Page 9 of The Beach Trap

After hanging up, I sit on the stiff white couch and put myhead in my hands. The dog leaps up next to me, and I wave him off—not because I care about Mrs.Vanderhaaven’s rules about the furniture, but because he smells like stale Doritos and he’s always sticking his wet nose in my hand. He sits by my feet and stares up at me with a mournful expression in his liquid brown eyes. I know how he feels. Like the whole world has turned upside down and he can’t figure out how he got here.

Two years ago, my crafty grandfather sold his house and moved himself into Shaky Oaks without even telling me until it was done. I would’ve moved back home in a heartbeat as soon as I found out he was struggling, but he said he didn’t want me to waste the best years of my life taking care of him. I would’ve happily done it, though.

Besides, I loved that house. He’d built it himself, and I’d spent much of my childhood puttering around, fixing things with Granddad, baking in the kitchen with Grandma. It was the one place on earth that felt like home.

Not that the house was worth much; they’d taken out a second mortgage to pay for my college tuition. Which was a complete waste, because I dropped out my senior year to come home during Grandma’s chemotherapy treatments. After she passed away, I couldn’t muster up the strength to return to school. I still feel guilty for using my grandparents’ money and not even finishing my degree.

I got the nanny job with the Vanderhaavens because their home in Liston Heights, a fancy suburb of Minneapolis, is only a forty-five-minute drive and I can visit Granddad every weekend. It would’ve been difficult to be away from him all summer if I’d gone to France, but the Vanderhaavens had promised a huge salary bump because I’d be essentially solo with the kids while they did whatever rich people do when they don’t have to actually parent their children. That bonus would have paid for afew months in the memory care unit, giving me some time to figure out what to do next.

But now? I’m at a loss. I need a better-paying job, but I don’t have any real skills unless you count reading bedtime stories in funny voices and convincing small children to take baths. Without that college degree, a lot of positions are out of my reach. But I have to figure something out. Fast.

My phone rings again, and I answer it quickly. “Martina? How is he?”

There’s a pause. “Is this Blake O’Neill?”

It’s an unfamiliar voice, a man’s. My chest tightens; has something happened to Granddad?

“That’s me,” I say.

“My name is Scott Callahan. I’m the estate attorney for David Steiner.”

My mouth falls open. In a flash I’m back at Camp Chickawah, standing in front of the lodge, watching my father turn his back on me.

“Estate attorney?” I whisper.

“Yes. Mr.Steiner died several weeks ago. I’m calling to let you know that he’s left you something. It’s a beach house, Ms.O’Neill. In Florida.”

•••

“Your no-good, asshole,cheating, lying bum of a father left you a house?” Martina squeals. “That’s crazy. But crazy good, right?”

It’s been two hours since my call from Scott Callahan, and I’m heading down the hall of Granddad’s assisted living center to his apartment. Martina, in purple scrubs with her dark hair up in a curly bun, is next to me, a huge smile on her face.

“Half a beach house,” I say, correcting her. I’m still stunned.I spent the entire drive, the dog in the back seat with his head hanging out the window, repeating Callahan’s words over and over in my mind:

It’s a joint inheritance with your half sister, Katherine. The house belongs equally to the two of you, and neither of you can sell it without the other’s permission.

I don’t want this house. Just the thought of a place where my father spent happy moments hanging out with his real daughter, the daughter he chose over me, makes me want to vomit. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do next. Call Kat and discuss it? Nope. Not going to happen. Luckily, Callahan said he would act as a go-between.

An image floats through my mind of Kat at twelve, hair in two brown braids, practically bouncing on her toes in anticipation of seeing her dad. My heart gives a reluctant squeeze of empathy. She adored him. I know what it’s like to lose a parent, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Then my heart gives a mean kick:myfather is dead, too, and he pretended like I didn’t exist for the past fifteen years.

“Oh my god!” Martina says. She’s holding her phone out to show a real estate listing with a seven-figure asking price. “Did you see what houses on the beach in Destin are worth?”

I did. It was one of the first things I checked. Another reason I’m still stunned—I was raised by people who scrimped and saved, who worked hard for every dollar they earned. This feels too good to be true.

We’ve reached Granddad’s door and I knock.

“Come in! Come in!” My eyes prick with tears at hearing his familiar voice, round and plummy. As a kid, I legit thought he voiced Winnie-the-Pooh in the old cartoons.

When I walk in, Granddad is sitting on the sofa in his studio apartment, watching a John Wayne movie on thetelevision. His eyes light up as he comes over to envelop me in a big, soft hug.

“Isn’t this the best surprise!” he says. “My favorite granddaughter is here.”

I give him a kiss on his scruffy cheek. “I’m your only granddaughter.”

“I got rid of the others so you wouldn’t have any competition.”

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