“Hey, Gemma,” Tristan says. “It’s Tristan Palmer at Seaside Oasis.”’
How many Tristan Palmers does he think I know? “Hey, Tristan.”
“I wanted to let you know that I got out of the meeting with my dad a little while ago…”
I brace myself.
“…and he’s agreed to allow your grandma to remain here.”
I let out a huge breath of relief. Since Beau dropped me off yesterday, I’ve been thinking through what to do if the Palmers decided she couldn’t stay. Seeing how happy she is there with her friends (and enemies), watching her navigate stairs and a golf cart with her bad knee, and knowing all of her ailments are only going to get worse? She needs the retirement home, and crazy as it is to me, she’s set on this one specifically. The woman would literally camp out on the beach before she’d agree to die anywhere but this island. She has an insane amount of pride in a place that’s treated her the way Sunset Harbor has. Or maybe it’s plain stubbornness. Either way, if I pulled Grams off the island by force, she’d find her way back here.
So, Tristan’s words are a massive relief.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, wondering how much Beau had to do to ensure this outcome. That wordinghe’s agreed to allow your grandma to remaintell me there’s probably a story there.
“Needless to say,” Tristan continues with a smile in his voice, “she’ll want to be on her best behavior. Stay under the radar for a while.”
I open my mouth wordlessly. Grams is very much an above-the-radar person. “I will…try to convey that to her. Thank you for your help.”
“You’ve got it. Have a good day, Gemma.”
I blow out a breath after hanging up, then grab my laptop and head straight to the attic. I’ve got more sorting to get done before…I have no idea what to call what Beau and I have planned for later.
I’ve made my way through one entire corner and most of the way through the second when I pick up a ratty old towel and freeze.
Lying on the floor is a birdfeeder.Thebirdfeeder. The red paint of the apple is faded, there are a few persistent seedssitting in the feed area, and the wood is chipped in many places because that fake, half-eaten apple is a weapon of war. I’m not surprised it ended up with Grams. Attagirl.
But what am I supposed to do with it?
I don’t want to remind Grams of it. She treated that thing like a sacred relic—if people urge their young granddaughters to go steal sacred relics from the neighbors’ yard.
I stare at it for a few seconds, then make an executive decision, walking it over to the garbage box and setting it inside. That’s the third box full of trash already. They’re cluttering up the space, making it hard for me to accurately judge my progress, so I take them downstairs one by one and set them outside by the already-full garbage can on the curb for pickup tomorrow.
As four o’clock approaches, I shower and get ready—and stay far away from windows. Date or not, the man will have to come to the door. Over my dead body will I allow Beau Palmer to see me looking outside to see whether he’s home.
I run upstairs, toss a few things into a box, and bring them downstairs for sorting in a place that has air conditioning and won’t make me look like a poodle with a bad blowout after five minutes.
I’ve given up on business attire and opt for something that won’t suffocate me: a fitted white top tucked into acid-wash jean shorts. I load up on deodorant and spritz myself generously with perfume. There are two categories of people you dress to impress: the people you love and the people you hate.
The knock comes at 4:16—not that I was watching the clock—and I take my time getting to the door.
“Hey,” Beau says.
He’s wearing salmon-colored chino shorts with small white sailboats embroidered all over, while on top, he’s got on a pale blue, linen button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The top button is undone, and I stare at it for a second.I don’t know if I was expecting him to show up in uniform or what, but this? It’s not what I had pictured.
“Gemma?”
“Yeah,” I say, blinking and stepping outside. “Sorry. I’ve been sorting through Grams’s stuff for days, and it’s turned my brain to mush.”
“No worries,” he says as we walk toward his golf cart.
I steal a sidelong glance at him. Maybe it’s the clothes, but something feels different. “No Xena?”
“Not today.”
That’s when it hits me. The missing part of his outfit: his smile. Instead, there’s a slight crease between his brows as we get into the cart.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
