Chapter Thirty-Three
Tabby
T he sun hangs low in the sky by the time Anson and I paddle back to the truck. My arms ache in the best way, my skin warm from the sun. It’s been a perfect day—one of those rare ones that you wish you could bottle up and keep forever.
I help him drag our boards onto the sand, and then we secure them in the bed of his truck. When I glance at him, he’s already looking at me, that quiet, unreadable expression on his face.
“What?” I ask, brushing damp strands of hair from my face.
His smirk is lazy, teasing. “Nothing.”
I roll my eyes but feel my lips twitching into a smile anyway. “Come on. Take me home, and you can help me pick some stuff from the garden for dinner.”
We drive back to the campground in silence. He’s been thoughtful since showing me his new house, acting distant. Or maybe he’s just nervous—I assume that buying your first home can be intimidating.
When we arrive, he unloads my board and leans it against my RV while I grab a couple of baskets and some gardening shears. Then, we walk together toward the raised beds beside my setup. It’s funny how they started as a way to save money—fresh produce is expensive—but now, it’s something I love. Something that feels grounding.
Anson crouches beside me, watching as I run my hands over the leaves of my tomato plants. He reaches out, fingers brushing against a deep red tomato. “This one good?”
I nod. “Perfect.”
He plucks it and sets it in the basket beside him. I move down the row, gathering zucchini, peppers, and a handful of herbs. The scents of basil and rosemary fill the air as I brush my hands over them.
“What’s this?” he asks, pointing at a patch of wild greenery near the edge of the bed.
I grin. “Edible weeds.”
He lifts a brow. “That sounds … unappetizing.”
I pluck a sprig and hand it to him. “Try it.”
He eyes me suspiciously before biting off a piece. He chews, then makes a face. “Bitter.”
“Yep. That’s chickweed. It’s packed with vitamins. And this”—I pull a different leaf and hand it to him—“is purslane. Good for omega-3.”
He examines it before popping it into his mouth. His expression shifts, as if he’s considering the taste. “Not bad.”
“Told you. You add them to a salad, drizzle with olive oil and lemon juice, then top it with grated Parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper. Mmm. It’s delicious and nutritious.”
He watches me for a beat, then smirks. “You really are a little wild, aren’t you?”
I grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not at all.” His chuckle is low, warm. “I’m a chili dog, French fry, and beer guy myself. But I guess I could stand to clean up my diet a bit.”
I give him a once-over. “Yeah, you’re not getting any younger.”
He tosses a cherry tomato at me, and I laugh.
“How do you know about all this stuff?” he asks.
I shrug, and he quirks a brow.
“You sure seem smart about a lot of different things. Gardening, wood restoration, wind-chime building, painting, writing. Were you a teacher in a past life?”
“No. Not a teacher.”
“What, then?” he asks. “Because you’re obviously not some uneducated drifter.”
I decide to let him in a little.
“I’ll have you know, I graduated high school early, I have a degree in political science from Northwestern, and I completed two semesters of law school before I threw it all away to become a vagabond,” I share.
He lets out a whistle. “Law school. Wow, fancy.”
“That’s me. Miss Fancy Pants,” I say ironically as I brush dirt from my hands.
“Why law school?”
“Both my parents are lawyers. So are both my older brothers and my older sister.”
“A family of litigators. Sounds fun,” he quips.
“Oh, yes, holidays are a blast,” I reply.
“What made you give it all up?”
“The truth? Mom and Dad didn’t make it look all that great. Everything in our house was a debate. From the dinner menu to the decor. Their careers made them wealthy and afforded us an easy lifestyle, but we were strangers living under one roof. The house was big with lots of rooms, but the rooms were cold and lonely.”
“Well, everything makes sense now.”
“What makes sense?”
“That you came here, looking for me,” he says. “And the fact that you’re so damn argumentative all the time. It’s the lawyer in you.”
This time, I toss a tomato at him.
When we finish filling our baskets, I take them inside to wash and cut the produce while Anson adds charcoal to one of the grills in the campground’s common area. The scent wafts through the open window as the coals begin to glow. I love the smell of charcoal. It reminds me of evenings at my grandparents’ house on Cape Cod. Grandpa was always grilling something.
Once I have the salad ready and dressing made, I join him outside. Pete and Freda wander over, their faces lighting up when they see us.
Freda pulls me into a quick hug while Pete and Anson chat.
“You two want to join us for dinner? We have plenty,” I say.
Pete and Freda have been more than just landlords to me. They’ve become family—the kind I never really had. They don’t ask too many questions about my past. They just accept me and love me, and I love them right back.
“We’d love to. I have a fresh apple pie cooling in the kitchen window. I’ll just pop over and get it,” Freda says.
Anson grills the chicken while I slice the squash and zucchini, adding onions and garlic cloves. I toss them in olive oil and herbs before wrapping them in foil. The fire crackles as the food sizzles on the grill, filling the air with the rich scent of roasting garlic and seared meat.
Pete pops the top off a beer and hands it to me with a wink. “You work too hard, kid. Sit down and relax.”
I take it, smiling. “Yes, sir.”
The four of us settle in at the picnic table, plates piled high. The food is simple but good—fresh, full of flavor. Anson takes a bite of the grilled zucchini and gives me an approving nod.
“Damn,” he says. “Maybe I should start eating weeds.”
Pete barks out a laugh. “She’s got you learning too, huh?”
“Apparently.” Anson grins, nudging my knee under the table.
The conversation flows, like it always does here. We talk about nothing and everything—the latest repairs around the campground, the new couple who just pulled in from Montana, the best fishing spots this time of year. It’s easy. It’s home.
When we’re done, Pete heads to the firepit, stacking wood and striking a match. Flames flicker to life, crackling as they grow. Other campers start to drift over, drawn by the fire, the company. Someone brings out a guitar, another a cooler of beer.
The sky fades to a deep indigo, the first stars winking into view. The ocean is a dark, endless stretch beyond the dunes, waves rolling in gentle, steady rhythms.
Anson settles beside me on one of the benches, his arm stretched along the back—close, but not quite touching me. I sip my beer, watching the flames dance.
“This is nice,” he murmurs.
I glance at him. His face is relaxed in the firelight, his usual sharp edges softened by the glow.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, “it is.”
I don’t know how long we sit there, passing stories, laughter, drinks. But eventually, the crowd thins, and the fire burns lower. Pete claps Anson on the back and thanks us both for dinner before heading toward his house, Freda following with a warm smile.
And then it’s just us.
Anson stands, stretching. “I should probably get going too. We have an early booking in the morning.”
I hesitate, then nod, standing. We walk in comfortable silence, the sand cool beneath my bare feet. When we reach his truck, he turns to me, eyes searching mine.
I should say good night. But I don’t.
Instead, I step back, tilting my head toward my RV. “You sure you can’t come in for a bit?”
A beat of silence. Then …
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Yeah, I can do that.”
I lead him inside, past the half-finished painting propped by the door and the dried flowers hanging from the ceiling. Then, I sweep up the stack of books from the bed and move it to the dinette table.
He closes the door behind him and reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and I launch myself at him.