But no one stands up very well to thorough scrutiny. I’ll just look at working with Beau as putting him under the microscope. An electron microscope, preferably.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “I’ll help you more. Extra material to work with never hurt a PR campaign.”
He smiles and puts out his hand. “We’re back in business.”
I set my peach beside me and take Beau’s hand, wondering if I’ve just made yet another deal with the devil—and how much I care.
Eugene promisesto get in touch with the “most capable surveyor in the area.” I have no idea what the hallmark of an excellent surveyor might be, which is why I leave this task to him. He gets back to me just after five that evening and lets me know we have one scheduled to come in a week, which is how long the guy needs for his preliminary research.
Mr. Wallace takes this delay in stride, so I try to as well.
My days fall into a semi-predictable routine: job searching in the morning (I’m officially unemployed now), lunch with Grams, patrol and whatever comes up for Beau in the afternoon.Whatever comes upis everything from parking tickets and noise complaints (thanks, new next-door guests) to opossum removal, helping tourists, and kicking Tristan and Capri Collins—Deedee’s granddaughter—off the beach after curfew.
My job search is the most uninspiring part of my day. I’m questioning everything now. Do I even want to be in PR? Where do I want to live? What do I want the rest of my life to look like? It’s a full-on quarter-life crisis, which makes me linger in my bed longer in the mornings or, if I can’t sleep, head to the beach for a morning swim while the water is at its calmest.
Part of me can see myself here—or somewhere like here—and more than once, I catch myself wondering if I could carve out a place for myself on this island. I could be here for Grams, do something new. But I’m coming to realize just how much hurt lies behind my anger at Sunset Harbor, and I don’t know ifI can allow myself to get hurt again. I’m not invincible like Grams, no matter how much I wish I could be.
Which leads me to the next problem: my electron microscope seems to be malfunctioning. My afternoons are the part of day I look forward to most. I want so badly to ask Beau about Miss Miami, but if I do, it’s akin to admitting to myself that I’m coming to care for Beau in a way I swore I never would. The thought of trying to break that to my family is enough to keep me quiet, and since he never brings her up, either, I start to wonder if maybe she’s a figment of Sunset Harbor’s overactive imagination. It would be like the island to make something out of nothing.
The surveyor comes on June 30th—his research turned out to be much more involved than expected—and does his on-site survey. Contrary to my expectations, the result of this visit is not a definitive answer. He has to process the calculations he took, analyze the data, and draft a survey to include in his final report. His ETA for that report? At least a week.
Mr. Wallace is okay with the timeline, provided no one else is going to nudge him out as primary contender for the house.
We’ve had a few other showings, but no one as interested as Mr. Wallace—and no one has a cash offer. Though, the way things are going with this boundary issue, we’ll probably end up closing the same time we would’ve if we’d gone with a financed buyer.
A week and a half after my canceled flight home, Beau and I are on a later-than-usual patrol when a call comes to his phone from his brother.
The way his eyes shift to me tells me Grams is involved, and I hang my head until he says bye to Tristan.
“What’d she do this time?”
Beau pulls into the nearest driveway and turns the cart around. “She and Deedee commandeered a golf cart from Seaside Oasis for a little joy ride.”
“Please tell me Deedee is driving,” I say with wide eyes.
He squeezes my thigh, making me jump. “Sure, Gemma. It’s Deedee in the driver’s seat in that friendship.” The cart roars forward, and we head out on the closest Sunset Harbor’s ever had to a high-speed chase, catching up with our Bonnie and Clyde just as they’re getting to the main square.
“Look!” I say as their cart pulls into a parking space. “She’s pulling over willingly! I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding?”
Beau chuckles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Totally.”
Beau blocks in their cart with his, while Deedee and Grams get out of the cart. We watch in silence as Deedee unfolds Grams’s walker. She helps Grams out, and they shuffle toward the door of Scoops Ahoy Ice Cream Parlor like there’s not a police cart with flashing lights a dozen feet away.
Beau looks at me. “You were saying?”
“Maybe their blood sugar is low,” I offer as he steps out of the cart.
I consider staying in it to avoid the inevitable conflict Grams seeing me with Beau will trigger, but I don’t want to hide from her. There’s nothing to hide, anyway. At least, nothing apart from the ever-intensifying attraction I feel for Beau Palmer.
We have enough material to suck up the city council’s meeting time for the entire year, but I can’t bring myself to put a stop to my “work” with Beau.
Grams glances over her shoulder as we walk in the door. Her gaze flits from Beau to me, then back again, and I brace myself. “Thought I might see you here, Palmer. But I didn’t expect to seeyouhere, Gigi.”
“Grams,” I say, “every time you pull a stunt like this, I get further in debt to the Palmers. If you wanted ice cream, you could’ve called me, and I’d have brought it to you.”
“What? In a cardboard container, half-melted?” Elaine Pruitthands her a waffle cone with three towering scoops, and Grams licks it with relish.
