Beau’s expression turns shell-shocked, and mine is all smiles as I crouch down to receive the furry ball of delight.
“Good girl, Xena,” I say, reinforcing her by losing sight of both my hands in her voluminous fur. I glance up at Beau, unable to stop grinning at my good fortune. “Mission: Convert Xena to Team Sawyer in progress.”
He crouches down next to me and scratches her behind the ear. “Xena’s above all that. She’s Team Sunset Harbor.”
“Or,” I say as our fingers collide in the mess of fur, “you’ve got a double agent on your hands.”
A throat clears loudly, and we look up to find Harold staring at us.
I extract my hand and get to my feet. “Harold,” I say, with a formal nod. And then I walk away.
My call with Meredith goes well. Really well, actually. She has no problems with me extending my time off. It was almost too easy, probably because she was in a rush. But she knows how much I’ve given to Insight, and she gets why I’m here. Plus, I told her I’m reachable at all hours, so they have no reason to worry with me gone.
I head to the cafeteria and have barely taken a seat when Grams says, “What’s this about a boyfriend?”
I take a strategic drink, giving myself time to come up with an answer. Is she concerned after Harold’s comments? Or is shejust curious about my dating life? “About that…I might’ve stretched the truth a bit.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“I don’t want to deal with the rumors,” I defend. “This place exhausts me with all the gossip. How do you still live here?”
“You get an appetite for it,” she chuckles. “Keeps things exciting. Besides, Harold is just trying to throw the attention off himself.”
“Oh? What sort of attention is that?” Never hurts to have a little ammo to fire back at him next time he tries to bug me.
And that’s how I spend the next hour, hearing all the latest gossip at Seaside Oasis—how Harold supposedly has a sugar mama on the mainland, how Marge Wentworth and Les Erickson might be having an affair, and that there’s a celebrity hiding on the island at the Belacourt Resort. The usual stuff.
“Well,” I say, my eyes a little wide as I get up with my tray. “That was…enlightening.”
“That ain’t the half of it!” Grams crows, and I wonder if the half I haven’t heard are all rumors abouther.
“The other half will have to wait,” I say. “I’ve got to get back to work at the house. Make sure to go to physical therapy tomorrow, okay?”
She gives a harumph as I lean in to kiss her on the cheek, balancing my tray on my hands.
“Andcall menext time something happens, Grams. What do you think I’m here for?”
“There won’t be a next time,” she says grumpily.
“Of course not,” I say. “Love you.” I turn, not waiting for her to say it back. Grams has never been one for verbal expressions of emotion. I get it. I’m not either. Except with her.
And with Jamie Fraser fromOutlander.
The changefee and fare difference for my flight hurts, but you know what hits harder? The extra seven days I’ll be here. Harold Shuman’s comments and the way he looked at Beau and me when we were petting Xena have been like a sliver under my skin. It’s not about Harold, either. There’s no privacy on this scrap of land. Grams may thrive on that, but I don’t. I like my life in LA, where I can be invisible walking down the street, where my company is as big as the entire population of Sunset Harbor.
Still under my covers, I refresh the email app on my phone, but I have no new emails, despite Meredith telling me they’d be sending me some things to look over and give my approval on yesterday.
I exit the app as a call comes through from Eugene. He’sfinallyback with suggestions on pricing, and we go back and forth for fifteen minutes before settling on where to list the house. In our situation, it’s a gamble. We just have to list and see how much interest we get. We’re listing on the higher end of what we discussed, which means I have some work to do to get the house ready for photos. It needs to look its best, and right now, it does not.
Right after we hang up, I spend time making a game plan on a piece of paper because how do you get anything done without lists, right? I write out what furniture to put where, and what to put in the garage to get it out of the way. I’m stillnot done in the attic, but I’d rather get this part of the house looking good. No buyer coming through for a showing will expect the attic to look pristine, but their impressions will definitely be affected by how the rooms they’ll spend the most time in are staged.
I start in the living room—the heart of the home—and work on the small items first, clearing clutter and moving a side table to the garage. The way Grams has the room set up, the couches are pushed up against the walls, and I know from a LOT of Pinterest scrolling—something that gives me the equivalent of a degree in interior design—that this is a big no-no.
Feng shui-ing the room will require a lot less stuff and a lot of moving furniture. Old furniture. And the thing about old furniture is that it’s heavy. Like,reallyheavy. You pick up a couch from 1960, and you have no trouble believing its frame came from an actual tree.
I consider myself a strong woman, but my skill set doesn’t include winning the caber toss competition at the Highland Games, so after a couple attempts to move the couch and loveseat, I stand with my hands on my hips to rethink things.
I could call Eugene, but the man is sixty-five and has rheumatoid arthritis.
