Page 21 of The Beach Trap

“Hi, Granddad!” I say, trying my best to sound cheerful.

“Hello there, Blakers,” he says.

“Want to see my view? It’s gorgeous here.” I flip the camera and pan across the beach. When I turn the camera back to my face, he’s smiling.

“Well, France sure is pretty, isn’t it?”

My smile falters. “I’m in Florida, remember? I didn’t go to France after all.”

I’d debated whether to tell him about the inheritance and decided against it. I didn’t want to dredge up all the anger he has at my father. Plus, when I do sell this place, I don’t want Granddad to suspect I’m using the money to pay for his care—he’d hate that.

“Ah, that’s right,” he says, nodding. “Are you having a good time?”

“Who wouldn’t be having a good time here?” It’s the best I can manage without an outright lie.

I ask him what movies he’s been watching lately, and he tells me about a Clint Eastwood one that I don’t remember seeing. Clint comes in a close second to John Wayne in Granddad’s eyes.

“Next time I visit you,” I tell him, “we should watch that one together.”

“You’re going to visit me?” he says, sounding surprised.

“Of course!”

“Well, it’ll be nice to meet you. Remind me your name?”

I blink. “It’s Blake, Granddad.”

“Now, what’s a girl like you doing with a boy’s name?” He laughs, and my breath catches.

This is the first time he hasn’t recognized me, and even though the Alzheimer’s has been slowly stealing his memory of other people, I had hoped he wouldn’t forget me. I tell myself it’s even more confusing for him on FaceTime, but even still, my eyes fill with tears.

“Oh dear,” he says. “Please don’t cry, pretty lady.”

Of course, that makes it worse. The tears roll down my face, and I quickly wipe them away. I’m about to try to explain that I’m his granddaughter when I hear a sound behind me. The door at the back of the house, opening and closing, then the stomping of feet.

It’s Hurricane Kat, coming in like a Category 5.

“Hey, Martina?” I say. “I gotta go.”

I hang up as Kat barges out onto the deck, her jaw set in the stubborn way I remember from camp. Like the day she’d been determined to conquer the rock-climbing wall, even though she was terrified of heights and had fallen three times already.

Right now, I’m pretty sure Kat sees me like that wall: as a problem to be conquered. I stand, determined not to let her look down on me more than necessary.

“Like I said,” Kat says, brisk and businesslike. “I can’t buy you out now, but if you give me to the end of the summer, I’ll figure it out. And in the meantime, I’ve decided that I’ll let you update the house.”

I struggle mightily not to roll my eyes. “Great, thanks so much for letting me do something I have every right to do.”

She shoots me a withering glare, then continues. “I want to make sure you don’t change anything without clearing it with me first. I have certain standards for my house.”

“It’s half mine, so maybe I’ll just fix up half of it,” I snap, then bite my tongue. It’s not just that I hate confrontation; I also hate getting emotional in front of other people. After my mom died I was overly emotional, lashing out in anger or crying too easily. It caused problems at school, and I had to talk with the school counselor twice a week to work through my “issues.” I was embarrassed to be singled out that way, and the kids teased me even more. After that, I learned to keep my emotions inside until I know I can trust someone.

And I definitely can’t trust Kat.

“The house belongs to both of us,” she says, her tone implying that she isn’t happy about that, “so we should both be involved in fixing it up.”

“You’re welcome to stay here all summer and work alongside me.”

I’m calling her bluff; the thought of Kat with safety glasses on her face and sawdust in her hair is laughable. As unlikely as me getting dressed up in designer clothes and doing the #KatWalk for Instagram likes.

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