Bethany touched his shoulder. “Keep the pieces.”
He understood. The torn paper was not a defeated argument. It was evidence of what had happened.
Quentin appeared from behind the pavilion. “What’s going on?”
“We apparently have a property dispute with someone who doesn’t own the property,” Rowan said.
Candace’s eyes flashed. “You want to be careful how you speak to me.”
“I’m being careful,” Rowan answered. “I’m also being accurate.”
“Do you live here?”
“My fiancee does. We’re moving here after the wedding.”
“For now,” Candace said, with enough significance to poison two ordinary words. “Everybody says that at first.”
Quentin stepped forward. “Ma’am, the calendar is public. I can show you on my phone.”
“I don’t take instructions from an electrician with a toolbox.”
“Good,” Quentin replied. “Because I’m giving you a link, not a lecture.”
Bethany almost smiled. She knew Quentin well enough to recognize the edge in his voice. He had spent his life being treated as cheerful and harmless until he stopped being agreeable.
Candace turned toward a gathering of people she recognized from the hillside. “They’ve paid forty dollars,” she announced. “And apparently that means we all pack up.”
A few people laughed uncomfortably. Others looked away. One older man studied the booking notice by the trash bins, then moved his folding chair a little farther from Candace’s table.
Bethany watched him. It was a small movement, not the kind anyone would put on the news. But it mattered. He had seen the proof, and he had chosen not to stand where the woman pointed.
“We can share the space later,” Bethany offered. “Our ceremony ends around six. After that you’re welcome to use the lawn.”
Candace turned back slowly. “You’re offering me my own lawn?”
“I’m offering a compromise on public property,” Bethany said. “You can say yes or no.”
“I say you’re going to learn how things work here.”
She took out her phone. The conflict had already outgrown her need for a Saturday cookout. The person holding that phone could turn it into a story in which she was the defender of a community. In her mind, that story was beginning to matter more than the lawn itself.
Chapter 9: The Photograph in the Sand
The table with Hiram’s photograph stood near the front of the pavilion. Alma had placed a small bunch of white flowers beside the frame and a folded letter Bethany had written to her father the night before. The letter was not for reading aloud. It was a private gesture, a way of admitting that the empty chair in the front row was not entirely empty.
When Candace walked toward the table, she noticed the picture before anything else.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A family photograph,” Alma said, approaching from the coolers.
Candace picked it up. Hiram smiled out from the frame in his work shirt, one hand resting on a wooden post, his eyes narrowed against the bright day. He was younger than Bethany remembered him at the end of his life. In the background stood the unfinished pavilion.
“No shrines on association property,” Candace declared. “People eat here.”
Alma held out her hand. “Please set that down.”
“I’m clearing a table.”
“It’s a memorial to my husband.”
“Then keep it with your family belongings.”
Bethany reached the table as Candace slid the frame toward the edge. Bethany caught it before it fell. The folded letter, however, slipped beneath the frame and landed in the sand. A gust lifted its corner. Bethany knelt to pick it up.
She could hear her mother inhale sharply. She could hear Quentin begin to speak and stop when Rowan caught his arm. She could hear Candace say, “Well, somebody had to make room.”
