Chapter 30
WENDY
Iwake up alone and smile.
The sheets beside me are cold, which means he’s been gone for a while. The man runs every morning like clockwork, and even a hangover from Slap Yo Mama won’t change that.
I stretch across the mattress and stare at the ceiling.
Today is the day I’ve been counting down to for months. August third. It’s the deadline of the agreement we made at the beginning of the summer.
I’ve known how I’ve felt about Dyson for weeks. Maybe longer. I held my heart at the dinner on Turtle Island. I held it at the bonfire when he danced with me and kissed me in front of everyone. I held those three words last night when his arm tightened around me in his sleep.
He has to know how I feel.
Today, I will tell Dyson Carter Banks that I’m stupidly in love with him. I want to be with him with no conditions or deadlines. He deserves to know that I do love him.
I get out of bed and take a quick shower, wanting to beat him to the Captain’s Room before he returns. I quickly towel-dry my hair and slide on some loose pants and a T-shirt. The smile on my face might be permanent as I climb the stairs to his room.
I open the door, and when I step inside, my smile dies.
The bed is made. The nightstand is empty, with no books or his phone charger.
The closet door is open, and there are no shirts, shorts, or slacks.
The running shoes are gone. The duffel bags are gone.
The protein bars he kept on the dresser are in the trash.
If I wasn’t completely spiraling, I might laugh at that.
I stand in the doorway, and the words I rehearsed in my head during my shower are still sitting on my tongue.
My legs carry me downstairs because my brain has stopped working.
I don’t understand.
Rose is at the stove, making oatmeal. She turns when she hears me, and her face changes the second she sees me. Tears won’t stop falling.
“Wendy, honey, are you okay?”
“Have you seen Dyson this morning?”
“No. I got here about twenty minutes ago. Why?”
“His stuff is gone.” My voice comes out raw. “The Captain’s Room is empty. Everything. His bags, his clothes, his books.”
Rose sets the container of oatmeal down and crosses the kitchen to me. She takes my shoulders with both hands. “Hey. Look at me. That doesn’t mean anything.”
“He left. His reservation ends today.”
“That doesn’t make sense. That man looks at you like you hung the moon. He’s not the type to disappear.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Don’t freak out. Not yet. Let’s take a deep breath together. Okay? In and out. A few times, just like we used to do when you were little, remember?”
I do what she said, breathing in deep and letting it out slowly. My heart races, and I’m having a panic attack. The last time I had one of those was when Adam ended things.
She hands me a glass of ice water, and I drink it down, needing it to ground me to planet Earth. My body operates on autopilot when my mind shuts down.
Rose turns the stovetop off and walks me to the kitchen table. She walks me through it until my heart isn’t racing. I hear words; her voice is calm and doing the work my own brain won’t do.
The tears dry up, and my breathing evens out.
Rose rubs my back and tells me a story about her ex-husband and how some women are better off just dating.
“Falling in love is a privilege,” she tells me. “Some of us are lucky and get to experience it more than once.” Her voice softens. “No matter what happens from this point forward, you’ve had the summer of your life. We only get one chance to exist. Smile that it happened.”
I sniffle, sucking in a deep breath. “Thank you.”
She pats my hand. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen, okay? Drink the rest of that water.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“There you go,” she says, standing.
Once I empty the glass, I place it in the sink. She gives me a small smile. I walk to the front desk, and that’s when I see it.
The mermaid key chain sits beside my laptop on the counter.
I pick it up. The silver is cold and weighs almost nothing.
He checked out while I was sleeping. I’ve been blindsided.
The sob comes from somewhere deep, and I can’t stop it. I press the key chain against my chest, and my knees buckle. I grab the edge of the desk to stay upright because I promised myself I would never beg a man to be with me.
The front door opens, and my grandmother walks in, carrying a folder. She’s in a bright yellow T-shirt and blue jean shorts with daisies embroidered on them. Her reading glasses are pushed up on her head. When she sees my face and the key chain dangling from my finger, she sighs.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
She comes around the counter and wraps her arms around me. I fall apart again. I cry into her shoulder, letting out shaking sobs that take over my entire body. She holds me and doesn’t say a word because Gran has always known when to joke and when to be serious.
When the worst of it passes, she grabs my hand and leads me to the couch.
“I was going to tell him how I felt,” I say, sitting beside her. My voice is barely there. “That was my plan. I was going to bring him coffee on the balcony and tell him everything.”
“Sweetie, he knew,” she says. “He knew how you felt. Everyone does. You don’t have to say how you feel. Your actions give you away.”
“He left without saying goodbye.” The last word cracks. “I don’t understand it.”
“I’m sure there is a very good reason.” Gran squeezes my hands and patiently waits for the tears to stop.
I want to be alone, so I stand to walk away, and she pulls me back down to her.
“Wendy, I need to talk to you about some things,” she says. “I don’t know if the timing is right, but I think waiting would be worse.”
I sigh. “Gran, I can’t do this right now. I can’t handle anything else.”
“Just listen.”
She reaches for the folder beside her and opens it. The first document has a state seal at the top. I blink away the tears welling in my eyes.
“This arrived this morning,” Gran says, handing me the paper.
I take the paper and read through the blur.
Dear Ms. Wendy Winslow,
We are pleased to inform you that the property known as Seaside Bed-and-Breakfast, located at 14 Seaside Drive, Coconut Beach, Florida, has been officially accepted into the Florida Historical Registry.
This designation recognizes the property’s architectural significance, its cultural contribution to the Coconut Beach community, and its continuous operation as a hospitality establishment since 1975.
A formal dedication ceremony will be held in January of the coming year. As the applicant of record, your presence is requested.
I scan it again because I don’t understand.
“I’m so proud of you for doing this,” Gran says, squeezing my knee. “When did you find the time?”
My mouth opens and closes. Words are stuck in my throat, and I don’t think I’ll be able to speak.
“It was a smart idea. The B&B will be recognized by the state, Wen. They’re going to put one of those signs out front with details about the building. We’ll have to throw a party and invite the entire town.”
I swallow hard. “I didn’t submit this.”
Her brow furrows. “Your name is on it.”
“I know. But I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
We look at each other. Gran takes the paper from my hands and reads it again, running her finger under the line that says applicant of record. Her face shifts as the same answer lands for both of us at the same time.
“Dyson,” she says softly.
The room tilts, and the tears come harder. He researched the qualifications, pulled the historical records, wrote letters, filled out applications, and then filed them in my name. He did it because he saw a way to protect this place without handing me millions of dollars.
The historical designation means no more real estate companies will come knocking.
Any development plans that want to demo or make major structural changes will be denied.
A registered property can’t be altered without state approval.
That means no more letters, phone calls, or men like Darren Calder.
This is a shield, protection, for the legacy of the B&B.
“He never mentioned this,” I whisper.
Gran sets the document on the coffee table and looks at me with wet eyes. “There is something else.”
She pulls out a large manila envelope. It’s thicker, heavier, with a law firm’s return address printed in the corner.
“Are we being sued? Was this good news first, followed by bad news?”
“Open it.”
I open the envelope and pull out a stack of legal documents. The first page has a header I don’t understand, and I keep reading.
Transfer of Property Deed.
Seaside Bed-and-Breakfast.
Grantor: Gale Winslow.
Grantee: Wendy Winslow.
“Gran.”
“Before you start—”
“You can’t give me the B&B,” I tell her.
“I can, and I am. My signature is already on every page. All you have to do is sign, and it’s yours. Don’t wait until I die to make this place yours, Wendy.”
“We can’t—”
She takes both my hands again and holds them tight.
“Listen to me, honey. I am financially secure, and I have been for years. Your grandfather left me more than this building. He left me millions of dollars in investments that I’ve secretly managed for decades.
Smart, boring ones that grew while I slept. ”
I place my hand on my heart, not knowing how much of this I can take. “What?” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“The struggle was real. The bills were real. The stress was real. But I was never in danger of losing this place. I can withdraw as much money as we need.”
My brows furrow. “Then why did you let me nearly kill myself trying to rescue it if you had the money to fix everything?”
“Because you needed to know you could do it.” Her eyes are steady. “And so did I.”
I pull my hands away. “You watched me work eighteen-hour days. You let me believe we were going under while you drank mimo—”