A Shore Thing by Julie Carobini Page B

about to lose your house?”
    Her palm flipped upward along with one pointy shoulder. “I think so. I don’t know.”
    My mind raced. “Have you talked with your daughter?”
    She waved both palms in front of her. “Oh, no. Her husband spent most of the money we gave her, and then left her and our grandchildren. She couldn’t handle this if she knew.”
    Silence fell like a dark night between us. What did I know about this type of thing? “Have you looked into refinancing?”
    She deflated more. “Timothy gets angry when I bring it up. He says we borrowed too much for that. What are we going to do?”
    I reached out to still her shaking hand, its skin loose and thin. “Why did you come to see me, June?”
    She pulled her chin upward until our eyes met. “Forgive me for making assumptions, but I’ve always observed you to be the justice seeker of this community.”
    I shrunk back a little.
    Those eyes were hopeful and searching now. “You may not think of yourself in that way—it’s not as if your name’s in the paper all the time—but I’ve seen you working behind the scenes on so many different causes. And that’s what I want, someone who is behind the scenes helping me figure this out.”
    Would this be the wrong time to tell her I signed on to lead SOS? I rubbed my lips together, trying to figure out my role in all of this. “Listen, June, my brother Jim is an attorney. He doesn’t normally handle this sort of thing . . .” I didn’t mention that never once had he been willing to help me with any of my causes. “But if you wouldn’t mind me sharing this information with him, then maybe he could advise you on what you can do.”
    “Timothy hates lawyers.”
    “I’ll make sure not to mention that to Jim.”
    Her head had dropped forward as if from shame, then she peered up at me. “And you’re sure he won’t tell anyone else?”
    I nearly held my breath. “I’ll make him promise.”
    The resolve on her face pricked my heart. “Then I would be very grateful. Very grateful, indeed.”

    GAGE

    “GAGE MITCHELL FOR RICK Knutson. I’ll hold.” Suz set a second cup of coffee in front of him while he waited on the phone. The acid was bad for his stomach, but he could not do without the caffeine.
    “Rick here.”
    He jolted forward and set his long arms on his desk. “Gage Mitchell, returning your call.”
    “Ah, Mr. Mitchell, the architect.” Knutson’s voice barreled on. “Good to finally meet you. How are you, sir?”
    Gage rolled his eyes to the ceiling. What was this guy trying to sell? “Fine. What can I do for you?”
    “Not into preliminaries. I appreciate that. Let’s see now, oh right, I called you about the Kitteridge property, didn’t I?”
    Gage stayed quiet and pictured Rick Knutson’s blindingly white teeth on all those realty signs.
    Knutson cleared his throat, and after he did, his voice sounded deeper than when he had begun. “My client asked that I pass along the news to you that everything is on schedule to take over the property within thirty days.”
    Gage’s forehead bunched. “Take over?”
    “Acquire.” He cleared his throat again. “What I meant was acquire. Now, I’ll need you to get this information to your client ASAP. The planning commission has been breathing down my neck on this one.”
    “You’re telling me the city government is actually asking for these plans?” Gage had never heard anything so ludicrous. Planning departments were notoriously slow about issuing permits. He’d known many architects who’d crossed the line with personal gratuities just to light a fire under the process.
    Knutson’s voice rose again, fired up. “I’m telling you that this project is hot. No one’s been able to touch this property for years and the community is itching to see something state-of-the-art built there. You, my man, will be a hero.”
    He doubted that. His own aspirations for growing his own independent and eco-conscious firm aside, communities