Grams has…feelings…about everyone in Sunset Harbor, including, apparently, the young, eligible men like Dax Miller, yet no one in Sunset Harbor falls into the “eligible” category in my mind.
I glance around the entryway of the home I grew up in. Gramps died before I was born, and my parents, my sister Mia, and I always lived with Grams. I haven’t been back since I was twelve, though, and I’m suddenly swimming not just in thick, Floridian air but in memories. And in the realization of how much stuff I’m going to have to pack up in order to get this place ready for sale. All in the space of a week.
It's okay. I can do this.
Grams leads us to the U-shaped kitchen with white cabinets and pulls open the fridge. “Sweet tea? Lemonade? Mint julep?”
“I’ll just have a water, thanks.” I grab a glass from the cupboard.
Grams eyes me suspiciously, then shuts the fridge. “You’ll need your energy for all the trips to and from the oasis.” She opens another cupboard and pulls out a sleeve of shortbread cookies.
I take one to placate her. Resisting isn’t worth the scolding I’d get for refusing. Grams has always considered it a sacred duty to make sure her granddaughters eat enough.
“Never thought I’d hear you referring to that place as an oasis,” I say. I haven’t actually seen Seaside Oasis Senior Living Center—we moved away from the island before it was completed—but if I’d been consulted, I would’ve named it something different. Palmer Family Center for World Domination, maybe. PFCWD for short.
“The residents aren’t so bad,” Grams says, breaking off a leaf from her counter plant to add to her mint julep. “Well, some of them, at least. There are a dozen or so Palmerites amongst the residents. And it’s the Palmer boy running the show now, by the way.” Her smile turns wicked as she sips from her glass, staring at nothing in particular. It falls squarely into the evil grin category.
Her willingness to give the Palmers her business makes a bit more sense if she has mischief up her sleeve. And she usually does.
“The parents moved away, then?”
“No. They’ve got a house right by Seaside Oasis, but they’re not there much. Too busy gallivanting around the world, spending their money.” She checks her wristwatch and slams her glass down. “Time to go.”
“Give me two minutes to freshen up,” I say. The whole point of my coming to Sunset Harbor is to make sure Grams is treated with the respect and dignity she deserves by the Palmers, and I can’t do that effectively if I walk into enemy territory looking like a jetlagged, frizzy poodle.
I tame my hair, touch up my makeup, and try to smooth my white button-up shirt and pencil skirt, then I load up the golf cart with as many of Grams’s bags as it can safely hold—which isn’t many, given how she drives. She refuses my offer to take over that task, though.
“You’ll be driving back and forth while I’m at rummy,” she reasons. The woman fiercely guards her independence, which is why she’s still in Sunset Harbor in the first place—and why moving to a retirement center could be a rocky transition.
As she reverses in the driveway, I glance at the house next door. The Palmers’ house is quite a bit larger than Grams’s. You’d think they’d have been content with that and their larger bank accounts, but no. They just had to build their retirement center right where Dad’s pride and joy used to stand: Sunset Harbor Community Pool.
Dad ran the city pool for years—it was his passion project. He taught swimming lessons, held island parties, and worked hard to make sure it was a gathering place for the residents. But the pool was getting old, so he tried to convince the city council to allocate more funding for updates. Instead, they allowed the Palmers to buy the land, raze the pool, and build Seaside Oasis there, despite having multiple other retirement centers in Florida. The one place I have the most fond memories of on the island is gone, thanks to the Palmers.
We whiz past their house and all the others on the street, making our way up Main Street and past the town square as sunset bathes the place in a warm glow—or hellfire, depending on your perspective. It looks mostly the same as it did when I was last here: small, claustrophobic, and full of lots of people who took the Palmers’ side in every single scuffle that came up—and there were plenty of those over the years.
I have to keep a hand on the bags in the back whenever we turn a corner, but we make it to the senior living center intact. I blow a relieved breath through my lips, secretly admiring the well-manicured grounds of Seaside Oasis. I guess, strictly speaking, the word oasiskind offits. Palm trees with rippling fronds, skies above full of wispy clouds, and beautiful blooms adorning the flower beds.
It makes all sorts of conflicted feelings rise in my chest. It’shard for me to believe Grams would ever agree to live here, but she’s never been one to back away from conflict.
Understatement of the year.
I’m on the watch for any Palmers as we make our way inside the automatic double doors, but if it’s one of the sons running the place, it’s possible I won’t recognize him. It’s not a Palmer who helps us at the desk anyway, so I lower my hackles and focus on making sure all the details are in order for Grams to move in.
Multiple people interrupt the conversation to say hi to us, and I watch with a subtle smile as Grams interacts with her fellow seniors. My family has been worried about her being lonely in her big house on the island, but it’s obvious she’ll be surrounded by friends at the senior center. Maybe this place will be exactly what she needs after all.
The woman at the desk, Sandra Barry, offers a tour of the center, but Grams firmly declines it.
“I’ll miss rummy,” she explains. “Besides, I already know the place.” She waves as her best friend, Deedee Winn, appears in the lobby. She’s got short-cropped hair, a kind smile, and Dame Judi Dench vibes.
She walks over and gives me a warm hug, smelling just like a grandma should—incredibly floral. I reassure Grams I’ll put her belongings in her room before heading back to the house for more while they go to rummy. The two of them walk off to their card game, whispering like a pair of middle-schoolers with white hair and hunched backs.
Sunset has given way to twilight, scattering deep reds, blues, and violets across the horizon. Sure, it’s pretty, but I’m not fooled. All the pretty scenes in Sunset Harbor are meant to distract you while people run up from behind and stab you in the back. Metaphorically. Sunset Harbor’s actual crime rates are really low, demonstrated by the fact that Grams left her key in the golf cart. Or maybe that’s because the thing is apiece of junk. I can’t believe she still uses this death contraption.
Instead of climbing in like a normal human, I have to sit on the seat, then swing my legs over. It’s vaguely reminiscent of how Grams got in and out, except I don’t have a bum knee; I have a pencil skirt, which is every bit as much of a handicap. I was hoping the outfit would communicateI mean businessto the Palmers, but I could’ve saved myself the trouble, apparently. It shouldn’t surprise me they’d be nowhere in sight. They rake in all the money while getting other people to do the work.
Turning the key, I situate my foot on the gas—no easy task with these talon heels. The second I put pressure on the pedal, the cart jumps forward, and I hit my head on the windshield.
Rubbing the spot and swallowing all the bad words that try to escape, I put my hands back on the steering wheel and give it another go. I’m more successful this time, and by successful, I mean my head is still intact.
