The Beach House. Mary Monroe Alice

in the question. She glanced at Lovie’s face. It was solemn and pale. Palmer’s face, in contrast, was beet red and his eyes were alive with the look of a bloodhound on the scent.

      “I think we should talk about it. See what our options are.”

      Lovie turned to face Cara. “Do you want me to sell?”

      Cara didn’t expect the question. “It’s not up to me.”

      “Why are you asking her?” Palmer interjected with heat.

      Cara bristled. “As a member of the family, I have a right to at least an opinion.”

      “A right? Hell, after twenty years’ absence you feel you still have a right?”

      “Cara,” her mother said and her tone drew Cara’s attention back. “Do you want me to sell?”

      Cara pursed her lips, considering. One of her strengths in business was her ability to remove herself from an equation and think objectively. When she replied, her voice was calm and decisive. “If what Palmer says is true and those two lots are deeded as a park, then your land is like gold in the bank. It’s safe. And money isn’t the issue, or it shouldn’t be.” She looked at Palmer. “If I recollect, Mama is invested in blue-chip stocks. If they go under, the country goes under. So,” she concluded, turning again to her mother, “as far as I’m concerned, you should do what makes you happy, Mama. It’s your land. Your life. Enjoy it.”