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Heck, tonight had been a major breakthrough: Royal had actually left his bedroom to enjoy his dinner in the presence of another living, breathing human for a change. Which had been a bittersweet moment, considering the commercial season for harvesting wild oysters would officially end within the next month. There’d be little chance of fishing fresh oysters from the creek unless the season was extended, which, considering two state shellfish grounds had already been closed as a result of increased bacteria levels, was a long shot at best.
Warm sun and fresh air had done her dad a world of good, but the grief that still hung on him signaled he had a long way to go.
Kit inhaled, filling her lungs with clean salty air, opened the door, and walked inside the community center.
“Addition of acreage would allow us to expand, thereby enabling us to supply local restaurant owners”—Beau stood behind a podium at the front of the room, beside a screen on which images of oysters cages were being projected, and gestured toward a man in the front row—“like Tip Allen here, with fresh, flavorful, locally harvested oysters of consistent quality on a routine basis.”
Heads nodded around the packed room, accompanied by murmurs of agreement. Only a few faces frowned, and Kit took comfort in them before refocusing on Beau.
“Consistent?” she called out.
Beau paused, his strong hands returning to the podium, long fingers gripping the sides, as he scanned the room for the source of the voice.
Kit eased around the couple standing in front of her and stood behind the last row of people seated in chairs. “As in predictable?”
Rustles and low whispers rolled around the room. She felt eyes on her from every direction but maintained her focus on the podium.
Beau found her, and his eyes locked with hers. “Yes. Consistent.” He smiled. “And—if you prefer the term—predictable.”
The kindness in his warm smile and blue eyes warmed her chest. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other as a movement to his right caught her eye.
Viv, seated in a folding chair to Beau’s left, scooted to the edge of the chair, propped her elbows on her knees, and tilted her head as she met Kit’s gaze, a warning in her eyes.
Her expression was still drawn, but her cheeks held more color than the last time Kit had seen her. More than likely gleaned from the sun during endless hours on the creek, venting her anger at Kit’s return. That, at least, was a relief.
“Predictable,” Kit repeated, lifting her chin at Viv. “So local restaurant owners like Tip Allen, to use your example, would be able to count on your deliveries of fresh crop with predictable regularity.” She returned her attention to Beau. “Do you think of the weather as being predictable?”
Beau shook his head. “Certainly not, which is why we prepare for any eventuality.”
“Like, say”—Kit shrugged—“rip currents during a hurricane or storm surge?”
“Yes. Our operation is equipped with long lines that allow us to sink the cages to the bottom to ride out storms and avoid damage.”
“And the point of tonight’s meeting is to convince Hope Creek residents—restaurant owners, especially—that it’s in their best interests for you to expand, right? To secure a permit to add around, oh, up to seven hundred fifty more cages to the seven hundred or so you already operate?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Beau grinned. “Again.”
Kit bristled. “How many people does Pearl Tide Oyster Company currently employ, Mr. Sutton?”
His grin faded as he studied her face. “Three.”
“And those people would be . . . ?”
“Myself, Nate Sutton . . .” His hands slid over the podium. Fiddled with a stack of pamphlets on one side. “And Viv Teague.”
“All of whom are already tending to the first crop.”
“Yes, that—”
“Wasn’t a question.” Firming her tone, she asked, “How many hours do you and your coworkers spend on the water each day tending the crop you already have?”
His jaw clenched. “Assuming that was a question, the answer is that there’s no fixed amount of time. We work as long as it takes.”
“And, presumably, it’d take all hands on deck to lower the crop you already have to the bottom of the creek to prepare for a storm surge or an unexpected weather event. So, who would that leave to protect the new crop in a crisis?”
Viv shot to her feet, anger flashing in her eyes. “Our presentation, which you interrupted, is ongoing. A question-and-answer session follows afterward. Please reserve your questions until that time.”
“Why?” Kit locked her knees and ignored the tremors running through her legs. “I don’t see that my concern, or that of restaurant owners like Tip Allen, who’ll be dependent upon Mr. Sutton’s assurance that the production of quality crops will be consistent and predictable, will be assuaged in any way by an hour filled with slideshows and empty promises.”
