To Light the Way Forward (Shell Collector #2)
Prologue
Tug Basnight stood at the counter of his diner, holding the latest issue of The Scout Guide for the Outer Banks. His fingers grazed the soft pink ribbon tied around it. Maeve would’ve loved the delicate ribbon—the color of her favorite sea glass—the ocean blue cover, and the gold foil lettering shimmering like sunlight on the waves. She had an eye for details and this—this was the kind of thing she made a fuss over. Her memory washed over him, and the weight of her absence pressed down on him again.
With a quick pull, the ribbon came undone, slipping through his fingers like a memory he couldn’t hold on to. He set the delicate ribbon aside, too pretty to throw away. Maeve might be gone, but he still found himself saving pretty things, as if there’d be someone to wrap a fancy gift for someday again.
He glanced toward the booth where Maeve used to sit, expecting to catch a glimpse of her sandy flip-flops peeking out from the hem of her long skirt under the table. An old man with old habits, ones he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.
Tug flipped open the glossy book, the pages thick and luxurious. It looked totally out of place in his simple oceanfront diner.
Paul had convinced him to be a part of this—insisting on funding a spread to highlight Whelk’s Island. Paul’s business, Paws Town Square, had gained positive exposure in the northern Virginia edition, with a glowing story about Paul’s work with military dogs. He was a true American hero. The book was designed to connect small businesses, show the people behind them, and serve as a vacation and community guide. And here he was flipping through it, trying to feel connected to a world that seemed to move on without him.
Tug looked through the beautiful photographs, searching for a familiar face.
There it was. Paul’s. And his. “I’m a star, and they must’ve airbrushed me,” he managed to say through laughter. “I look right good there.” He straightened and pulled his glasses to reading position.
“Talking to yourself again?” The Wife called from the deck.
“Not talking to you,” Tug replied without even a glance. His parrot, lovingly named The Wife, kept him company and sane most days, but she lived up to her name with all the unsolicited commentary. Still, he loved that old bird. Maybe he’d use that ribbon on a nice present for her someday. “I’m reading something. You can’t read,” he hollered back.
A series of smooching sounds came from The Wife’s direction.
He shook his head and read on. There were snippets about each of the businesses and a summary about Whelk’s Island.
Whelk’s Island isn’t your typical tourist beach destination. No, this small town in North Carolina with beautiful sandy beaches and an abundance of shells has somehow remained a best-kept secret. It’s a tight-knit community steeped in tradition, and if you do happen to veer off the highly traveled paths down the coast into this town and stop in at Tug’s Diner, you’re likely to notice a town secret hanging right there on the wall in plain sight.
Framed are shells along with the letters people have written to Tug about the special gifts they found while visiting. The shells are all different shapes and sizes, but they have one thing in common. Anonymous messages profoundly perfect for the moment in which they were discovered.
How the shells with the messages came to be, how they landed in the right hands at the right time, is a mystery, and for some, it’s impossible to comprehend. But to those who’ve experienced it firsthand, Whelk’s Island will forever hold a special place in their hearts.
Tug’s heart swelled with love for Whelk’s Island. They’d captured her perfectly.
Nostalgic tears blurred the words.
He’d been blessed with plenty of customers during every season. He loved serving this community, and a good meal at a reasonable price was getting harder to find with inflation.
But did he have the energy for an influx of customers? Tables were tight as it was. He’d have to hire more help if this ad did what it promised.
Just the thought made him tired. I’ll cross that bridge if we get there.
The company that created the booklets was holding a launch party for the promotion of the guide in every new city. He glanced at the calendar, where he’d circled the date in red so he wouldn’t forget.
If the storm swirling in the Caribbean ever got its act together and started moving this way, it might rain out the Scout shindig next week.
Tug never trusted early-August storms, and this one looked like it might actually hit hurricane status. He shook off the tingle that chased up his spine.