Page 49 of Summer Love

Maya opens her mouth, closes it.

“Anyway,” she says, getting up off the armrest, “don’t forget book club tomorrow night. Tide & Tales, seven o’clock. Everyone brings something to snack on. Ruby’s making her brownies, and fair warning, she’s got a heavy hand. We’ll meet at the lodge front desk at quarter to seven and head over together?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.”

Just before she leaves the living room, she turns back.

“You know, Jace Walker’s a good guy. But he’s not someone you want to cross…”

Too late.

She winks at me and steps out into the hall. I hear her footsteps in the yard, then the beach gate clicking shut.

I start sorting through the kitchen cabinets. I fill two boxes with chipped dishes and a trash bag with yellowed odds and ends. Sweat runs down the back of my neck and the muscles in my arms ache. The kind of tired that keeps me from thinking—which is convenient.

Around two, I decide to head back. I gather the jugs, close the windows, lock the door, and step out into the yard.

I stop dead.

The VW bus is parked right in front of the gate, along the fence. Exactly where it needs to be to keep a bike from getting through. And of course, my beach cruiser’s in the yard.

It’s not an accident. It’s a message.

The van’s covered in dry sand, sun-faded surf stickers, and salt streaks that leave whitish rings across the weathered red paint.

I groan. I set down the jugs, squeeze between the body and the fence—the gap’s so tight I catch the side mirror—and go around the van.

The back window’s coated in a layer of dust so thick you can’t even see through it. Perfect. With my index finger, in capital letters, I write:

MOVE YOUR VAN, ASSHOLE

I step back and tilt my head. There. First official exchange with Jace Walker. The tone’s set.

But it’s not enough.

The idea arrives at the same time as the smell. Ten feet from the van, against the low wall that separates the yard from the beach, there’s a pile of seaweed left by the tide. Brown, slimy, half-dried by the sun, it reeks of low tide and dead fish.

The van’s back hatch isn’t locked. It opens with a creak and a gust of hot air escapes—the interior’s been baking in the sun all morning.

I go back to the seaweed pile. I grab a big handful. It’s slick, it drips between my fingers, and the smell is disgusting.

I fling the whole thing into the back of the van. I head back for more. Second handful. Third.

Smiling, I shut the van. July heat, fermenting seaweed… In two hours, this bus is going to be a crime against the nose.

Next to the pile, I spot a dead crab, washed up on the sand between two tufts of dry grass. Small, pale, legs curled under.

No. I wouldn’t.

Oh, I would.

I pick it up with my fingertips, arm held as far from my body as it’ll go.

I come around to the driver’s door. It isn’t locked either. I open it and set the dead crab in the middle of the seat, legs to the sky, like an offering.

Just as I close the door, a bark rings out behind me.