I tapthe toe of my black stiletto on the pavement, my gaze running over the parking lot of golf carts roasting in the afternoon sun. Sliding a hand over my slicked hair and ponytail, I cringe. Thanks to the sauna-like humidity of this miserable island, what used to be my signature sleek updo is rapidly turning into a national disaster, with frizz setting in like an evil dictator, ready to reign supreme for my short stay in Sunset Harbor.
Despite the fact I’ve been waiting a good fifteen minutes in this hellish heat and humidity, there’s no sign of Grams on the horizon. A little jolt of nerves takes hold as my mind jumps to worst-case scenarios: her golf cart overturned on the side of the road, for instance. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen my grandma, and she’s seventy-seven now, with a bad knee she refuses to have replaced. I would’ve called an Uber instead of asking her to pick me up if this island were civilized enough to have the service—or any cars at all.
I pull out my phone to call her as a rattling sound catches my attention, growing progressively louder.
My gaze flicks up in time to catch sight of Grams weaving through parked golf carts, completely ignoring the dedicated lane she should be driving in. Thanks to her undying love of Aqua Net Extra Super Hold hairspray, her silvery mop is putting up a valiant effort at resisting the wind drag. I swear I can smellthe hairspray from here. Apparently, that’s what I need if I’m going to look half-presentable while in Sunset Harbor.
Every screw must be loose in the golf cart given the deafening rattle and the way the whole thing vibrates as it hurtles toward me, showing no signs of slowing.
“Grams!” I cry out as my life flashes before my eyes. I have so much to see! So many rungs of the corporate ladder yet to climb! I refuse to let Sunset Harbor be the last image in my brain, so I hop back.
She slams on the brakes at the very last second, and the cart stops inches away from kneecapping me.
“Toss that suitcase on the back and jump in!” she says at an unnecessary volume. Her hearing must be going, and her thick-framed glasses look more Coke-bottley than ever. “Come on, Gigi!”
No one calls me Gigi instead of Gemma. At least no one who wants to survive the day. Grams is immune to threats, though, and I’m pretty sure she could take me in a tussle, so I let it go.
I lift my carry-on and set it in the rusted basket on the back. “Good to see you too, Grams.”
I take a seat in the cart, leaning over to kiss the wrinkly cheek she offers. I barely manage it before she puts the pedal to the metal, and we jolt forward. I grab the nearest bar and use my other hand to hike down my pencil skirt, cringing at the way it sticks to the back of my thighs. This humidity will be the death of me.
“Are you in a rush?” I ask as we weave through more parked carts.
“It’s rummy night,” she explains, narrowly avoiding clipping a cart.
I suppress the question bouncing around in my mind:are you still legally allowed to drive this thing? “These carts are a lot faster than I remember.”
She barks out a laugh, and I notice the streak of hot pink inher hair for the first time. “I had that hottie-pattottie Dax Miller add some speed to it a couple months ago.”
“Dax, huh?” I glance at her. It’d sure be nice if Grams found some companionship for her golden years, and the name rings a bell, but I don’t know why. “Is he a mainland transplant? A silver fox come to agitate all the hens?” I bump her shoulder with mine.
Grams cackles. “Oh, he’s a fox, all right! But not silver. He’s about your age.” She frowns. “You went to school together.”
My eyes widen as realization dawns. “Grams!”
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist! There’s no harm in admiring the view—and Deedee has a great one of him working from her window.” Deedee Winn is Grams’s best friend. She already lives at the retirement center Grams is moving into: Seaside Oasis.
My phone buzzes with a text from my sister as we round the corner onto Grams’s street.
Mia
How’s the inferno? And Grams?
Gemma
The inferno: miserable. Grams: losing her marbles. I think the authorities should take her license away. Also, when did she streak her hair hot pink?
Grams turns into the driveway, and my phone almost flies out of my hand. The tires skid like we’re onThe Fast and the Furious, and she slams on the breaks. She’d be a top-notch rollercoaster operator. Or the person sending the chiropractor all their business.
She scoots over to the edge, then manually lifts her right leg over the lip. I take it this is something she’s used to doing, and it makes my brows pull together.
I wasn’t sold on her moving to a retirement center, butmaybe it’s for the best. She needs to be somewhere staircases—and, preferably, driving—are a distant memory. I’m just not convinced about her going to Seaside Oasis. But Grams will never leave Sunset Harbor, so I guess she’ll stomach giving her business to the Palmer family, who own the retirement center.
“I’ve got everything packed for the move,” she says, shuffling toward the front door, “but it might take a few trips to get it all there.”
“Tomorrow, right?” I ask, hurrying to get my suitcase and keep up with her.
“Why wait?” She opens the door and waits for me to pass through. “There’s an opening in the room next to Deedee, and I’ll be darned if they give it to someone else. I hear that snake Harold Shuman has his eye on it.”
