Page 64 of Rescued by the Single Dad

When he’d arrived all frazzled, out of breath and sore from the mental self-flagellation, Bennett informed him that the rumor-mill was busy on the island. And the interest in Bonn Remmen’s land was keen. Everybody wanted it.

Clint’s heart deflated until it resembled nothing more than a six-month-old balloon that had swirled behind the couch, clinging to the last molecules of air that were slowly seeping from the pinprick hole in its side.

“Shit,” Bennett murmured when they pulled into the packed parking lot. “Everybody has the same goddamn idea.”

“Never seen an elder’s meeting this packed before,” Clint replied.

He circled the parking lot, but all the spaces were full, so he pulled back out onto the road and found street parking on the shoulder a hundred yards down the way. It was still light out since they were in early May and the days were just getting longer. People—most Clint recognized—walked the road from their vehicles toward the grass-roofed community center. Half a dozen goats lazily chewed grass from their keen vantage point on the roof, some of them eyeing the visitors with interest, but most of them just ignoring everyone.

For as long as Clint could remember, the community center on the island had goats on the grass roof. It was one of the many tourist attractions, and there was a small petting farm behind the center as well. From what he could tell, at least two of the nannies were sporting wide bellies, which meant they would be giving birth to kids soon. He’d have to bring Talia and the other children by to visit once the babies were born.

Conversations inside the community center—with its open double doors—turned into nothing but loud white noise that became almost deafening the closer they got.

“Standing room only now,” said one older gentleman, a fishing guide located on the north side of the island. He couldn’t remember his name, though. It was unusual and quite possibly made up. Zepploid? Gromoid? He was pretty sure the guy’s name had -oid at the end of it.

“Thanks, Lloyd,” Bennett said, slapping the man on the shoulder as he pushed his way through first.

Well, Clint wasn’t wrong: the man’s name did have -oid at the end of it; it just wasn’t unusual.

Bennett knew even more people on the island than Clint did. And Jagger knew more than Bennett. But it made sense since those two handled the cabins and the tourists, so they made sure they had amicable relationships with all the activity and sight-seeing establishments. They recommended each other. It was win-win for all. Clint was back of house and hated small-talk. He knew a lot of people, but when he could, he stayed in his brewery away from people and their endless questions.

Bennett was half an inch taller than Clint, but they both towered over most people inside as they made their way to a patch of empty wall along the far-east side of the center. Folding chairs were set up in rows in the gym, but there was a butt in every single one. And there was barely any standing room left either.

“As good a place as any,” Bennett murmured, leaning back against the wall.

Clint sidled up beside him, and they pressed themselves as thin as they could, so people who had been behind them could pass through the pencil-tight row and find their own place to stand.

“You gonna be okay?” Bennett asked. “I can stay if you need to step outside, away from the crowd.”

Bennett wasn’t wrong in assuming Clint would be on edge.

Because he was.

He’d never been a fan of crowds, but that loathing intensified after he had Talia, then quadrupled after Jacqueline died. Too many bad things happened in crowds. Children went missing, people got trampled, wayward bullets ended up killing innocent bystanders. And of course, crowds were where psychos with bombs and sniper rifles decided to take out their anger on society. Crowds were where common sense went to die. People abandoned all sense of consideration and altruism, and when shit hit the fan, they looked out for the nearest exit and number one, not caring who they stepped on to do it.

He took a deep breath. “I’ll handle it for now. But if it goes on too long, I might need to leave.”

Bennett nodded. “Okay.”

A few friendly waves and head bobs of acknowledgement occurred as people continued to filter in. But eventually, the meeting was called to order.

The elder at the center of the long table always changed. There was no “leader”; they were a collective of equals, so it rotated monthly who “ran” the meeting. Hattie Granger was in the middle this time, her frail and bony hand wrapped tightly around the gavel. As always, her long gray hair fell down her back in two long braids. She wore peacock feather earrings that nearly touched her shoulders, and her dress was probably handmade—by her—and looked to be an array of fabric scraps sewn together like a patchwork quilt. It hung off her slender frame like a gunny sac.

Hattie slammed the gavel onto the sound block with more force than Clint expected. The sound carried throughout the room, echoing off the walls. “I call this meeting to order,” she said in a scratchy voice. Over the last few years, since all the elders were getting on in age, they’d invested in a small microphone system so they didn’t have to holler.

The islanders all knew better than to not listen to the elders—or Hattie for that matter—so there was no need for her to bang the gavel a second time. The room quieted down immediately.

“We all know why we’re here,” Hattie said. Her thin bottom lip wobbled slightly, then she swallowed. “Bonn was sick. That was no secret. But his energy and love for this island convinced me that he would outlive us all. Her voice held a quaver to it now. Abe Jeffries, who sat next to Hattie, rubbed her back. “Bonn’s wishes following his passing were very clear.” She lifted a piece of paper from in front of her and cleared her throat.

“Well, I guess I’m dead now.”

Snickers and hushed laughter flowed like a tide through the crowd.

Hattie smiled before she continued. “I had a good life. So don’t any of you cry. If I find out you cried, I’ll come back and haunt you. Don’t think I won’t. What else do I have to do now? I want a party. A big one. Celebrate. Dance. Drink. Be merry. I lived most of my life on this island, and more of you are like family than friends or strangers. I will miss you all. I’ve allocated funds for my party. Spend every penny. If there’s money left over, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

More laughter.

“And finally, in regards to my land ...”

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