Free A Month at the Shore by Antoinette Stockenberg

to leave the reservation. "Just someone who's willing to move a pile of dirt for a few bucks."
    The wince on Corinne's face vanished, replaced by a relieved grin. "Here's Gabe," she cried, waving. "We'll ask him!"
    A year older than Laura and two older than Corinne, Gabe Wellerton was one of a very small number whom Corinne considered friends. He'd worked on and off for the nursery through high school, and Laura herself had had a passing crush on him. Even now, she felt a warm rush of pleasure, mostly nostalgic, for the way he had stirred her adolescent yearnings. He was the first one to do it, and that would always make Gabe Wellerton special.
    She studied him as he approached, impressed all over again by his broad shoulders and beefy arms. He'd been a star fullback on the high school football team and had been recruited to play for the Florida Seminoles, which didn't surprise anyone in Chepaquit: he was their golden son, a boy with infinite potential. He wasn't just all muscle, he had brains as well: he wanted to go into law. Everyone was so proud.
    And then, a month before graduation, his parents were killed instantly in a head-on crash with a drunk driver.
    In a state of shock, Gabe came back to Chepaquit to clear up their estate, and somehow he never left, never got his degree. He bought a small, local fence-making company which he still owned. Eventually he ran for town council, winning easily; he'd recently been elected to serve a third term. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he was going to be Chepaquit's next mayor. People wanted him to run eventually for U.S. Congress, where he'd be able to realize his full potential after all.
    Nonetheless, despite his political involvement, Gabe still lived alone, almost as quietly as Corinne. People who knew of his plight were convinced that he'd never be completely over the tragedy.
    Laura was one of them. "Hey, Gabe, it's been a while," she said in a sympathetic tone that she instinctively used with him.
    His smile, above his square-cut chin, was simultaneously familiar and reserved, sincere and somehow just a little bit sad.
    "You're right; long time, no see, kiddo," he said, and then added, "I've been out of town on council business—scouting a possible sister city for Chepaquit in Ireland—and I just got in a little while ago."
    He said to Corinne, "Thanks for feeding the mutt, Rin, and for letting him in and out. It had to be a pain, running back and forth across th e road all day. Too bad Basker ville's so neurotic about kennels."
    "You've spoiled him, that's why," Corinne said, swatting Gabe playfully across the arm. "Trust me, he was absolutely pining for you."
    Smiling, Gabe said, "Baloney. He was pining for you. I saw the hambone out in the run."
    Color flared prettily in Corinne's face as she said, "Well, it was either feed the bone to him or make pea soup. I hate pea soup."
    "Sure, sure," Gabe said, laughing. "Anyway, here's a little something from my trip. I know it doesn't say anything about Ireland , but somehow it reminded me of you."
    He handed her a mini-shopping bag and Corinne pulled out a T-shirt in a pretty heather-rose color, hand-painted with a bundle of posies and discreet lettering beneath that said, "All natural."
    "I love it!" she said with a gasp of delight.
    "Well, good. I was hoping you would." He turned back to Laura and said hesitantly, "I wasn't sure I'd have the chance to see you this trip."
    Had Corinne tipped him off to her cockamamie scheme to kidnap her siblings for a month? Laura couldn't tell, and she couldn't really ask.
    She changed the subject and said, "We're just standing around trying to figure out who we can con into moving the compost pile farther back from the road. It's taking up prime display space—and it's not exactly high on charm," she added wryly. "Do you know of anyone who'd be willing to do the job for a few bucks?"
    Gabe surveyed the dirt mountain that loomed before them and nodded. "How about if I offer to