cream. If I just act natural, maybe she’ll take it in stride.

Ha! Good one, Gemma.

“You told me to watch out for the Palmers,” I continue.

“Of course I remember,” she says. “I’ve been telling you that your whole life.”

“And then when I told you about the project I agreed to help Beau with—in order to make sure you could stay here, you know—you warned me again.”

Her eyes flit up from the ice cream, fixing on mine. “What about it?”

Ugh. This is the worst.

I can’t even say it. It feels like slapping her in the face. I swallow, feeling hot under her unblinking stare. I rub my lips together, wishing I’d taken Beau up on his offer to rehearse this conversation just a little.

But the expression in Grams’s eyes begins to change. I think she’s getting the picture from my strange silence.

She breaks her gaze away from mine and sets down her spoon. “I’ve got to go meet Deedee.” She gets up, a hardness to her jaw that confirms she got the message.

“But Grams?—”

“She hates to wait.”

I swallow hard because she’s reaching right now. She’s escaping because she can’t stand being with me. She doesn’t want to hear me say the words.

She shuffles toward the door and opens it, then stops for a few seconds in the doorway. Her head turns enough that I can see her profile, including the streak of pink that has an inch of gray regrowth at her roots. “I hope you don’t get dropped as quickly as I did when something better comes along.”

Before I can say another word, she shuts the door behind her.