“Wouldn’t you?” Caleb said.
“I’m the one who sent the invite.” Emery pressed her hand to her middle. “They’re going to think I’m behind this. That I wanted to go viral with a scandalousGazettestory. If it stinks, it leads.”
“No, Em.” Caleb stepped forward to survey the mess. “This is how they’ll remember all of us.”
“How can we apologize?” Emery tried to cast off her fear with the truth—this wasn’t her fault—but she kept circling back to guilt by association. “We can’t let them think we approve of this.”
“I communicated that to their security team,” Simon said. “But Caleb’s right. This will certainly leave a bad mark on Sea Blue Beach.”
“I’m going to the paper,” Emery said. “I have to email them. Hopefully, I’m not already blocked on the royal server. After that, I have to figure out how to fill six pages.” She saw Kadasha crossing the beach, camera raised.
Emery would have plenty of pictures. Just none of the ones she wanted.
CALEB
By late afternoon, city crews and volunteers had hauled off the trash, taken down the tent, and disassembled the portable floor and carted it away.
Standing where the reception should have been, he couldn’t get free from the stench, despite the stiff Gulf breeze and the warm April sun.
What was happening to his town?
To his right, the town council members were locked in conversation with Chief Kelly and Simon. The State Department was now involved, making sure there were no other threats toward the visiting dignitaries.
Reporters appeared, stringers for major news outlets, and started filing stories. “Live from Sea Blue Beach, Florida...” Which put Simon and the town further under the spotlight.
But Emery was right. The real threat to their reputation came from all the royal watchers milling around with their phones raised, recording the cleanup and posting on every social media app.
Directly in front of him, his parents chatted with Ivan and Adele, and behind them, kids from Nickle High’s football and basketball teams tossed Frisbees on the beach like today had been nothing more than a standard community-service project.
Caleb wanted to run in between each group, shouting,“This happened on our watch. Whatare we going to do about it?”
Yet he knew they wouldn’t share his passion. Except for Simon, who now had to play the politician.
He pulled out his phone to text Emery. Even though he’d worn gloves during cleanup, his hands felt dirty.
Caleb:
How’re you doing?
He waited for a response, but when she didn’t reply, he slipped his phone into his pocket. She was busy. Maybe he’d pick up Tony’s Pizza for theGazettestaff later.
With nothing else to do, he thought to head home, but being inside felt claustrophobic. Even worse, being inside alone. The house was stupidly quiet without Bentley dashing everywhere. Caleb had grown fond of Bent’s footsteps thundering down the hall, then down the stairs. Almost like he was making sure he was heard.
“Caleb?” Bobby Brockton walked through the sand toward him. “Got a sec?” He held up his palms. “It wasn’t me.”
Caleb glanced over at him. “Didn’t say it was.”
“No, but you’re thinking it. ’Cause I would if I were you.”
“Do you have any idea who would do this? That was a lot of trash, Bobby.”
“Let’s not assume it was someone from the West End. Doyouhave any idea who could’ve done this?”
“If I did, I’d not be standing here.”
Bobby gestured toward Mac Diamond and Alfred Gallagher, who were talking to a couple of city workers. “They’re ambitious and calculating, but I don’t think they’d stoop to insulting European royals. Mac’s a networker. He’d want some royal connection to build a golf course in Lauchtenland.”
“Know what’s really behind this?” Caleb turned to Bobby. “The conversations we have in this town. East End versus West End. Us and them. Even tossing out the idea of becoming two separate cities.” He motioned to where the trash site had been. “We’ve trash-talked each other for decades.”
