Matty Dove had 18 months to try and find a buyer for her late grandmother's lighthouse. A buyer who, she hoped, would not only buy the lighthouse, but love the village so much that they would invest time and money into saving the community. In 18 mo...
"Ise don't knows love. Youse best talk to Norman. 'e still bes at da motel with Tanya, John and Clayton.
All Ise knows is wese were told to go 'ome and wese wud be paid to da end of da year."
"This makes no sense," Carl remarked, shaking his head.
Monica shrugged again.
"Makes no sense to me either, Carl, but when da boss says go. Wese go.
Da only ones on site now, bes da people from da Bay. Da plumbers and electricians are already gone."
Carl looked at his wife.
"What the fuck is going on?"
Another motor home behind Monica honked their horn.
Monica waved out the window.
"Ise sorry, Carl, Lindsay, but Ise best bes going.
Good luck," she sighed, as she closed the window and started the motorhome off, down the cobblestone road.
Carl grabbed his wife hand.
"Come on. Wese best 'urry."
Ten minutes later, the two walked into the main lobby of the Sandy Cove Motel. They saw Tanya, John Dove and Clayton Rideout talking to a man, near a table with coffee and muffins.
The two hurried to the table.
"But you has an agreement with us," Tanya barked at the man.
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"Wese don't 'ave a formal contract," the man reminded her.
"What's youse talkin' 'bout, Norm," John snapped back.
"Since when does we needs a fucking contract?"
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