LLOYD LOCKED HIS office door before unfolding the newspaper. He’d met the writer a few times, but he couldn’t remember doing anything in particular to piss him off. “Refused to comment” always made a guy sound guilty as hell. And the last paragraph was a personal affront: “A prominent Newport banker who asked to remain anonymous claimed that ‘this golf course thing is Lloyd’s last chance,’ so Wainwright may try to wait out the locals. But as the redcoats discovered two centuries ago, patriots protecting their turf often find a way to fight on for much longer than expected.”
Patriots! Just a bunch of interfering redneck islanders, led by James Goddamn-him-to-hell Malloy.
It had all seemed so modern and simple, building a website to gain control of West Brenton. If only that golf course designer hadn’t staked out the property so quick, James would’ve disappeared like he was supposed to—flushed off the island by rage, boredom, or poverty. How could the guy stand watching some girl do his job? Or teaching the bratty kid of a stuck-up know-it-all how to sail?
Dean Moreland was no longer returning Lloyd’s calls, which was another disappointment; Lloyd was desperate for another funding injection.
The only one who’d followed orders was Owen the landscaper, but he must not have been scary enough since Pierce’s little deaf-mute sister was still showing up for her shifts. She hadn’t even gone tattling to Parker.
Damn that sit-in! They should’ve broken ground on Alison’s golf course by now—but instead, Lloyd was dodging calls from the developer. The latest invoice had a handwritten, “Please!” added to it—as well as a hefty late free.
Never mind—he’d made it through worse. This newspaper story was just a five-minute wonder.
He glanced at his watch, woke up his phone. Time to give everyone something fresh to talk about.