Page 116 of Hello, Summer
Common sense said he should mind his own business and go on home. Curiosity drove him to tail both the Subaru and the truck as they drove west, in the direction of the beach.
For once, Buddy wished he were driving something less noticeable than the ’Vette. Everybody in town recognized his flashy car with theWORKING PRESSvanity plate. He’d liked that, liked being the closest thing to a celebrity in Silver Bay. Driving the ’Vette made him feel like a big shot. But now, if the truck’s driver bothered to glance in his rearview mirror, there could be trouble. The kind of trouble he didn’t need.
When they reached the causeway that led to the beach, he almost did a U-turn. But something made him keep going.
The Subaru and the black truck slowed at the beach road, with its twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit. For the second time, he fought the urge to turn around. He inched along in the wake of the two vehicles, the only ones on the road at this late hour. He saw the Subaru’s brake lights flare red, and she pulled into a crushed-shell driveway in front of a rambling old wood-frame beach cottage. The faded lettering on the mailbox saidTHE DUNES, EST. 1923.
The truck kept going, but only for about half a block. Then it slowed and turned into the sandy drive of a half-built house under construction.Buddy drove on for another block, then did a quick U-turn, pulling onto the shoulder of the road with the Vette facing the truck.
He watched while the driver pulled as far forward as possible, until a construction dumpster nearly concealed it. The driver got out of the car, looked around, then slipped quickly down the sandy path through the dunes.
Buddy waited, wrestling the urge to flee. He had no business here, and whatever happened next was none of his business. He was tired and needed to think.
When he got back to his snug garage apartment, he parked and went around to the trunk. He pulled out the vinyl dustcover and lovingly placed it over the Vette, as he did every night.
Inside the apartment, he moved quickly through the tiny rooms, gathering books, clothes, and his album collection. He went into the bathroom and dumped his toiletries into a plastic zip baggie.
Something brushed against his ankle, and he nearly screamed. But looking down, he saw that it was only Hi-Fi, his black cat.
She meowed loudly and rubbed her hindquarters against his ankles. He closed the commode cover, sat down, and scooped her into his arms, stroking her fur repeatedly.
“Did you think I’d leave you?” he whispered into her ear. She purred, and he hugged her. “I would never.”
Holding Hi-Fi always made him feel calmer, more centered. He walked into the living room and sank down into the sofa cushions with the cat in his arms.
Buddy looked around the room. Over his years on the run, he’d winnowed out his possessions to just the things that would fit in the trunk of the Vette. By design, the sum of his belongings could be packed in less than twenty minutes. All his business dealings were on a cash basis.
He could leave right now and be several states away by morning. When he was good and clear of Silver Bay, he could place an anonymous call to the newspaper and alert Conley Hawkins to the shadowydude who was following her. He’d gotten good in his role as the anonymous tipster. Too good, maybe.
Payday was another week away. He could stay and watch and listen. He’d keep his head down, hoping that nobody would turn around and watch the watcher.
43
Grayson emerged from her office around midmorning, beaming, clutching a champagne bottle in one hand and a stack of Styrofoam cups in the other.
“Hey, y’all,” she said loudly. “Attention, everybody!”
Lillian hung up the phone. Michael stopped posting photos to the new Facebook page, and Conley rested her hands on the keyboard of her laptop. All three of them were startled by the sight of their usually gloomy managing editor in a state of euphoria.
“What’s up, boss?” Lillian asked.
“What’s up is, I just got word we have a complete sellout of this week’s edition of theBeacon.” Grayson’s voice cracked with emotion. “I checked with my grandmother, and she says that’s never happened before. After we shipped to our mail subscribers, I found that every paper box in town is empty. The stores that sell us—the IGA, the 7-Eleven, and the Kwik-Stop, Kelly’s Drugs, Tommy’s Bait and Tackle, all three gas stations in town—every retail outlet is sold out.”
“So that’s what’s goin’ on,” Lillian said. “I been on the phone all morning with people calling, wanting to come by and pick up a paper.”
Grayson pointed at her. “Lils, call the printer in Milton and tell ’em we need a second print run.”
“Are you crazy? You want to print twelve hundred more copies? Who do you think is gonna buy all those papers? Also, did you just call meLils? Ain’t nobody who ain’t related to me can call meLils.”
“Sorry,” Grayson said. “I got carried away. Okay, maybe run five hundred more. But before you do that, we’re gonna celebrate.”
She loosened the wire champagne cage, and the cork shot across the room, bouncing off the framed oil portrait of Arthur “Dub” DuBignon, the newspaper’s founder, dour-faced in a stiff white collar, neatly parted hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Drink up, guys,” Grayson urged. “Warm champagne sucks. And cheap warm champagne sucks even more.”
Michael looked over at Conley, who nodded her approval. He stood up and collected a cup, and the boss poured. Conley got a cup and let her sister fill it.
When all four staff members were holding their champagne, Grayson raised her own cup.
