A Shore Thing (32 page)

“June, please don’t give up on me now. I’m not giving up. In fact, I wanted to tell you that I’m going to be on the radio tomorrow at noon. Tell everyone you know, okay?” I paused, wanting desperately to ask her one more time if I could have permission to tell the public the truth about their predicament. “Will you do that?”

“I would, dear, but so many of my friends are either dead or not speaking to me these days. They say we’ve sold out to developers.”

Then tell them the truth—that you are being strong-armed into selling your property!
I opened my mouth, willing myself to make one more plea when June’s sweet voice filled the phone line again. “But I would rather hear them say that than for them to know how foolish we’ve been with our money. Besides, as I have said many times before, Timothy would never forgive me otherwise. Never!”

My mouth slapped shut, but not before releasing one harsh sigh.

The next day I sat across from Ham, the DJ of our local radio station, KOTR, trying to curtail a yawn. I had slept fitfully through the night, often waking from overactive dreams that pitted me against angry mobs of all types. Sometimes the opposition contained faces I recognized like Eliot, the reporter, and Jamison, the council member on the hill. Other times, they were faceless beings, some children, even, moving toward me with purpose, yet never quite able to reach me. When I awoke at seven, my mind already felt restless yet tired at the same time.

After walking Moondoggy then securing him back inside the house—too afraid to let him stay outside, I showered and stopped in to see Bobby, Greta, and baby Callie before they were released from the hospital. Finally I arrived at the station ready as could be under the circumstances. A familiar voice poured from overhead speakers, the same man I heard during the noon hour on those days I chose to drive. Only instead of hearing his voice wafting through my car speakers, he sat in this tech-infused, glassed-in room, beyond the lobby’s painted walls.

He motioned for me to join him in the studio where I slipped on the earphones as I’d been instructed and waited for Ham to introduce me to his listeners. We talked briefly about the campaign and then he invited listeners to call in with questions. A string of buttons lit up.

“Caller, you’re on the air.”

“Hi. This is Donna Marie, and I’m wondering, will the community be building a playground for children on the property?”

Ham nodded for me to respond.

“Great question, Donna Marie. As you know, the urgency of our cause has prevented us from outlining every detail of the property’s use once it’s back in the hands of the community.”
Good. Sound positive, like this thing was likely to happen.
“However, once we receive enough funds to make the purchase, I’m proposing that a committee be formed to look at things like adding a playground or maybe even some soccer fields.”

“Next caller.”

“Hello. I heard your answer to that last caller and you don’t mean to say that the property is going to be sliced and diced though, do you?”

“Not at all. Remember, there are several hundred acres of land and while most of it will stay preserved as open space, there’s no reason not to consider using parts of it for more dedicated community use.”

Ham announced a commercial break and I reached for a tissue, using it to wipe the sheen of moisture from my forehead. I watched as Ham pushed buttons and wiped away sweat droplets of his own with the back of one hand until strands of wet hair stuck to his forehead. Until today I hadn’t realized the energy output necessary to participate in a radio program. Ham smiled at me briefly, before leaning into the microphone to give a plug for Holly’s smoothie concoctions at the Red Abalone Grill. “Something smooth and cold for those up-and-coming hot summer days!”

He flashed his pudgy fingers at me . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. Some callers had questions; others had opinions. I did my best to present a positive and knowledgeable response. The hour passed quickly and I felt good about the interview. We came to the last few minutes of the show. Ham led us out of the break.

“We’re back with Callie Duflay of the Save Our Shores campaign. If you don’t mind, Callie, we have another caller begging to speak with you.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“Hello. Is this Callie?” A male voice.

“Hello. Yes, it is.”

“I saw you interviewed on television last week. Very impressive campaign you’re running.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Your hard work is reminiscent of a ‘hometown girl does good’ story. Really, it is.”

“Thank you very much.”

“The Kitteridges must be thrilled with the prospect of selling their property to the community.”

I hesitated. Saying they were thrilled by the forced sale of their property would be pushing it. Still, June was grateful to have found a way to stay in their home. “Hmm, well, yes.”

“Now I read somewhere that prior to the SOS campaign, the Kitteridges had made a deal with another buyer. Is that true?”

“They had been talking with someone, yes.”

“Okay, okay. Um, let me clarify something then: would the community be offering the Kitteridges more money for the property, then?”

I swallowed. While it was true that the developer had forced the sale, their buyer had agreed to a larger sum than the SOS team could possibly raise in such a short time. “The Kitteridges have agreed on the price offered by SOS and we are grateful.”

“I see. So the Kitteridges, an elderly couple, were talked into selling prime oceanfront property at a fraction of their previous offer.”

“No. Like you said, they are thrilled to know that the community will have access to the property forever.”

“Even if that means that their golden years will be spent living on meager funds? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No—”

“My understanding is that Tim Kitteridge is uninsured and showing signs of dementia, and that June needs money to pay for her husband’s care.” He paused. “I wonder how much this SOS campaign will end up costing these longtime pillars of the community.”

I opened my mouth to speak—even though I wasn’t sure what to say to that—but Ham took over the microphone. “That’s all the time we have here, folks. I’d like to take the time to thank our guest, Ms. Callie Duflay of SOS . . .”

As he rattled on, wrapping up the show, the low throb that had started in my temple grew to encompass my head until it felt as if a vise was tightening its grip. Somehow I knew it would take more than a couple of aspirins to wipe away the effects of this interview.

GAGE

“YOU COULDN’T PAY ME to be that woman.” Amelia’s silver arm bracelets jangled as she tossed her shiny black hair back over one shoulder. “Cheating an old couple for her selfish cause—that’s rich.”

Gage turned off his office radio. The caller had baited then buried Callie with his questions about the SOS campaign. The program host announced that the barrage of calls received after the segment ran two-to-one against Callie’s cause. He fought off a wince at the thought of how her voice began to shake on air.

Amelia poked his shoulder with one sharp fingernail. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He looked down one shoulder at the artist who had sidled up to him as he stood in front of his drafting table. “Excuse me?”

“The woman on the radio you were just listening to. Don’t you think her cause is over with now?”

He crinkled up his forehead, trying to remember why she was here in the first place. Right. The flirty artist had some questions. “I stay out of all that.” He directed her attention back to the CD on the drawing table. “I don’t have much time today, so let me show you what you need to know. Here.” He tapped his pencil on the document. “This is where the roof line will be drawn out. Make sense?”

When she didn’t respond, he glanced at her only to discover her eyes fixed on his face, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “How about lunch?”

He set his pencil down and stepped away from the table and over to his desk. “Sorry. No can do.”

She followed him, undeterred. When he sat, Amelia leaned over his desk, apparently defying gravity with her low-slung blouse. He was neither blind nor stupid, but certainly uninterested. “You have to eat, Gage. You’ll waste away if you don’t.”

His phone rang and he grabbed the receiver, grateful for the interruption. “Gage here.”

“Well, well, Mr. Mitchell. How are we doing this fine weekday morning?”

Great. More of Redmond’s minions to give him grief today. “You’re chipper today, Rick.”

“We-hel-el, why not? Just cleared the way for my client to finally close the deal of the century.”

“You did.” He wanted to know but didn’t want to ask.

Rick clucked his tongue. “Did you happen to catch Ham on KOTR just now? The SOS queen was on and, let’s just say . . .” He paused for dramatic effect, a habit that clawed on Gage’s last nerve. “. . . she didn’t make her case.”

Gage stopped tapping his pencil. Amelia stared at him like a hungry cat and he glanced away. “And you were somehow involved with making that happen?”

“Let’s not get into semantics, now, brothah. Just wanted to give you a call, you know, to check on how the plans are shakin’ down. Won’t be long now.”

Gage bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to keep his mouth shut. Rick must have had someone call Callie on that radio program. Really boxed her into a corner. Made it sound like she had strong-armed the Kitteridges. He squeezed a fist. She wouldn’t do that, so why didn’t she defend herself?

“You there, Gage?”

Gage blinked. “Rick, I’ve got someone in my office right now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have to get back to you. When I have something to report.”

“Fine. Good. You do that. Remember—we’re counting on you, man.”

Gage couldn’t hide the sarcastic roll to his eyes. “Yeah.”
Whatever.

Amelia leaned forward again. “Glad you got rid of him on my account. Now, about that lunch . . .”

Gage stood. “Sorry, Amelia. But I’ve got another meeting to run to.” He picked up her sketch pad and pens and advanced around his desk, holding them out to her. “Call me if you have more questions.”

Her expression dimmed in light of his dismissal, but Gage didn’t care. He had a long overdue call to make—to Redmond.

Chapter Thirty-four

For once, I wished I had driven. The way the townspeople avoided my eyes as I edged through town after my radio interview, you would have thought we were in the middle of Manhattan. No eye contact whatsoever.

A hundred retorts battled in my head as I made that walk, heart heavy over not being able to think of even one of them while being pummeled by that caller. Who was that man anyway? The developer? The person who’s been threatening me? Someone who wanted to purchase an office condo with attached garage on the Kitteridge property?

Steph swung around the corner, moving toward me, her body bent but purposeful. Until she spotted me. I watched her pull up short, as if the toe of her shoe was about to connect with a mouse. Her gaze landed in several places, but never on me, and she turned to go the other way.

I raised my hand. “Steph!”

She slowed, her head bowed.

I caught up to her, dread slithering around my extremities at the flat line of her mouth. “So you heard the interview too.”

She nodded. “Had it playing in the library.”

I winced. “He caught me off-guard, but you know things aren’t how he made it sound. The Kitteridges are good about all of this. I’ve spoken to June . . .”

Stephanie’s leg shook and her gaze darted around. “I’ve been praying, Callie, but I think you should know something.” Her mouth pressed into a grim line and she raised her head, looking at me with guarded eyes. “The Otter Bay Banking Association has decided to pull out.”

I reached for her with both hands. “No.”

She nodded over and over again. “Steve said there’s nothing he can do. They were on the fence until a few minutes ago. Callie, it’s become a PR nightmare for them. I’m so sorry.”

“But—”

She wagged her head again. “I have to go.”

She left me standing there, with nothing but embarrassment and shame to keep me company. If the association was pulling out, then the other corporate sponsors would follow. This campaign was, essentially, over.

The chill of disappointment filled my veins, making it hard to breathe, difficult to walk, but I made myself move one leg in front of the other. A knot pressed into the base of my throat, until my neck ached. Cars passed by, their occupants oblivious to the world that crumbled all around them. My world and theirs would soon be given over to those who didn’t care one whit about the land or its current owners.

And I couldn’t do a thing about it.

The ocean churned as if catching wind of the destruction that lay ahead. I’d made it to the Kitteridge property, drawn evermore by the smells of native brush burned into the wind by the day’s sun. Few traversed the land today, and for once I was glad. I roamed along the winding path that hugged the cliff, not far from where Gage spotted Moondoggy moseying down on the beach, my mind far too overcome to caress all the good memories made that day.

Instead I sat on the ground, unconcerned that my eggshell-colored capris might never be spotless again. Another memory replaced the one from a day ago on this land. Justin and I had just agreed on a deal to release me from our business. I remember taking him in with my eyes, following the shape of his face, hoping to see some flicker of awakening. I wanted my signature on those papers to shake something up in him, to make him come to his senses. Surely he still needed me, still wanted me to work beside him, still . . . loved me. Didn’t he?
Didn’t
he?