THE BEACH HOUSE PROTOCOL

Word travels fast in a town like Wilmington, and even faster in a coastal community like Oak Island.

By Tuesday of the following week, the local rumor mill was spinning at full velocity. According to Mrs. Gable—my neighbor whose backyard met mine and whose radar for family drama was sharper than a surgical laser—Vanessa had spent the entire weekend complaining to anyone who would listen at the local grocery store parking lot about her "senile, malicious mother-in-law who had locked her grandchildren out in the cold."

“I told her right to her face,” Mrs. Gable announced proudly over the fence on Tuesday afternoon while I was pulling weeds from my flower beds. “I said, ‘Honey, if Clara locked you out, you probably deserved it. I’ve known Clara thirty years, and she wouldn't lock a stray cat out unless it was biting her ankles.’”

I stood up, wiping my dusty hands on my jeans, and laughed.

“Thank you, Martha. Though I’m sure the version Vanessa is telling makes me sound like a wicked witch living by the sea.”

“Oh, she’s painting you as Joan Crawford crossed with Ebenezer Scrooge,” Martha chuckled, leaning on the wooden fence post. “But honestly, Clara? Good for you. My daughter-in-law tried the exact same stunt with our mountain cabin two years ago. I gave them the keys once, and they left the refrigerator unplugged with a pound of raw shrimp inside for two weeks. The smell didn't come out until the following summer.”

“People forget that just because something is old doesn't mean it’s public property,” I murmured, looking out toward the horizon.

“So, what are you going to do with the beach house now?” Martha asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Are you going to rent it out? Sell it?”

“Sell it?” I repeated, shaking my head. “Never. David built the back deck with his own hands. I’m going to use it.”