“Actually, it was your animosity toward Xena that gave you away.”
We look over at the dog, who’s going to town on some crabgrass on the side of the road. She hacks as a blade gets stuck in her throat. Then she’s right back at it again.
“She’s terrifying.” I can’t help a smile. She’s downright adorable, and if she weren’t Beau Palmer’s dog, I’d be petting her right now. I’m most definitely a dog person.
“We didn’t have the funding for a fully trained K-9, so I got something better,” he explains, looking at her with an affection in his eyes that almost makes it appear his family genetics equipped him with an actual heart. Almost. He glances at me. “So, do I need to have you walk in a straight line? Or can I trust you to drive safely?”
I make a show of taking off my heels, which I set next to my purse in the back. “There.”
He nods his approval. “I’ll go ahead and close out the Driving While Impaired form.”
“We’re all driving while impaired in these golf carts,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.
“You get used to them.”
“Not me.” I smooth my hair back, suppressing a cringe at the feel of all the frizz. I must look like I got electrocuted. “I’m only here for a week.”
“Too bad for you.” He whistles—which is oddly attractive—and Xena scampers over and hops into the golf cart. She jumps onto the seat and sits facing forward, panting happily with a piece of crabgrass hanging from her lips as Beau rubs her head like she’s the cutest thing on earth. She kind of is.
“Oh, Gemma?”
“Yup?” I glance over my shoulder as he reaches up and pulls down the flashing light from the roof of the cart and turns it off.
“Welcome back to Sunset Harbor.”
I give a little grimace, then press my foot to the pedal as gently as I can. The cart roars forward anyway.
What demon possessedme when packing for Sunset Harbor, I don’t know, but I’m severely regretting my wardrobe choices as I sort through decades of accumulated belongings in the steaming attic of Grams’s house.
But I actually do know what demon it was: determination to show up making it clear that I mean business. Which obviously required business attire.
I wipe away a trickle of sweat with the back of my hand and look around at the four boxes I’ve filled so far. I’ve only cleared out one small corner of the attic, and I have to take in a big breath to reassure myself I’ll be able to get all this stuff packed up and this house ready for sale before I fly home in six days.
It might be less difficult if I wasn’t responding to sporadic texts from the office. I haven’t taken much vacation over the few years I’ve been with Insight Partners, and certainly not a full week, so they’re struggling a bit without their PR manager. I kind of like knowing they miss me. I’ve worked my tail off to climb this high up the ladder, and it feels good to know I’m needed.
I set a dusty swimming trophy of Dad’s into the box, notating it on the spreadsheet I’m keeping of all the items. Beneath the trophy is a stack of pictures, held together with a rubber band. The one on top is from Mom and Dad’s wedding on the main beach here in Sunset Harbor. It’s old and faded, andMom’s poofy 90s wedding dress sleeves make me smile. They both offered to come do this job, but I insisted. They’re busy running Dad’s pool back home—it’s busy season right now—and the feud with the Palmers affected them a lot more and for a lot longer than it affected me. It’s better this way.
I flick through the pictures, stopping on one of my sister Mia and me when we were little. We’re sitting in the boat on the dock we (unwillingly) shared with the Palmers, wearing bandanas around our heads, our mouths covered with the remnants of chocolate ice cream. Our street is on the bayside of the island, and there’s a canal at the back. I have a lot of fond memories of jumping off the dock and playing pirates in our boat with Mia.
One time—before we fully understood the dynamic between Sawyers and Palmers—Mia stayed in our boat, while I commandeered the Palmers’ empty one for an imaginary race against Mia to the buried treasure. Too bad we hadn’t counted on old Mr. Rick Palmer—Beau’s grandpa—waving his cane and yelling for me to get out.
At one point, someone even drew a chalk line down the dock to delineate the supposed property line. And every time it rained—which was frequently—it magically got redrawn, until finally it was spray painted.
I set the pictures in the box and add them to the spreadsheet, shifting from my knees to a cross-legged position. These slacks will never be the same after all the dust and splintered wood they’re ingesting.
I can hardly believe how much old stuff is here. Oodles of golf balls, severely rusted clubs, a spelling bee trophy of mine, Mia’s certificate from a singing competition, a tangled mess of lane ropes from the community pool—may it rest in peace—and various boxes of clothes.
One of them is Mom’s stuff from before she got pregnantwith me. It’s an amazing collection of 90s fashion: spaghetti strap everything, plaid miniskirts, a velour tracksuit, multiple pairs of jean shorts, graphic tees, and even a bucket hat. It’s basicallyCluelessin a box.
It’s the real treasure, and I take the contents straight to the washing machine. After a solid run through the laundry, I’ll be availing myself of it to ditch this business attire whenever it’s not required.
I sort through the next box—relics from Grams’s and Gramps’s youth—trying to strike the balance between appreciation and efficiency. It takes a lot longer than I’d hoped.
When the load of Mom’s old clothing is done in the dryer, I strip off my slacks and trade them for a pair of high-waisted shorts that make me feel like I can breathe again.
Beneath the box of Grams’s relics is a rusted old sign that saysJim Sawyer for City Council.
That was a couple of years before we left. I was in fifth grade when Dad ran for the open council seat. So did Mark Palmer, Beau’s dad. That campaign season made US presidential elections look like a friendly game of bingo. Thanks to the misinformation that was spread about Dad, the disappearing campaign signs, and the biased media coverage, Dad lost.
