Page 97 of Hello, Summer
“Oh my God, thanks!” Conley eagerly unzipped the bag and rummaged around until she found her cell phone. The screen was black.
“I think the battery died while I was on the way out here,” Skelly said.
“I’m just glad to have it back,” she said, plugging it into an adapter near the kitchen counter.
“I bet you’re hungry after that long ride out here from town,” Lorraine said, beaming at him. “Why don’t you sit right down and let us fix you some supper?”
Conley shot her grandmother a warning look, which was ignored. “Sean probably needs to get back home to look after Miss June, right?”
“Actually, her aide is staying over with her tonight,” Skelly said. “Thanks for the offer, but I already grabbed a sandwich before leaving the store.” He turned to Conley. “But I wouldn’t mind a short walk on the beach.”
She grabbed the wine tote she’d already packed, adding an extra plastic tumbler. “You read my mind.”
“You look pretty serious,” Conley said as they trudged down the path through the dunes. “What’s wrong?”
“I got the digital issue of theBeacon,” he said. “I guess it took me by surprise. I mean, Gray told me y’all were putting out a special issue, but geez, Conley, that story about Symmes Robinette, dying under ‘mysterious circumstances’ and all that stuff about him giving his farm to his first wife and then Vanessa running against Charlie? Was all that really necessary? It seems like pretty private family stuff to me.”
“He was an eighteen-term member of Congress who died in a one-car crash at three in the morning,” Conley said. “And the medical examiner’s office still hasn’t ruled on the cause of death.”
“You make it sound so sinister,” Skelly said.
“We’ve talked about this, Skelly,” Conley said. “None of what Michael and I wrote is gossip. It’s not conjecture. It’s news. And before you ask, yeah, it is relevant. And what’s news—and especially relevant—is the fact that the family hushed up Symmes’s terminal cancer diagnosis last year so that he could start quietly setting up his son as his anointed successor.”
Conley ticked off the talking points she’d used to persuade Grayson that the stories were credible, relevant, and important to their community.
But Skelly still didn’t look convinced.
“Are you regretting your decision to make that ad buy with theBeacon?”
“Maybe I’m just not used to seeing anything controversial in the paper,” Skelly admitted. “But I will say I think the ad should bring in some new business for Kelly’s Drugs. Besides, if I want folks in Silver Bay to shop local—at Kelly’s instead of the damn chain stores—I need to walk the walk.”
“Attaboy,” she said, patting his back. “Maybe if a bunch of other local businesses see Kelly’s advertising with us, they’ll decide to do the same thing.”
They reached the edge of the dunes. Conley was already barefoot, but Skelly kicked off his loafers, and they dropped the tote bag near a weathered cedar swinging bench. Conley uncorked the bottle of chardonnay and held it up to show him.
“Wine?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Skelly said, holding up his tumbler.
Conley dug her toes into the sand. “This is what I missed, living in Atlanta. Going barefoot. The smell of the ocean.”
“All the things we take for granted living on the Gulf coast,” Skelly agreed.
The sky turned a soft violet, shot through with streaks of orange. The Gulf was quiet tonight, sending gentle rolling waves washing along the beach. They walked north without speaking, wading out just far enough to let the warm water lap against their ankles.
As the sky darkened, they saw lights switching on in the houses just above the dunes.
Conley held up her empty tumbler when they’d walked all the way to the pier, a healthy half-mile stroll. “Ready to head back?”
Skelly nodded, and they pivoted and walked south.
The Hawkins family called the area where the swing was locatedPops’s Cove.It was the spot where her grandfather liked to “pitch camp,” as he put it, spreading out the picnic blanket, the cooler of cold drinks, the hamper of sandwiches or fried chicken, and the folding aluminum lawn chairs.
In the winter, they’d build a fire here and roast Apalachicola oysters, which they’d smear atop saltine crackers doused with Tabasco sauce.
This was the spot where the family gathered after Pops’s funeral and after Conley’s father’s funeral too. Later, G’mama had commissioned a local carpenter to build a six-foot-long swing hung from two A-frame posts. A small brass plaque on the back proclaimed it dedicated to the art of “sitting around, doing nothin’,” which her grandfather always claimed was his only hobby.
Skelly held the swing still while Conley refilled their tumblers, then they both sat down, staring out at the deepening sky.
