Page 2 of Billionaire's Coastal Haven

So I keep his secret.

I acknowledge the bear and head to The Bright Spot for my morning coffee and the gladhanding he normally does with the regulars who stop in before it’s time to open their shops for the day.

The sun crests the forest-covered mountains that ring Rainwater Bay as the town comes to life.

Right on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, nestled at the foot of Olympic National Park, our little hamlet is idyllic, calm, and peaceful in a way that only small towns can be. I love it here.

The coffeehouse sits on the southeast corner of Main and Cedar streets across from Rainwater Square, the center of town where we build an ice skating rink every winter. Since it’s the beginning of March, the cobblestone park isn’t much to look at, but soon it will overflow with townsfolk when we host family movie nights under the stars, starting in June.

Sunny yellow-and-white-striped awnings shade half a dozen tables outside The Bright Spot. Inside, metal tables overflow with patrons clustered over steaming cups of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate.

The bell rings as I push through the door. Ryan Brighton waves hello from the register, but Lucky Reynolds holds everyone’s rapt attention in the center of the room.

“He can’t do it.” The manager of the local apothecary and the newest elected member of our town council twists her brunette hair into a messy bun on the top of her head and replaces her sparkling headband behind her ears. “I told him he’s not allowed, but he wouldn’t listen. Smiled as he tucked the contract into his coat pocket.” She mimes the action. “And walked out the door with his black coffee like he hadn’t just screwed the rest of us.”

Everyone starts talking at once. Voices—loud, annoyed, and angry—bounce around me like spiky ping-pong balls.

I squeeze around the group and press my hip against the counter. “What’s going on?” I ask Ryan.

In a backwards “Rainwater Bay High School” baseball cap, worn jeans, and canvas apron, he’s the master of his espresso machine domain. He lifts a paper cup. “Your usual?”

I nod.Grande flat white.People appreciate predictably in their elected officials even if the redundancy bores me.

He grinds espresso beans into the portafilter and tamps them down. “Old man Webber sold the Reeves estate to some billionaire from out of town.”

My heart drops.No!“He can’t do that.”

Yes, he owns the property and can technically do whatever he wants with it, but every historic building in the state is monitored by the Washington Trust for Historic Preservation. The Rainwater Bay Historical Preservation Society answers to them and verifies we are maintaining every landmark listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Like the Reeves estate.

We make sure history is preserved and cherished. That includes guaranteeing they treasure it like I do.

I mean…likewedo.

“Mr. Webber didn’t notify the society.” I would have heard if he had.

“Everyone’s up in arms.” Ryan gestures to the mob around Lucky. “She’s riling them up.”

“That is her specialty.” I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say anything more. Lucky and I aren’t friendly.

But she can’t be my focus.

Sitting on the bluff overlooking town, the Reeves estate is the most historic home in town. The Webber family bought it decades ago when the Reeves went bankrupt, but they haven’t cared for the mansion the way the town expected them to. Not since my mom died. She was the one who petitioned for the estate to be listed as a historic site and was working to restore it when she had her accident.

At first, no one had the heart to touch the house she loved so much. Then time got away from us, and its reputation as a bad omen became an urban legend no one wanted to tempt.

Watching bits of the bluff crumble into the ocean every year breaks my heart. Like losing Mom over and over again.

The Historical Preservation Society fined and taxed the Webbers to encourage them to restore the property, but they haven’t touched it in years. They haven’t paid the fees either.

Will the new owner honor the Reeves’s contributions to our community? Will they pick up where Mom left off? Do we want them to?

Dad needs to know about this. “Did Webber say why he was selling?” I ask.

Ryan shrugs. “Why does anyone sell anything? For the money. Rumor mill says Mrs. Webber’s cancer is back, so that’s my guess.”

Ryan’s coffee shop is rumor mill central, so if anyone knows, it’s him or his fiancé, Francesca.

She darts from the back of the store with a tray of fresh pastries as if I conjured her. Her bright red hair, pulled high into a ponytail, trails halfway down her back.