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Caleb greeted a few folks he knew in high school who now had children, a couple even in Bentley’s class. He selected a pair of brown rentals with Emery and laced them on at the benches.

“Don’t laugh if I fall. I’ve not done this in eons,” she said.

“Don’t get mad if I trip over you when you fall. I’ve not done this in a long time either.” Yet he was ready to go, ready to move , cleanse his soul of even considering Mac’s idea.

Kool and the Gang’s “Good Times” came on as they hit the floor. The shufflers whizzed past. Caleb was tempted to join them, but he wasn’t ready to make a complete fool of himself in front of Emery just yet. The Ferris wheel incident was enough for now.

When the two of them had gone around for few songs, some fast, some slow, Emery said, “Caleb, what did you mean Tuesday handed the rink over to Spike and Spike to Simon? Sounds more like management than ownership.”

“You should look up the story in the Gazette archives. I can’t remember all the details, but when they tried to knock down the Starlight to start development to the west, Tuesday, Matt, and Harlow stood in the way.

Turns out one of the descendants of Malachi Nickle—Bodie or Booker, one of them—knew the rink and the land belonged to the Royal House of Blue. ”

“And that ended the demolition plan?”

“That ended the demolition. Of course, they found other ways to expand, which has been good for the town. Until now—”

“When they want to come east,” Emery said. “Any chance the Original Homestead is deeded to another country?”

“It was only the Starlight. The West End has a lot of power, and if Mac, Alfred, and Bobby are determined to consume the East End, not even the House of Blue can help us. Maybe breaking away, becoming their own municipality, would be best for all.”

“You don’t mean that, Caleb.”

“No, I don’t.” He wobbled a bit going around the turn as he glanced over at her. “To be honest, I don’t think they do either.”

EMERY

On Thursday morning, she rode one of the motel’s beach bikes down the Beachwalk for a breakfast burrito from the taco truck. Next she grabbed a latte from One More Cup, then sat on a bench to watch the sunrise.

The air was crisp and cool, slipping around her legs and through her hair. The calm Gulf reflected the colors of the dawn, and being by the sands of Sea Blue Beach was heaven.

She washed down a bite of burrito with a sip of her latte and wrestled with an idea, one she’d had for a while now. But was it a good idea? Since she’d never had one like this before, nor did she know anyone who did, her reference points were nonexistent.

Just do it. No guts, no glory. With those clichés rattling around in her head, she finished her breakfast and let her thoughts drift to Caleb—which was happening more often than not these days. Skating with him had been fun. When he held her hand for the couple’s skate, she felt sixteen again.

Snippets of their long-ago summer would come to mind while she worked on the Gazette’s budget or while cooking dinner.

In so many ways, he was the same Caleb Ransom who made her laugh, who made her do crazy things like trash a football field and fall in love.

Yet so far he’d not made any kind of romantic move.

Her phone pinged with an incoming text.

Ava:

Just thinking of you. Thanks again for putting up with my crazy.

Emery:

Any time.

Ava:

What’s happening with you and the hunky architect?

Emery:

That’s what you want to know on a Thursday at eight a.m.?

Ava:

I’m working on invitations. Is he your plus-one?

Emery:

Probably not. BTW, I’ve not approved the pink color for the bridesmaids’ dresses.

Ava:

You’re joking, right?

Emery:

Not joking. No human can see me in unapproved pink.

Ava:

Especially a hunky architect.

Emery:

We’re just friends, even partners in some civic happenings, not so much potential lovers.

Ava:

Put yourself out there, girl. Dad said Caleb was hot for you back in the day. I’ll send you a fabric swatch in the mail.

E mery:

You talked to Dad about this again? SMH.

Ava:

He blabbed when I mentioned Caleb lived in Sea Blue Beach.

Emery:

Please inform him there’s nothing between us. He’s not my date for the wedding. Emery Quinn, plus-zero.

Ava:

Bummer. We’re going to have a live band at the reception. Who will you dance with?

Emery:

I don’t need Caleb to kick up my heels. Look, we liked each other as teens. Can’t assume we’d work romantically as adults. People change.

Ava:

Are you telling me or yourself?

Emery:

Have a good day, Ava.

And with that, the sun had fully risen. She biked back to the Sands for a shower before the morning staff meeting.

“What’s everyone working on?” Emery sat on one of the empty desks in the bullpen and faced her small staff.

“Dr. Wheeler is retiring,” Rex said. “I’m working on a long piece about his years of medical practice and philanthropy in town. Junie, could you pull some stuff off the digital morgue for me? Like when he started his foundation? And I think his first office was above Alderman’s Pharmacy.”

J ane was digging into the West End notion of becoming their own municipality. “All my contacts have gone dark, Emery. The best I can do is write up a piece on what’s involved in a town splitting. I’ve called Congresswoman Abbot’s office. We’ll see if she responds.”

“Good, and how about a story on Diamond Dog Golf Courses? Where are they all located? How did Mac acquire the land? Cost of each course? Did the cities contribute at all? Anyone want this one?”

“I’ll take it,” Rex said. “I do most of the sports reporting. Emery, I just filed my piece on the Tanagers Country Club joining the national pickleball circuit.”

Gayle heard a rumor that a small contingency of health advocates were starting a petition to remove all food trucks from the beach.

“That’s sacrilege,” Junie said. “Sea Blue Beach is known for their amazing food trucks.”

Jane wanted that story since her West End investigation stalled.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’” Emery said. “That the West End might be stirring up trouble?”

“Nothing will surprise me,” Jane said.

The meeting adjourned, and Emery donned her ad director hat to visit businesses on the West End. It seemed the East End was tapped out. Either they already advertised or couldn’t afford to advertise, even with the Gazette ’s cut rates.

By the time she returned to the Gazette that evening, she’d made fifteen sales calls, each one more exhausting than the last, and secured one small account.

A maid service called Maid For You. The owner agreed to a quarter-page ad for the Sunday-only edition.

Which Emery won by throwing in an eighth of a page in the Wednesday edition for free.

S etting her things on her desk, she retrieved a bottle of water from the kitchen fridge and headed through the solemn, quiet newsroom to her office. The Free Voice had been nothing like this. It was loud and busy, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, reporters hollering to one another.

“One day, Gazette . One day.”

She entered the ad details for Maid For You for Gayle to make up tomorrow. Then she closed her office door and returned to her brewing idea.

Was she going to do this ... thing ? It had sat with her all day. Was it dumb? Yes. Would it produce anything good? Probably not. Yet she had to try. Logging into the email server, she searched Rachel Kirby’s archives for House of Blue .

Finding a private email address for the royal family, she read a couple dozen exchanges between Rachel, members of the Chamber Office, and the queen herself. If this idea had any chance of succeeding, Emery needed to use proper names and protocol.

The winter sun had tucked in for the night when she finally started an email from her editor-in-chief account. She had to be honest about her identity. Fingers crossed their royal system with their spam filters would recognize the domain. And not think Rachel Kirby emailed from the grave.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Greetings from Sea Blue Beach!

To the Lord Chamberlain, House of Blue

Dear Sir,

My name is Emery Quinn, editor-in-chief of the Sea Blue Beach Gazette . I discovered this email address while going through the archives of Rachel Kirby, the Gazette ’s former owner and editor.

Sea Blue Beach has grown into a lovely town, if not a divided one. S omething of a rivalry has developed between old and new, east and west.

The East End, founded by the House of Blue ancestor Prince Rein Titus Alexander, needs historic preservation as well as business revitalization.

While some members of the town council are eager to allocate funds for projects, others are not.

There has even been talk of razing the homes on the Original Homestead for a nine-hole golf course.

We love progress in Sea Blue Beach, but we also love history, especially one as rich as ours. Sea Blue Beach is still “the gem of the North Florida coast.”

As far as we know, no royal Blue has visited the town since Prince Rein’s departure for World War One.

As there was a great affection between the royal family and the Starlight’s former mangers, Tuesday Knight and Spike Chambers, as well as with the Gazette’s owner, Rachel Kirby, my simple request is for a member of the House of Blue to visit our humble town.

Perhaps his or her presence will remind us all what we’re about: Unity.

We need more restoration for more than just buildings. We need one for our hearts.

I believe the founders—a prince and freed slave—would agree. Thank you for your consideration.

Respectfully yours, Emery Quinn

She pushed away from her desk, knocking into the credenza. When she did, a white envelope fell to the floor. Picking it up, she set it on the desk, then hovered over her laptop, rereading the email. She edited a couple of lines, then cursor to the send button.

“Do it,” she whispered. “It’s now or never.” With an inhale, Emery closed her eyes and clicked send, with the whoosh of her request launching into cyberspace.

A spear of anxiety was defeated by true, genuine excitement. What if they said yes?

Closing her laptop, she grabbed her bag. She’d sent it, now forget it. What will be, will be. She was about to shut off the office lights when she spotted the envelope.

Inside she found two press passes for the Beach Boys concert Sunday night at the Blue Shell Amphitheater—which allotted her backstage access and a ten-minute interview with Mike Love and Bruce Johnston.

Two. Backstage. Passes. But from who? Delilah’s “no” was adamant the other night. Besides, how would she have access to official press passes?

Emery tapped the envelope against her palm. The tickets felt like a message. “Come to the West End.”

“I see you, Mac Diamond. You can’t buy me, but I see you.”