The Summer of Us (Mission Cove 1)

“May I help you?”

I straightened my shoulders. “I’m here to see the mayor.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

She knew damn well I didn’t.

“No.”

“Then, young man, might I suggest you make one?”

I refused to let her intimidate me. “I don’t have time. Tell the mayor Lincoln Webber is here to see him.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Webber?”

I smirked. “Yes. Lincoln Webber.” I crossed my arms, mimicking her stance. “He will see me.”

She sniffed. “Too good to keep your father’s name?”

My indignation rose. “That, Mrs. Tremont, is none of your business. Tell your husband I’m here to see him about an urgent matter.”

She didn’t back down. “He is not here. As deputy mayor, you can discuss your matter with me.”

Deputy mayor? Her?

Good god, the people here needed help more than I realized.

“Fine. A permit I require was refused. I assume it was done in error, and I need that rectified. Immediately.”

She didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “The one to level your father’s house.”

“It’s my house now. I’m having it demolished.”

She didn’t meet my eyes as she deposited some files onto the top of her desk. Her tone became almost gleeful as she responded, “No, I don’t believe you are. The permit was denied.”

“On what grounds?”

She lifted her gaze, pure hatred blazing from them. I stepped back at the blatant hostility. “On the grounds that your father did a lot for this town and his house was a symbol of his commitment to Mission Cove. It and his memory deserve to be respected.”

I wanted to laugh. Commitment? His memory?

Was she insane?

“We decided, in the best interest of all parties, not to allow the demolition.”

“I disagree. It’s my property and your decision is certainly not in my best interest. I want an audience with the council. As soon as possible.”

She clucked her tongue. “That won’t be possible for a while. We don’t meet for another month.”

Anger, red and hot, filled my chest. I stepped nearer to her desk, my tight fist resting on the wood as I leaned close. “Then I insist you call an emergency council meeting.”

Our eyes locked, furious blue meeting cold brown. “Step away from my desk, or I’ll call security. I don’t appreciate your intimidation tactics.”

Seething, I stepped back. “Call for an emergency council meeting,” I repeated, my voice cold, but calm.

“I’ll take that up with the mayor and get back to you.” She glanced around her desk. “I’m sure your number is here somewhere. A staff member will be in touch.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’m doing what is in the best interest of the town, Mr. Webber.”

“And an empty, ramshackle building on top of the hill is in the best interest of the town? I’m not maintaining it.”

“Then it will be maintained and the bills sent to you.”

We were locked in a war of wills. One of the things I had learned was when to stay and fight and when to walk away. I had no idea what her motivation was behind this, but I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

I turned and headed to the door. “My lawyer will be in touch.”

Her triumphant cackle followed me down the hall.14LincI parked at the country club a couple of miles outside Mission Cove. After I’d stormed out of the mayor’s office, I had paced the hallways trying to get my anger under control. At one point I stopped, leaning against a wall. I concentrated, counting between long inhales of air until I felt calmer. My ears perked up when I heard a conversation occurring in the office next to me.

“Another bill from Sandy Hooks,” a voice muttered. “I swear the mayor spends more time on the putting green than in his office.”

“Probably getting away from the dragon of a wife he’s got,” another voice replied.

I glanced out the window. It was sunny and warm—the perfect day for a game of golf. He and my father used to play a lot of golf, and obviously, things hadn’t changed. I headed to my car, making a call after I slid inside.

“Sandy Hooks Golf Club,” a voice answered.

“Yes, I’m calling from Mayor Tremont’s office. Has he already started his round?” I asked. “He left his cell in the office, and I wanted to bring it to him.”

“Oh yes, about twenty minutes ago. Would you like me to get a message to him?”

“No, thank you. I’ll handle it myself.” I hung up.

I had a message, all right.I approached the small group, waiting patiently as they all teed off, then crossed the tee box to the mayor.

“Mayor Tremont.”

He turned, his face confused as he took me in. “Yes. How can I help you, son?”

I turned on the charm, recalling the mayor’s like of alcohol—any kind. I shook his hand. “Lincoln Webber.” From the blank look on his face, I knew he had had no idea who I was, or to whom I was related. “I’m sorry to bother you on a well-earned day on the course, sir, but I am in urgent need to speak to you. May I buy you a drink at the bar?” I indicated the outdoor roll cart, one of the many set up along the course.