“I’m sure he didn’t know what you were doing.”
“I wasveryobviously pointing my camera at him. Like a stalker.” I roll onto my back and shut my eyes, cringing. I must have underestimated the cop-ly intuition that informed him I was staring at him.
“Just tell him you were making sure he wasn’t pulling any funny business, like taking that birdfeeder from our property.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” For years, part of the ongoing Sawyer versus Palmer war was the battle over the infamous birdfeeder. Dad and Mark Palmer were forced to work on it together in shop class back in the day, which meant both families felt it belonged to them. It was a hideous thing—shaped like a massive apple with a bite taken out—but instead of throwing it away like they should have, it got passed from house to house.Every time it was on our property, the Palmers would take it and put it on theirs. And vice versa.
I inspect the skin around my elbow and wince. “Okay, I’ve got to remove a thousand splinters and get some dinner before I get back to this.”
“Don’t party too hard there, Gem.”
We hang up, and I get up carefully, ensuring I can’t be seen from the window. Maybe Beau will assume he was seeing things if I never reappear in that window.
A girl can hope.
The next morning,the skin around my elbows is red and irritated, and I didn’t even manage to get all the splinters out. I’ll give it another go, maybe after a quick swim later. I figure if I return to work next week without ever venturing into the water here, I’ll have contravened paid time off law or something. Besides, much as I hate Sunset Harbor, the water is amazing. It makes LA beach water look like a mud milkshake.
I shoot Grams a text, asking how breakfast was (my not-so-subtle way of verifying she’s no longer on the hunger strike), but I haven’t heard back from her when the lunch hour approaches. She’s probably busy at knitting class or something. Seaside Oasis has constant events and classes for their seniors, like they’re kindergartners who need to be kept entertained or they’ll wreak havoc and destroy the island. They’re not far off with Grams.
I’ve got on some of Mom’s old shorts and one of her tank tops, and I debate changing and heading over to barge in on Grams’s lunchtime to check on her. I’m trying to strike the balance between maintaining a presence around her while alsoletting her develop her new life there, free of an unwanted shadow.
Heaven knows I have enough here to keep me occupied, so I decide to wait for her text, make myself a sandwich in the kitchen, and cross a couple items off my long to-do list.
My phone buzzes, and I frown at the unknown number. It’s local, which makes me instantly wary. But curiosity overwhelms caution, and I swipe to answer, putting the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Is this Gemma?” It’s a man’s voice. Young but confident.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Tristan Palmer. From Seaside Oasis Senior Living Center?”
I suppress a scoff. Like I couldn’t figure out who he meant without all that. But inside, my stomach clenches because Palmers don’t call Sawyers for anything good. “Hi, Tristan.”
“Can you come here as soon as possible? We have a bit of a situation with your grandma.”
My chest tightens. That sounds like a nice way of glossing over something potentially awful. “I’ll be over right away.” I don’t even say goodbye, rushing over to the golf cart keys on the entry table.
I grab them and hurry outside, my brain concocting all sorts of scenarios. With Grams,a situationcould mean literally anything. Did she find out about the cooking wine? Did she punch another resident? Did her knee give out on her? Did she start a flash mob in the dining hall?
My shaking hands fumble with the keys, trying to get them into the ignition.
“You okay?”
I whip my head around and find Beau looking at me with concern from the middle of his driveway. He’s wearing his uniform, but his peaked hat is tucked under a well-defined bicep, allowing a wave of brown hair to swoop over his foreheadin a dangerously attractive way. If his clothing didn’t cover so much of his body, he could’ve easily stepped out of the June glam shot in theHeroes of the Monthcalendar.
It drives me crazy that I notice these details even in my current, worried state. His golf cart is parked on the street, where Xena sits like she’s ready to cruise.
“I’m fine,” I say, grateful my brain is so concerned with Grams I don’t have time to be embarrassed about the Peeping Tom incident. And yet my hands can’t manage the simple task of getting the key in the ignition.
“Are you going to Seaside Oasis?” he asks.
I nod, impatient with his interrogation as the key finally slides in. I turn it, and the engine sputters instead of purring to life.
“I’m headed in that direction,” Beau says. “Hop in. I can get you there faster.”
I shoot him an incredulous look as I turn the key again. The engine sputters more.
