“Oof,” she says, wincing. “They’re too flighty for him. I know you don’t like him, but he’s not one for the spotlight, and that’s oxygen for the Bela-babes.” She says the last words with a Valley Girl accent, referencing the Belacourts’ latest TV show,Bela-babes Take Manhattan. “Beau needs someone who’ll be happy on the island.”
I stare at Cat as she rinses out the sponge. “Like you?”
She shakes her head. “No. Beau’s nice, but I don’t feel that way about him at all.”
Why do I feel such relief hearing her say that? Beau would be crazy lucky to land Cat Keene.
Beau’s words replay in my head.You tell Jamie for me that he’s a very lucky man.He doesn’t mean that. He was just trying to get me to admit I was lying.
I leave Cat to her cleaning and get back to my work in the attic. When my phone pings, I hurry over to check it, wondering what “emergency” Sunset Harbor might be experiencing. But it’s a work email.
I tap it and quickly scan the contents. It’s from my boss, asking for some information on one of my longtime clients. I smile and grab my laptop for easier typing. “Still got it,” I say to myself. The stuff she wants to know is the type of information that only comes from experience working directly with a client, and this one is probably the most difficult to please. I answer Meredith’s questions and diplomatically let her know that it’s a complicated relationship that might be best left for once I’m back in the office.
Cat leaves after two hours, and the rest of the night is totally uneventful. So much so that I go out for a little nighttime strollon the beach. I park the golf cart in the almost-empty lot, slip off my sandals, and make my way toward the shoreline.
The evenings are when Sunset Harbor is at its best. The blazing midday heat has given way to less hell-like temperatures, and the breeze that often picks up in the afternoon makes it feel almost, dare I say, pleasant.
I look out over the waves rolling to shore, then down to my feet. It’s dark enough, I might be able to pretend I’m back on the beach in Santa Monica. Except that it’s way too quiet here. And the sand feels different. It’s so much softer. It smells a lot better too, thanks to the dense vegetation lining the shore.
It’s too bad there’s so much nonsense to deal with on this island because otherwise, it would be a pretty nice place to live. Hot as a sauna this time of year, but with plenty of places to cool off.
Like a new community pool.
I kick at the sand with my foot. Mad as it makes me to hear they’re gunning for a new pool, it hurts a little too, if I’m being honest. Why couldn’t the Palmers have built their retirement center somewhere else? Why did it have to be on the piece of land they knew meant so much to us? Couldn’t the city council have at least offered an alternative location to rebuild the pool? Dad would’ve much rather built a rec center here than in LA where the intense regulations cost him a small fortune.
My eye catches on a piece of trash blowing in the breeze.
“Where are you now, Officer Palmer?” I mutter.
With a sigh, I chase after the trash, stomping it with my foot to keep it from tumbling into the ocean. When I reach the garbage can, I hold up the Styrofoam and stare at it.
“This is for Mother Earth,” I say. “Not for Sunset Harbor or Beau Palmer.” And then I stick it in the trash can.
The photographer arrives latethe next afternoon, and I’m feeling pretty confident about Grams’s house. It’s been cleared of clutter, and Cat’s cleaning gave it that extra oomph.
At some point, the remaining stuff will have to be dealt with. The few boxes Grams wants to keep will go to Seaside Oasis with her or to a storage unit on the mainland. The furniture…well, that’s something I’ve got to figure out. Maybe Eugene can see if anyone on the island wants to buy it. Or maybe Cat and her uncle could use some of it at the B&B.
I’ll figure it out. One thing at a time.
I hate to admit it, but I’m a little surprised I haven’t heard from Beau. And by surprised, I mean bugged. There’s no way he’s gonethislong without some police duties, right? Even if it’s just everyday patrolling. He has my number, but I don’t have his, so the ball is in his court.
Deep down, I’m wondering if he’s avoiding me because of the note in the kitchen drawer. He thinks I’m secretly obsessed with him, and that is the most humiliating thing I can think of.
“I’ll grab a few photos of the exterior first,” the photographer tells me as he pulls out his gear from the trunk. “The dock and deck we’ll want daylight shots of for sure, but I’ll get some of the front and side as well. Then I’ll move to the interior. I’ll finish off at sunset outside again, with all the exterior lights on. It makes the place pop.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “Is it more helpful for me to be here while you work, or should I leave?”
He thinks for a second. “Probably easiest foryouif you do some errands or something. Otherwise, you’ll be having to move constantly as I go from room to room. I’ve done this a lot, so you can leave me to it.”
“That’s great.” I’ve spent way too much time in this house since arriving anyway. I deserve to celebrate getting things to this point, right? “When should I plan on coming back?”
“Let’s say around…eight thirty?”
“Done. Let me know if you run into any issues.” I grab the keys from the entry table and jog to the golf cart. I stick the keys in the ignition and shoot a last glance at Grams’s house as the photographer starts clicking away from the sidewalk.
That’s when I notice it. My hands go still on the keys, and I blink forcefully. But it’s definitely there.
The birdfeeder. The one I put out with the garbage days ago. It’s sitting on the Palmers’ side of the knee-high fence that separates our property from theirs.
