Chapter Thirty
Tabby
T he drive to Anson’s parents’ house is short and winds through the streets of Sandcastle Cove. I shift in my seat, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I’m about to meet his parents.
Not just meet them. Have dinner with them.
A normal thing people do when they’re dating. Except I don’t know if that’s what this is. He said he didn’t want to be just friends, but didn’t elaborate beyond that. And I haven’t asked for clarification.
“You okay?” He glances over, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the console between us.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, then let out a breath. “Just … I guess I’m just nervous. Doing the whole meet the parents thing.”
A smirk tugs at his lips. “Don’t worry. They don’t bite.”
I catch the teasing glint in his eye and roll mine instead. “Shut up.”
He laughs, and the sound relaxes me more than I expected.
“Look, don’t overthink it,” he says as he turns down a long driveway lined with bougainvillea and sea grapes. “They’re easy. My mom will probably hug you the second we walk in, and my dad’s only gonna care about whether you like your steak rare or medium rare.”
I let out an anxious chuckle, staring up at the house as it comes into view. It’s not huge, but it’s lovely—a coastal-style home with weathered gray shingles and a lot of porch. It’s the kind of house that looks lived in, full of history and love.
Anson parks the car, and before I can second-guess myself, he opens my door and offers his hand. I take it, my fingers slipping against his callous palm, and I swear his touch seems to calm me.
“If you can handle Amiya and the girls, Mom and Dad will be easy,” he whispers as he leads me toward the house.
Before we make it to the steps to the porch, the front door swings open, and a woman steps out with a bright, welcoming smile.
“Oh, you must be Tabby!” she exclaims, already reaching for me.
I barely have time to brace myself before I’m wrapped in a warm, vanilla-scented hug, and it startles me, but I don’t hate it.
“Tabby, this is my mother, Margot Leggett,” Anson says. “She obviously doesn’t know what personal space is.”
Margot pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she looks me over. She’s beautiful in a way that only some women are—graceful, effortlessly welcoming, the kind of person who makes you feel at home.
“Come on in,” she says, looping her arm through mine like we’re old friends and completely ignoring her son’s comment. “Porter’s got the grill going. We’ve been dying to meet the girl who’s caught our son’s attention.”
I blink, glancing at Anson, who shoots his mom a look.
“Mom,” he mutters.
Margot just grins, completely unfazed, and leads me inside.
The house smells incredible—something rich and smoky drifting in from the back. The decor is exactly what I’d expect from a coastal home—warm woods, soft colors, and big, inviting furniture.
And then there’s Porter.
He’s standing at the grill on the back deck, tongs in one hand, beer in the other. The second he sees me, his face splits into a grin that’s so much like Anson’s that it’s almost uncanny.
“You must be the mysterious woman living at the campground,” he says, offering me his free hand. “Porter Leggett. Welcome.”
I shake it, his grip strong and warm.
“Tabby,” I say, then add, “And I guess that’s me.”
Porter chuckles, nodding approvingly. “An artist, huh?”
I flick a glance at Anson.
“Yep. She’s talented,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.
I feel Margot’s eyes on me, a little too perceptive.
I clear my throat. “I, um … I paint. Mostly ocean scenes. Just something I do.”
“It’s more than that,” Anson says. “She also makes wind chimes, tends gardens, and writes poetry. She’s even working on a children’s book.”
“Uh, that’s only a pipe dream at this point,” I clarify.
“A pipe dream with a title and illustrations,” he says.
Margot hums.
“Sounds like you’ll fit in here just fine,” Porter says, flipping a steak. “My better half over there is an artist herself.”
“Anson told me. You’re a goldsmith, and you design and create your own jewelry pieces,” I say to Margot.
“She does. Very talented too. People come from all over the state to have her make them something sparkly,” Porter says proudly. “You eat meat, right?”
I nod at the sudden subject change. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He grins. “Hope you like it medium rare.”
The rest of the evening flows comfortably. We eat on the deck, the sound of the waves in the distance, the breeze carrying the scent of grilled steak and fresh herbs. The food is incredible—perfectly cooked steaks, roasted potatoes, grilled asparagus. Porter cracks jokes between bites, making me laugh more than I have in a long time. Margot asks questions—not too prying, but enough to make it clear she wants to know me.
I keep my answers vague.
I tell them I grew up in New England, but don’t say where.
I tell them I came to Sandcastle Cove because I wanted to be by the ocean, but don’t tell them about Indigo or the Florida Keys.
I tell them I live in my RV at the campground, but don’t explain how or why or if I plan to remain a permanent resident at The Sandspur.
Despite the gaps in my story, they seem to like me. I can feel it. Margot’s smiles come easily, Porter’s laughter is genuine, and Anson … he watches me in that quiet, unreadable way of his, like he’s seeing all the pieces I’m not showing.
It should make me uncomfortable.
But it doesn’t.
At some point, Margot disappears inside and comes back with a plate of homemade peach cobbler.
I groan after the first bite, closing my eyes. “Okay, this is amazing.”
Margot beams. “It’s Anson’s favorite. I make one anytime I know he’s coming for dinner.”
Something warm settles in my chest as I see how she clearly knows and adores her son. I don’t know what to do with this feeling, so I just take another bite of cobbler.
The evening stretches on, the conversation easy, the company even easier. And I let myself relax.
I let myself pretend this is normal.
That I belong here.
That I’m not just a girl passing through.
That maybe—just maybe—I’m not.
We help Margot clean up before saying our goodbyes. She hugs me once more and tells me that she hopes to see me again soon before Anson leads me back to his truck.
“Told you,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t bad at all. Your parents are great.”
He’s so lucky.