That Summer at the Shore. Callie Endicott

past week...improving by noon. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was best not to dwell on potential complications—it only drove him crazier.

      “Did the early birds go together, or are they in separate groups?” he asked.

      “They’re together, and they decided to walk instead of using your fancy golf carts. That gives us longer to fix things. Anyhow, Rick says it’s mostly cosmetic and doesn’t affect play.”

      “Appearances matter. We’re aiming at a five-star rating,” Zack retorted.

      The microphone amplified Trudy’s breath as she sighed. “That’s why Rick is taking care of it at the crack of dawn.”

      “Okay. What’s the status on the linen?”

      There was a brief pause. “No need to worry about that, either. I’ll make certain the delivery guy stays while each piece is checked and double-checked. The head of housekeeping is also on the warpath, and you know how she gets.”

      “Tell me when the delivery arrives. I want to be there.”

      “Sure, boss,” Trudy said after another pause.

      Zack started the ignition and turned onto the road, pleased with how well the new SUV handled. He didn’t require such an expensive vehicle for his daily inspections, but a Mercedes signaled luxury and success to the clientele. Attention to detail was his trademark.

      As a high school senior he’d deliberately begun working through each position in the leisure industry. Initially he’d gotten a job as a bellboy, then one in laundry, followed by housekeeping, groundskeeper’s assistant, a turn at the reception desk and various other jobs, including a summer as activity director on a cruise ship. It had helped pay expenses as he earned his MBA and complemented his education with practical experience. Many managers or owners took the fast track to the executive’s suite, spending a token stint in the different departments, but he’d wanted to learn the business at every level.

      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