Page 20 of Summer Love

“This house—your grandparents left it to you. Not to a real estate agent. Do what you can, but don’t let anyone decide for you.”

My hand tightens around the phone.

“Okay, Dad.”

“Call me if you need to. Even in the middle of the night.”

“Promise.”

I hang up. The quiet settles back over the bungalow, barely broken by the sound of the waves.

“This house—your grandparents left it to you.”

I drop my head into my hands and stay still. Then the anger rises—cold, hard, the kind that makes me want to move.

No.

I’m not giving my grandparents’ house away.

Not to Ryan Caldwell, not to Jace Walker—especially not him—not to anyone.

The house needs work, so I’ll do it. Weed, scrub, air it out, sand, repaint. My hands, my time, my energy. It’s the only capital I have, and the only kind I need.

I get up, strip off the shorts, the tank top, and the sandals, then pull on old jeans, a gray T-shirt, and my sand-filled Converse.

Work mode.

I cut through the little stand of redwoods. The lodge bike is where I left it this morning, propped against the back wall of the house. I grab it and head for Main Street.

Next stop: Coral Bay Market.

The only real general store in town, where you can find anything and everything: groceries, cleaning supplies, toiletries, with a hardware aisle wedged between the fishing bait and the beach towels.

The bell above the door jingles when I push it open.

Inside smells like focaccia and coffee. White fluorescents light up aisles packed a little too tight, where canned goods sit next to plastic flip-flops and five-dollar sunglasses. A glass-front fridge hums against the left wall, beside a huge poster advertising a sale on sun-protective swimwear. A curvy redheaded surfer poses fresh out of the water, board under her arm, in a long-sleeve rash guard unzipped lower than necessary.

The place is nearly empty. A couple of tourists linger in front of the craft beers. A woman in a sarong compares two sunscreens.

And from the back, a voice:

“I’m telling you, Ed! There’s some critter swiping my stuff!”

The voice is warm, fast-talking. Deeper than before—older, rougher—but I’d know it anywhere.

“Last night it went through three more bags of beef jerky and a box of donuts. Three bags, Ed! This crap’s costing me sixty bucks a week in merchandise!”

A gravelly laugh—an old man in a faded baseball cap, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“You sure it’s not you eating those donuts at night?”

“Ed, seriously! Look at the claw marks on the box. No human did that.”

“Must be Bigfoot,” Ed deadpans, without looking up from his coffee.

My heart picks up as I move down the center aisle.

Luke DeLuca is bent over a torn-open box, holding it up to the customer like a piece of evidence. He’s grown—filled out, really, jaw squarer, shoulders broader. His brown curls are the same, messy, and the gold chain still glints at his throat. He’s wearing an apron over a T-shirt and khaki shorts full of pockets, a box cutter and a key ring sticking out of them. His hands fly when he talks—the same expressive gestures as when he was a teenager.