Chapter Seven
Anson
W hen I return to the dock after my lunch meeting with Margie, Sebby and Sebastian are sitting aboard one of the boats with Sabel, enjoying a couple of sandwiches.
“Anson, are you hungry?” Sabel asks as I climb the steps and join them.
“I could eat.”
She reaches into a basket at her feet, pulls out a paper-wrapped sandwich and a Ziploc bag of chips, and hands them to me.
“Thank you,” I say as I unwrap the paper to find her homemade chicken salad between two slices of freshly baked sourdough. “My favorite.”
She smiles, delighted at my comment, as I take a huge bite. “Where did you run off to so fast?” she asks.
I swallow the bite and reach into the cooler for a bottle of water as I answer, “I met Margie Denton to look at a house in your neck of the woods.”
Sebby and Sabel live in a cul-de-sac across from Sebastian and Avie, located on the western tip of the island along the Intracoastal Waterway. Their home is relatively new, but the cottage they sold to their grandson’s family is also listed on the heritage registry.
“I didn’t know you were buying a house,” Sebastian says, and I cut my eyes to him.
“I’m just looking for now. I think I should get my own place so Parker can move Audrey in and they can have some privacy.”
He nods. “Makes sense. You’re welcome to rent my beach house for a while if you want to take your time,” he says.
Sebastian purchased a cabana on the beach before he and Avie got married. He made significant renovations to the old place, but they ultimately decided to raise their daughter in the cottage with the big backyard. So, they turned the cabana into a short-term rental property.
“Thanks, man. I might take you up on it, but I’m still undecided.”
“The offer stands. If you want it, I’ll have Avie remove it from the rental sites.”
We finish our lunch and start preparing for the next charter when Sabel stands up to leave.
“Oh, Anson, could you do me a favor this evening? Sebby and I have dinner plans with Ida Mae, and Sebastian has to pick up Leia after her dance class.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. I need you to swing by The Sandspur Campground. Freda has a box of items for the church in the office. Can you pick it up and bring it to the house?”
“I’d be happy to,” I say.
Sebby walks his wife down the steps to the dock and kisses her before climbing back aboard. He then looks at me and winks.
The Sandspur Campground is a quiet, tucked-away place just off the coast road, the kind of spot you wouldn’t know was there unless you were looking for it. I pull my truck into the gravel lot in front of the office, killing the engine and stepping out into the humid evening air. The sun’s beating down, and the faint scent of burgers cooking hangs in the breeze.
I glance around and see that the campground is a flurry of activity. Men are gathered around charcoal grills, beers in hand. Children are running around, chasing one another, while some ladies are tossing beanbags at a set of cornhole boards. I head to the building with the hand-painted sign.
The office door creaks when I push it open, the little brass bell above it jingling. The inside is dim compared to the harsh brightness outside, and a fan hums from the corner, pushing around the thick, warm air.
Freda is behind the counter, tapping away at an ancient desktop computer. She looks up when I walk in, her face lighting up like she was expecting me.
“Well, well,” she says with a grin. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
I lean against the counter and reply, “Hi there, Miss Freda. How are you this fine evening?”
“Hot and bothered, as per usual this time of year. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your handsome face?”
“Sabel asked me to swing by and pick up a box for the church.”
“Oh, yes, the handmade seashell wind chimes,” she says. “Those are a fundraiser item.”
I nod. “That’s probably the one. I didn’t ask too many questions; I just agreed to pick them up for her.”
“Oh no, I forgot she’d mentioned someone was coming by. I completely failed to grab that box for you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Forgot?”
She presses her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh. “I was supposed to get it from Tabby this morning, but … well, I might’ve gotten distracted.”
Tabby.
The name registers in my mind, bringing with it an image of a certain girl with sun-streaked hair and a gorgeous smile. I didn’t expect to run into her again so soon, but apparently, fate—or Freda—had other plans.
“I guess I’ll have to go to her place, then,” I say, pretending to be irritated. “Which one is she in?” I ask as I look out the window at the rows of campers.
“Fifth RV down on the left, the one next to the common area with the raised garden beds beside it.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sure you didn’t forget on purpose?”
Freda gasps, putting a hand to her chest. “Anson, how could you accuse me of such a thing?”
I shake my head, but she just grins wider. The way she’s looking at me tells me she and Sabel are up to something. But I don’t push it.
“Fine,” I say, turning toward the door. “I’ll go see Tabby.”
I make my way through the winding paths of the campground and past weathered RVs and campers, some looking like they’ve been parked here for years. The fifth one down is a teal-and-white Shasta with a flourishing garden beside it, just like Freda said.
I step up to the door and knock.
A rustling sound comes from inside, then a muffled curse before the door swings open.
Tabby stands there, barefoot, wearing cutoff denim shorts and a tank top that’s seen better days. Her hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, a streak of white paint smeared across her forearm.
She squints down at me. “Well, well. Look who it is.”
I smirk. “Twice in one week. You starting to think I’m following you?”
Her eyes crinkle as she quips, “More like stalking.”
I chuckle. “Freda said you’ve got a box for me.”
Tabby leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “A box for you?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m here to pick up wind chimes for the church.”
“Oh, yes. Hold on a sec, and I’ll grab it.”
I watch as she disappears, leaving the door wide open. I step closer and glance inside. Her RV is small but cozy, with art supplies scattered on a little table. A hammock chair is strung up in the left corner, and a tiny bed is tucked in on the right. The faint scents of coconut and paint linger in the air.
A moment later, she comes back with a medium-sized cardboard box and hands it over.
“Here,” she says. “I’ll swing by the church next week to pick up the leftovers, so you’re good to go.”
I take the box, but don’t move right away. Instead, I shift my weight, looking her over. “You make all these yourself?”
She nods. “I did.”
“Impressive.” I glance down at the box. “They’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she replies, her lips curving slightly, as if she’s trying not to smile.
I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever thought about selling them outside of the church fundraiser?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation—any conversation—going so I can stay a few minutes longer.
She hesitates. “I do. I have a booth at the farmers market.”
I smile. “Nice. I bet the older gentlemen gather around your table every Tuesday.”
She rolls her eyes. “They’re harmless.”
I laugh. “I thought so.”
“Whatever. You’re the stalker, remember?” she says.
I catch the way her gaze flickers over me, the way her fingers tighten just slightly around the doorframe.
I hold the box under one arm, sliding my free hand into my pocket. “You got plans tonight?”
Her brows pull together. “Why?”
“I thought you might want to grab some dinner.”
She glances down at her torn tank top and paint-covered skin. “I’m not exactly ready for an evening out.”
“Yeah.” I smirk. “I can come back in, say, an hour.”
She looks over her shoulder to the table where she is working.
“Come on, please. If we share a meal, I can’t be considered a stalker anymore,” I say.
She tilts her head, eyeing me like she’s trying to figure me out. I don’t say anything, just let her think, let her weigh whatever it is she’s considering.
After a long pause, she sighs. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes, fine. I’ll go to dinner with you.”
I grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
She shakes her head, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Just don’t make me regret it.”
I take a step back, adjusting the box in my arms. “Regret it? Never. Pick you up at seven?”
“Make it seven thirty.”
“Done.” I give her a nod and turn to head back toward my truck, feeling her gaze on me as I go.
Yeah, Freda and Sabel were definitely up to something.
And I’m not mad about it.