“Really?” I ask, licking the drips around the top of the cone. I’d love to hear what else Beau’s said about Grams. I’ll take whatever ammo I can against him.
Dax rubs at a stubborn grease spot between his thumb and finger. “He worries about her.”
I pause mid-lick, staring at him. That wasn’t quite the ammo I had in mind. Beau worries about Grams?
Stop it, heart. This isn’t that kind of worry. I’m sure he worries she’s losing her mind and is going to harm somebody while driving her rickety cart.
Dax looks up and cocks a brow. “She’s lucky her driving privileges are still intact given the number of times he’s pulled her over.”
“You know he pulledmeover within half an hour of my arriving. I’ll be lucky if I leave the island before he can stick Grams and me in that holding cell of his together.”
Dax smiles slightly. “He’s had plenty of opportunity to put your grandma there already. He loves Virginia Sawyer, which is why he tries to strike a balance.”
“What balance?”
He shrugs. “Pulling her over enough to remind her to be careful without actually taking away her independence.” He nods at my increasingly melted ice cream. “I’d better go. Let me know if you have any trouble with the cart, though.”
I nod and try to do damage control as drips of mint brownie reach my hand, but my insides are melting too. It’s more reassuring than I care to admit, knowing that Beau is looking out for Grams, even if it’s secretly. She’d absolutely hate it if she knew. But I don’t.
I take what’s quickly becoming ice cream soup and do mybest to drive back toward the biggest beach on the island. I liked my evening stroll the other night, and I may just make a nightly tradition of it. I’d much rather be doing this than acting as paparazzo for Beau. Maybe.
Grams’s houseis officially on the market! The photographer got the photos back to us this morning—I hired him for his advertised twelve-hour turnaround time—and Eugene worked all day (by which I mean I had to go to his house to help his technologically challenged self) to get the photos uploaded and captioned.
And now it’s done! I’ve visited the listing website more than two dozen times this morning. I have no idea why. Probably because I’m going through work withdrawals. While I was busy with getting the house ready for sale, I had enough to keep me busy. Now? I’m just waiting for Eugene to let me know when we get a showing request. Or for Beau to text me to come along for a work call.
It’s misery. So much so that I actually compose an email to Meredith to check in—again. I never heard back from her last time, which I assume means things are going fine. But inside, I’m getting worried.
Before I can press send, I slam the laptop lid shut. “I need to get out of here.”
I shove my laptop under a pillow—out of sight, out of mind—then grab the cart keys and head outside. I stop short on the porch.
The birdfeeder. It’s not where I put it. And it’s not where it was when I ripped it out of the Palmers’ grass either. It’s ontheir side of the fence again, but this time, it’s set farther back in their yard—and farther in too.
Like that’ll stop me.
Beau’s cart is nowhere to be seen—which also wouldn’t stop me, to be clear—and I march over and work at pulling the feeder out. He’s put it in deeper this time—show off—and it takes me a minute to jimmy it out.
I made sure it was still in its place when I got back after dark, so he probably did it late last night. I walk it back to Grams’s property and take it even farther back the side yard than Beau did.
“No trespassing, Officer,” I say as I work to get it situated again. I don’t have Beau’s muscles, but I do a pretty good job.
That item of business done and dusted, I head to Seaside Oasis to hang out with Grams. It’ll keep me busy, and I’m realizing that once I leave in a few days, I don’t know when I’ll see her again next. I kind of hate that thought. She’s getting old. The type of old where every time you say goodbye, you have to make sure you’re doing it right so you don’t end up with regrets.
Grams is still using the walker, but she’s not happy about it, as evidenced by the way she talks to it like it’s uniquely responsible for every bad thing in her life. I’m just happy we haven’t had any other incidents since the fire alarm. It’s probably why she’s so irritable with the walker—she’s got pent-up mischief.
That’s why I don’t even think about bringing up the community pool issue. But I don’t need to. She does it herself as we’re walking to the center’s quilting group. She’s got some cuss words sprinkled in as she talks about it, but she’s surprisingly calm. I guess she’s used to the underhanded way things get done on the island. “As long as my tax dollars aren’t funding it, they can do what they want.”
My heart rate kicks up a notch when an email from Meredith comes in around four, but it’s short.
Gemma,
Everything is under control.
Meredith
She’s always been very to-the-point, so there’s no way to tell if it’s true or if she’s just trying to reassure me so I don’t freak out that I’m going to come back to little fires needing to be put out with a half-dozen clients.
I stick around the retirement center after dinner because what else am I going to do? I’m half tempted to change my flight to tomorrow, but a quick look at the fares and the change fee nip that idea in the bud. Besides, I’d like to stick around until I’m sure we’ll be getting offers on the house. Ideally, that’ll happen very soon so I can be here to help Eugene with whatever negotiations need to happen. If Grams gets involved, it could get ugly. From a couple of things she’s said, I get the feeling she’s sadder than she lets on to be selling the house. She’d never say so, but I kind of wonder if she wishes someone in my family would buy it. Dad’s her only child, though, and he’s always flown Grams to California rather than come back here, so that’s a nonstarter.
