CHAPTER ONE
*ETHAN
Grandpa sat in his armchair, a plume of smoke curling from his pipe.
Beside him, Rufus beat his tired tail.
I stood before them and held out the folder for their consideration, its glossy brochures and spreadsheets as tantalizing as a dessert tray atMarché Moderne.
At least, to me.
Grandpa and Rufus, not so much.
“Look, Grandpa.” I stretched a smile over my teeth and hoped I didn’t look like Rufus greeting the Amazon delivery guy. “You gotta see this.”
Grandpa grunted, puffing on his pipe. “I don’t need brochures to see the ocean, boy. I got it right outside my window. What’s your point?”
“The point is, these developers... they’re offering ridiculous amounts of life-changing money. It’s what your neighbors got for their place. Your house could go for even more.” My voice faltered beneath his hostile glare. “Prime real estate, and all that. You could travel, relax...”
“If I relaxed any more, I’d be dead.” He snorted and picked up the TV remote. “And I traveled the world with the Navy. Saw more than you’ll see in ten lifetimes. God help us both.”
I opened the folder, revealing more enticing images. I hoped the one with the bikini beauty lounging on a brightly colored beach towel might catch his interest. “But this is different. This is about financial security. You could set up trust funds for your great-grandkids...” I immediately recognized my tactical error and wiped a hand across my forehead.
Grandpa jumped on my mistake and gave me a squinty-eyed look. “I don’t see any great-grandchildren coming my way, do you? Eh? Dating anyone?”
“Huh, maybe,” I hedged. “It’s new.” So new, we hadn’t even met, but Marcus and his new flavor of the month had tried to set up a blind date for me on Saturday. I had put them off, as usual.
Grandpa crossed his ankles and pointed the remote. “When you bring her over, I’ll look at your brochures.”
Hope, the elusive bird, fluttered in my belly. “Really?”
Grandpa flicked on the TV, and the theme song fromBonanzafilled the air.
I thought that might be the end of the conversation, but Grandpa raised his voice over the TV’s tune.
“And these mythical great-grandchildren? They’ll earn their own way. Like I did. Besides, what do I need money for? I’ve got the ocean, my books, my pipe.”
“But the house is falling apart!” Mimicking a windmill, I waved my arms around. “The roof leaks, half the windows are swollen shut, the paint on the kitchen cupboards is chipping...”
“And adding character,” he retorted. “Whatever’s broken, I can fix. You forget—I built this place with my own two hands.”
“That was before you were an octogenarian! You need help. You need—”
“I need you to stop treating me like a child,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. “This house is my home. It’s where your grandmother and I raised your mother... and you, lest you forget.”
I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. “I understand. But... sentiment doesn’t pay the bills. Or the taxes. Or the insurance, which is, by the way, skyrocketing.”
“I’ll manage,” he declared, his gaze unwavering. “I always have. And I always will.” He pointed his pipe toward the window; the gesture emphasized his point. “This place... it’s priceless. No amount of money can buy my memories.”
“But Grandpa...” I began, my voice trailing off.
“No,” he said. “I’m not selling. Not now, not ever. This is my home, and I’ll be carried out of here feet first. Now, bring me a sandwich.”
He turned back to the window, the sunlight catching the stubborn set of his jaw.
I stared at him, a mix of frustration and grudging admiration washing over me. I knew, deep down, this was a battle I couldn’t win.
“You know what I want!” Grandpa barked.
