Page 67 of One Southern Summer

“So disgusting.” Cole shoved his fingers through his hair. Vandalism was one thing but vandalism that denigrated women, especially the women who lived here, was a special brand of horrific.

Dale stood a few yards away, surveying the damage, with his phone pressed to his ear. He gestured wildly with his other hand. Hopefully he was getting Roberto and his crew out here to clean up the mess. If Roberto was busy, Cole would take care of it with his own two hands. He had to get the awful words covered up before any of the residents saw them. Imari’s Place was supposed to rescue women who’d been trafficked. They’d encountered more than enough shame in their journey toward healing. No one needed to pile on more, least of all bored, thoughtless locals on a spray paint rampage. This expansion was never supposed to be about gaining approval or social proof on Instagram. He’d certainly never meant for this house to be a platform or a battle ground. But he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what was happening anyway.

Was this the work of restless kids, or a more calculated attempt by someone in the community who didn’t want to see his foundation succeed?

Anger scorched through his extremities again. He had to do something. He couldn’t stand here, waiting for Dale or Roberto or anyone else to take action. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he forced himself to catalog the evidence with pictures. Then he scrolled through his contacts until he landed on the name and number of Camellia’s police chief. His fingers jabbed the screen as he composed a brief text, attached the photos then requested a follow-up call.

Ugh. This all made him want to vomit.

An approaching vehicle caught his attention. He jammed his phone in his pocket then turned to see Max and Charlie’s van pulling up to the curb. Charlie wasn’t even out of the driver’s seat before Max had his sneakers on the ground and his camera filming.

Cole strode toward him. “You are not seriously going to film this?”

Max pulled back from the camera’s viewfinder, his eyes wide. “I most certainly am.”

The door slammed and Max jogged over to join them. “Hey, Cole. What’s up?”

Cole stepped closer, barely concealing his anger. Charlie and Max exchanged concerned glances.

“This is vandalism. It’s cruel and thoughtless and I’m removing it in the next three minutes. This is not the time for you to get your next fifteen seconds of sensational footage.”

Charlie fisted his hands on his hips. A muscle in his jaw knotted. Max at least had the decency to put the camera down.

“It’s cute the way you stand up for people like some modern-day knight,” Charlie said. “Much respect. But the graffiti on that plywood is like a gift from above. You can’t ask for a more telling summary of how the community feels about your organization.”

Oh, he desperately needed to smash a stationery object now. “It’svandalism,Charlie. Maybe if you’d try harder to preserve people’s dignity rather than exploit their weaknesses, you’d actually have a decent documentary.”

He was yelling now, but he didn’t care.

Max muttered a curse word then walked away.

Charlie stood his ground. His eyes sparked as he angled his head to one side. “Is that right? I’m glad we had this talk, Cole.”

Then he brushed past him and followed Max toward the unfinished house.

Charlie’s comment landed like a lit match on the anger and frustration already kindling in his gut. He turned and stormed across the muddy rock-strewn yard. Dale had ended his call and pocketed his phone.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, I’m moving that plywood before any of the women who live here or the local news crew shows up.”

“No argument here,” Dale said. “I’ll help you.”

He approached the first sheet of plywood, praying it wasn’t nailed to the side of the house. Max and Charlie came back outside. The familiar hum of another car approaching sent Cole’s pulse rocketing into overdrive. Max already had his camera on his shoulder and Charlie was grabbing footage with his phone.

Cole shook his head in disbelief. It was like they hadn’t even had a conversation. Was it too late to back out of the documentary? He’d have to consult the foundation’s attorney.

The rough edge of the plywood scraped against his hand as he tried to drag it away. In his panic, he didn’t see the discarded bricks nearby until he nearly went down. This was so much easier the way he’d envisioned it in his head.

Dale came to his rescue. “That’s Avery’s car. If you don’t want her to see this, let’s flip it over right quick. We’ll leave it facedown for now.”

“Genius.” Cole formed his lips into a smile. They made short work of flipping all three sheets over into the red clay. “Thanks, man.”

Dale clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure thing. It’s the best we can do. I’m running late for a meeting on another project. Y’all take care.”

Cole nodded. “See you.”

A car door slammed then Avery walked slowly toward him carrying takeout cartons with enough iced drinks for four people. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know smoothies and iced coffee won’t fix everything, but I thought it might help a smidge.”

Her kind gesture dissipated the tightness in his chest. How did she know they’d all need a bit of cooling off before they regrouped to discuss the photo of that napkin?

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