That Summer at the Shore

“It’s a fruit-and-vegetable stand. Farmers bring their harvest. We sell it. Selling is when you exchange one product for another commodity, usually money,” she explained as if he were a child in need of instruction.

“You can’t put anything here,” he said, barely containing a growl.

“Sorry. Free trade is an old tradition, commonly called ‘commerce,’ or occasionally ‘capitalism.’ Look it up. Communists don’t approve, but Americans are fond of the practice.”

“I’ve no objections to what you do, as long as it’s not on ground belonging to me.”

“Poor fellow,” she commiserated. “I always heard men were supposed to be spatially adapted—you know, with the roaming ability for tracking game. Maybe you missed getting that gene. My section is the acre including the beach that’s immediately north of the public road. You own the rest, except the state beach and the tract with my house on it.” She traced a simplistic map in the dirt to illustrate.

“No. The water forms my property line, making it a private beach for the acreage between the main road and the salt flats. I realize you have a house lying north of my section with access two miles east, off the main road. But you aren’t entitled to cross my land to get there, and it definitely doesn’t mean you can drag that horrible trailer onto my resort. This site may not be developed, but it’s still Mar Vista.”

She raised her chin. Zack Denning didn’t need to sneer as if Granddad’s 1950s travel trailer broke the law. Admittedly, the brilliant aqua was startling. An enterprising junk man with a load of overstocked paint had peddled it to her grandfather over a decade ago. The neighbors had joshed Granddad until they got used to calling the trailer that “Little Blue Fruit Stand.”

“As I explained, this particular acre isn’t yours, Mr. Denning. It’s mine, and the attorney gave me the documents to prove it. Granddad may have been color-blind and a little odd from living alone, but he was sharp as a tack and didn’t sign a scrap of paper unless he was sure of the facts.”

“I own this land,” Denning said. “Understand? It’s mine. You can’t fast-talk your way around it.”

Jamie waved a finger at him. “Repetition does nothing for you legally.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He stomped to his Mercedes, groping for something in his pockets. After a moment he slapped his thigh in apparent frustration, as if he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Then he reached into the SUV, pulled out a radio or walkie-talkie and spoke into it. From the little she could hear, it sounded as if he was talking to someone named Trudy.

Interesting. The newspaper had endorsed him, and they were normally conservative when it came to newcomers. Presumably they’d never had the pleasure of seeing him acting like a jerk. Of course, anyone could have a bad day; her ex-husband specialized in them, especially the arrogant-asshole kind of day.

Granted, Zack Denning was good-looking with his dark brown hair and eyes. If he ever smiled, he’d devastate feminine hearts right and left.

She shrugged. It made no difference that he was a hunk. Life had gotten simpler since she decided to forgo romance. No more hassles about dating. No more hopes dashed. And best of all, no more worries about how to dress. She wore whatever she fancied without wondering if a guy would find her appealing. It was incredibly freeing. Her friends marveled at her willingness to do without sex, but it had been so lousy in her marriage, it didn’t seem much of a loss.

Right now her only concern was getting the awning in place. She knew it could be done. Granddad had managed it, even when his arthritis acted up. Adjusting the poles and ropes, Jamie tugged the canvas, pushing, poking and nudging until the stupid structure fell into the correct position. A sea breeze rippled the edges and she hurriedly tied the lines to their stakes.

Pleased, she inspected her accomplishment. This used to be her grandfather’s favorite season; he loved the company of his customers after a winter in isolation. He’d passed his summers sitting in a worn wooden chair, talking to tourists and townspeople, filling dozens of journals with their stories...some of them scandalous. They made a fascinating social history of the area.

As a kid she’d spent Augusts in Warrington. While Granddad chatted with customers, she played in the sand or devoured library books. And when he let her, she sold produce. But now that the Little Blue Fruit Stand was hers, she didn’t know if she wanted to work there daily, or hire someone to run it for half the week.

Humming, she began scrubbing the trailer floor with a bleach solution. The small interior space was for personal use and she wanted it clean.

“I need you to deal with this, Deputy.” She heard a voice through the open door.

It was Zack Denning.

He must have summoned the authorities to enforce his opinion. Fine. The overbearing jerk would learn what immovable meant after dancing that tango with her. She scrambled to her feet and stepped out to see a blond man in a khaki uniform standing next to the darker and leaner Zack Denning.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Uh—yes.” The officer shifted nervously. “Trespassing is against the law. You have to...um...leave if you don’t want to be arrested.”

“Hmm,” she said. “That’s a serious threat, and I won’t resist if you take me in. However, false arrest is also serious, particularly since you haven’t questioned my side of the story. Sadly, it could be a career-ender if the people of Warrington hear you helped a rich outsider bully a resident who’s legally on her own property.”

The young man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with ridiculous speed.

“Not that I want that to happen to you, Officer,” Jamie assured him. “But even if folks appreciate the income Mr. Denning brings to the community, they won’t like him using the sheriff’s office to throw his weight around.”

She turned and assessed Zack Denning.

“You know, Mr. Denning,” she said, “you ought to be law-abiding and neighborly in these rural parts. For example, I could have charged you with trespassing and disturbing my peace, but I chose to let bygones be bygones.”

A second official vehicle drove in and parked near the trailer. “Good God,” the driver exclaimed as he slid from the front seat. “It’s Jamie Conroe—or didn’t you get married?”

“Married, divorced and back to Conroe,” she said. “So you’re finally on the right side of the law, Curt. How did you get elected sheriff after painting Badger’s Suck, Warrington Wolverine’s Rule on the city water tower following your senior homecoming game?”

Curt chuckled. “Easy—I convinced everyone that reformed troublemakers spot trouble quicker than anyone else.” He hauled her into a hug. “This is great. You’re here and the Little Blue Fruit Stand is opening again. Mom will be thrilled. She’s big on organic lately. When did you come back to Warrington?”

“Last September.”

“No kidding? What happened to getting in touch with old friends?”

“I needed to regroup...after losing Granddad.”

Sympathy crossed Curt’s face. “It must have been rough with the two of you being so close. All the same, it’s terrific to see you. What’s going on here?”

Jamie tried not to laugh as she glanced at Zack Denning. The deputy was edging away from the entrepreneur as if he had symptoms of the plague. Nevertheless, the “genius” seemed up for the challenge.

“Sheriff,” he said, “I’m Zack Denning, owner of the Mar Vista Resort.”

“Should we all genuflect when you say that?” Jamie mocked.

He scowled as Curt choked and vigorously rubbed his hand over his mouth before responding. “Curt Saldano, Mr. Denning. I must have missed meeting you at the monthly chamber-of-commerce gatherings. I’m usually asked to attend, along with the Warrington Police chief.”

“Did he go to any of those meetings?” Jamie asked in an aside to Curt, and he gave her a single, negative shake of the head.

Hasn’t joined, he mouthed.

“This woman is intruding on private property,” Denning said, scowling at Jamie. “You don’t have to arrest her as long as she removes those signs and gets that contraption out of here. Immediately. I run a high-end resort and this eyesore is unacceptable.”

Curt pondered it silently and then lifted an eyebrow at Jamie. “What have you got to say, kiddo?”

“This is Granddad’s place.” She folded her arms over her stomach. “And has been for sixty years. He gave it to me in his will.”

“And that wily fox would have nailed it tight with titanium,” Curt affirmed with a grin.

Zack Denning’s features smoothed into the bland mask Jamie had endured at too many official lunches with her ex-husband. Tim loved to spar with people and knew exactly how to conceal his emotions...and the truth. The thought had barely formed before she mentally spanked herself. It wasn’t fair to compare anyone to Tim, and it didn’t encourage her resolve to leave the past behind.

“Sheriff,” said Denning, “I recognize what’s happened. Ms. Conroe trespassed in ignorance. I presume her grandfather was George Jenkins. Apparently, she isn’t aware that he sold this property to me a year and a half ago.”

“’Fraid not,” Jamie countered. “He sold some other pieces. Trust me, he would never sell this parcel.”

“Fortunately, I have the deed in my safe,” Denning said coolly. “I’ll give you four hours to move your belongings. That’s all.”