Callie Endicott - That Summer at the Shore

Yawning, Zack sucked down a gulp of coffee. Morning wasn’t his favorite part of the day. He liked sleeping in, preferably next to an attractive female companion. That hadn’t happened in a long time; too much was riding on the project to let anything distract him.

With his digital camera, he clicked photos at various sites around the resort. They were for his personal records; professional tripod jockeys were handling his advertising needs. But he routinely compared his snapshots to the project blueprints and his original vision. So far so good.

All at once he slammed on the brakes and stared.

What is that?

Dumbfounded, he gaped at a row of colorful sandwich boards toward the end of the public road.

Local Produce—Opening May 19

Some Organic!

First Come, First Served

Strawberries

Raspberries

Loganberries

Leaf Lettuce

Greens

And More....

An arrow pointed down the small unpaved track on the undeveloped portion of his acreage. Sitting smack-dab in the middle of one of the finest ocean views on the California coastline was a bright blue trailer adorned with more signs, each wilder than the last.

His foot hit the accelerator.

* * *

JAMIE CONROE HELD the trailer awning with her right hand, pushed the brace with her other hand and nudged the pole with her toe. She’d been struggling to get it up for ages. Why her grandfather had invented such an ungainly system she’d never know. When she’d tested it in the barn last October, she had promised herself to devise a better plan. Now she was getting ready to open the fruit-and-vegetable stand, and thanks to her procrastination, she was performing an acrobatic act.

In the back of her mind she registered the sound of tires on gravel. It was probably a farmer. Whoever it was, they’d have to wait. If she could just get that darned brace in the spot it needed to be...

A harsh voice broke her concentration.

“What the devil are you doing?”

She jumped, the canopy slipped and the pole whacked her left temple.

“Ouch!” she yelped as the heavy canvas dropped and shoved her against the trailer’s painted aluminum siding. Slouching, she considered remaining in temporary defeat, but it wasn’t very comfortable. The corner of a box was digging into her hip, while the awning’s fabric was sandy and had a musty odor after three years in storage.

Jamie wriggled her head free and glared at the man. “Could you have found a slightly more awkward moment to shout at me? Perhaps when I was blindfolded and walking a tightrope?”

To give him credit, he lifted a handful of canvas, poles and ropes so she could hop out of the mess.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“Which question was that?”

He gestured incredulously. “I should think it’s obvious. What are you doing here?”

Jamie gazed dolefully at the tangled lines and poles. Rats. She’d have to begin all over again. “I thought you were being rhetorical. This isn’t rocket science. It’s a sun canopy.”

“No. I mean the whole thing. This...this trailer and those signs.”

Massaging the knot forming on her forehead, Jamie studied the stranger. She knew him from newspaper articles—Zack Denning. The Warrington Gazette regularly printed editorials on the “genius” entrepreneur who’d built the luxury resort next door. His picture was hard to miss, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the world since arriving in Warrington this past September.

She’d spent the winter in seclusion, making the excuse that she was busy with her silver jewelry casting, but mostly she was sorting out her new life. Now that she’d emerged from solitary, she was focused on reopening the seasonal produce stand. Local growers were delighted; Granddad’s business had been a profitable outlet for them.

“Well?” Denning demanded.

She had no idea what the trouble was, but would enjoy giving him a verbal runaround for his belligerence.

“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.