Bobby sighed. “A small football rivalry grew into a big mess, didn’t it?”
“It’s not football. It’s the rivalry between old and new. Progress and history. Ever since those for progress lost the bid to tear down the Starlight, the festering started.”
“There’s some merit to that, I guess.” Bobby kicked at the sand with his sneakered foot. “But Mac isn’t going to stop. He wants a nine-hole golf course and clubhouse in the Org. Homestead neighborhood. It’s adjacent to the new road coming in, which will bring tourists in from western Alabama and Louisiana. Come on, those houses aren’t worth fixing up and selling, Caleb. You know it, and I know it. A hundred years ago, they might have been something, but now? Florida Cracker homes? Not on the list of classic architecture.”
“Maybe I’ll make it a classic style.” Caleb’s defenses were up.
“Okay, fine. Who’s going to pay for them to be gutted and brought up to code? Who can afford to buy one when they’re done? They’re not big enough for anyone to buy at current prices. But over on the West End, we have new affordable housing developments. Let’s be realistic for a second and—”
“What? Admit the East End needs to be bulldozed? That the town Prince Blue and Malachi Nickle built together should become a playground for tourists, with an amusement park and pro golf and tennis clubs? That’s not the heart of Sea Blue Beach at all, Bobby.”
“In the beginning, no. But Caleb, y’all are not going to win this one. I’m not trying to stir up trouble or side with Mac for my own gain, but look around. It’s not 1900 anymore. Or 1950. Or 1987. Who has an old-fashioned pharmacy and soda fountain these days? Jenny Finch is going to eventually lose her investment in Alderman’s. Sea Blue Beach is more than the gem of the North Florida coast. It’s a gold mine.” He started to walk off, then turned back around. “You should pay attention to what Mac is whispering to you, Caleb.”
“He’s not whispering anymore. He’s shouting.”
* * *
Three hours later, he sat around the Sands Motor Motel firepit, watching the sunset, Emery in the chair next to him, his arm resting on her shoulder, his fingers lost in the soft ends of her hair.
She’d called when the staff put the paper to bed, looking for some comfort and dinner. He grabbed a couple of steaks at Biggs and tossed them on the Sands gas grill while Emery put together a salad. But neither one ate very much.
Sitting with her now, the world almost felt right again. If he could just shake the heaviness of the royal disaster and Bentley’s leaving.
“We did our best but—” Emery sighed this mantra all through dinner.
She’d ended up with three pages of“gorgeous”photos from the Friday-night reception with her story wrapped in between. Then three troubling pages of the brunch tent before and after the trashing and“about fifty quotes of people wondering,‘Howdid this happen?’”
“This is a pivotal edition for me. I mean, can you imagine a more diverse news day? This is one for theGazettearchives.”
“You’re doing your job. Reporting the news.”
“I feel awful about everything.” She sat forward, so his hand slipped away from her. “Prince John said he really wanted to skate at the rink his ancestor built.”
“Now he probably never will.”
“I’m not giving up on apologizing,” she said, getting out of her chair and slipping into his lap.
“I don’t think Simon will either.” Caleb settled his hand on her waist, and with a soft sigh, held her close.
“So, is this our thing?” she whispered. “Sitting curled in Adirondack chairs by an outdoor fire?”
“Fine by me.” He kissed her cheek. “One day I should take you on a proper date.”
“To where? The Skylight?” She sat up to see his face. “Do you realize the West End is just a copycat? The East End has the Starlight and the Blue Plate Diner. The West has the Skylight and the Red Room. We’re at the Sands Motor Motel, but six miles away, you can stay at the Shore Motel. The carnival came to the East End and now someone from the West End wants to put up a permanent Ferris wheel.”
“Imitation is a form of flattery,” Caleb said.
“Or stealing,” Emery countered.
“Bobby Brockton made a point of telling me he wasn’t behind the prank.”
“Really? He avoided me when I interviewed the cleanup crews,” Emery said. “You think it’s deflection?”
Caleb thought for a second. “I don’t think so. He was honest about their plans for the town. They want the East End for their business goals. He called it a gold mine. The true deflection is the bold announcement of breaking away, becoming their own municipality. That does not fit their plans at all.”
“Scaring everyone into agreement.”
“Right, and he, um, told me to pay attention to what Mac waswhisperingto me.”
