A Shore Thing by Julie Carobini Page B

tired her? “You go on thinking that, Mr. Mitchell. Just go on thinking it.” She pushed past him, and as she did her face lingered uncomfortably close to his. “Enjoy the view.”
    He fought the urge to seize her arm. “Wait. What did you mean when you said you were exploring avenues to save this property? My understanding is that it has already been sold and is ready to change hands. Pretty straightforward—unless you have knowledge to the contrary.” He paused, watchful. “Do you?”
    She opened her mouth but it hung there, wordlessly. Her eyes flitted about as if unable to find a solid place to land. When she licked her lips, Gage looked away. He could hear the pattern of her breathing before she finally spoke. “Really, Mr. Mitchell, how silly do you think I am? Give away my strategy to the enemy?” He thought he heard her smirk. “Come on now and give a girl more credit than that.”

Chapter Twelve

    That was close. After the disappointing visit to my brother Jim’s office—a cliché if I ever heard one—it pained me to run into Gage Mitchell at the Kitteridge property. I had strolled the beach to regroup and planned on climbing the hill on my way home. I was unprepared to see him there, of all places. I tried, but he needled his way under my skin. What’s worse—I almost gave away June’s secret. After she begged me to keep the information to myself, I nearly threw it into the architect’s face as proof that all was not right with this deal.
    For the first time since Friday, I could see that keeping this secret presented a challenge.
    I disliked admitting this, even to myself, but there were moments when I noticed glimpses of something pleasing about Gage. When I reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t notice me at first and I studied him briefly, noting a wistful, almost longing expression on his face. It felt familiar to me. Could he have been having second thoughts?
    Our eyes met and good sense rematerialized within me. In his gaze I saw a flash of appreciation and it turned me cold. Worse, he talked of God, then followed that by mocking the townspeople.
    I trudged up the hill toward home, shaking my head with each step. Instead of Gage being the person that, for one irrational instant, I considered someone to confide in, I realized he may be playing me.
    “There she is—Madam President.” Ruth stood to the right of the well-worn path, a sagging trash sack over one shoulder, her other hand formed in a salute.
    My head jerked. “Didn’t see you there.”
    “That’s all right. You got your head in the details I’m sure. Wanna give me a heads-up on what you’ll be reporting tomorrow night?”
    I swallowed hard. The memory of June’s desperation clenched at my heart. “Worked all weekend, but I do have an idea I’d like to run with.”
    Ruth’s face went on alert and she leaned in.
    I inhaled and thought out my words. “But let’s wait until we’re all together. I’ve got to get home to take my dog for a walk—been a busy day, you know?”
    The hand that had been raised in a salute moved to Ruth’s hip. “Sure. All right.” She raised her chin until her eyes were visible beneath the rim of her hat. “Been thinking about those Kitteridges lately. Have you talked to them yet? Must’ve been given some offer to go back on their word like that.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Things happen and people change their minds sometimes.”
    “So you haven’t talked to them.”
    Why did I get the feeling that, in Ruth’s mind, my leadership was in name only? “Actually I have. Like I said, I’ve got an idea, so I’ll see you at the RAG, okay?”
    Carp, from camp, pulled up next to us on a mountain bike, her back tire kicking up dust as she went into a skid. “Hey Seabird! Thought maybe I’d see you around.”
    Ruth cocked her head.
    I smiled at the counselor, momentarily forgetting how much she likes to tease me about my age, then turned to Ruth. “Seabird is my camp name—it makes it