Chasing Sunsets (Sandcastle Cove #5)

Chapter One

Tabby

I wake up to the soft morning light filtering through the tiny window above our bed, golden and hazy. The sweet song of our morning visitor—a little blue jay—fills the cool, crisp air in the RV. Its bright, melodious whistles and sharp, clear notes blend with the sound of the coastal breeze, causing the gauzy curtains to float above my head. I love mornings. I cherish the sounds of nature gently stirring me from sleep, as if whispering, Come see what’s waiting for you today.

I sit up, raising my arms in a stretch, my fingertips brushing against the sheer fabric, and take a deep breath. Glancing over to find the spot beside me empty, I call out, “Indigo? Baby?”

There’s no response, so I pick up my cotton robe from the floor and put it on. I then get off the bed platform and take three steps into our combined kitchen and living space to reach the door. I open it and look outside, only to find the spot where our old, beat-up Subaru wagon used to be parked is now empty.

Where could he be off to so early?

Indigo and I met at a meditation retreat during my fall break from Northwestern last year, and we quickly fell in love. He was one of the instructors, and we felt like two twin flames, searching for deeper meaning in life. Despite my parents’ disapproval, I emptied my savings account, which contained the remainder of the money my grandmother had left me. Together, we bought a vintage 1956 Shasta 1500 travel trailer. We hitched it to the back of Indigo’s 1999 Subaru Legacy Wagon and set out on an incredible adventure down the eastern coast toward the Florida Keys. Indigo’s friend is opening a health and wellness spa there in August and offered him a job.

For a couple of months, we traveled around, finding odd jobs, communing with nature, and enjoying the freedom of the open road. Eventually, we discovered a small island off the coast of North Carolina. We’ve been here for six weeks now, and we absolutely love it, so we decided to stay through the summer.

Sandcastle Cove is a charming coastal community nestled between the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean at the southern tip of the state. Accessible by two bridges connecting it to the mainland, this island feels like a hidden treasure preserved in time. Its shoreline features soft, sandy beaches that stretch on endlessly, bordered by rolling dunes.

The town is small and welcoming with weathered cottages painted in pastel colors, many of which have ocean-facing porches or decks adorned with rocking chairs. Main Street is lined with small, independent businesses, including a general market, mom-and-pop shops, boutiques, and eateries. There is no overdevelopment or high-rise hotels here. The residents are laid-back and friendly, sharing the roads with pedestrians, cyclists, and golf carts.

The best part is that nature reigns supreme here, featuring maritime forests, salt marshes, and tidal creeks, filled with herons, pelicans, and fiddler crabs. At night, the sky displays a canopy of stars, undisturbed by city lights, while the sound of waves lapping against the shore lulls you to sleep. It’s a place where time slows down and a simple life thrives—a perfect existence for those seeking peace, beauty, and a sense of community.

I step into the sunshine and take a look around. It’s late March, and local schools have started their spring breaks, so the campground is becoming lively with activity. Families are milling about, some cooking over open fires while others gather around gas grills. Children, dressed in swimsuits, are happily chasing each other as they wait for breakfast, eager to spend the day building sandcastles and playing in the cool ocean waters.

I wave to Pete, the proprietor of this small campground near The Point—the western tip of the island where the Intracoastal Waterway and the ocean meet. It’s a gathering place where residents and visitors can beach their boats, paddleboard, swim, and fish. It’s also the spot on the island where you can observe the most spectacular sunsets.

Pete makes his way over to me and says, “Good morning, Tabby. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. I was just about to start a fire and brew some coffee. Would you like to join me for a cup?” I ask.

“I’ve already had two mugs this morning, but thank you. I’m surprised to see you still here. I thought you guys were pulling up anchor,” he replies.

I raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Pulling up anchor?”

“Yeah, Indigo came by last night to say goodbye and paid your rent through this week. He mentioned that you two were heading down the coast toward Florida,” he explains, and an uneasy feeling settles over me.

I turn back to the camper and rush inside, looking around frantically. Nothing seems out of place, so I bend down and open the cabinet that holds Indigo’s few belongings. It’s empty. Next, I reach for the drawer where we keep the lockbox that holds the few thousand dollars left of my savings, only to find it gone. In its place is a small piece of paper, torn from one of the pages of my journal. I pull it out and read the barely legible words scribbled on the lavender paper.

Sorry, Tabby Cat. It’s been fun, but it’s time for me to move on. Hope you have a beautiful life.

—Indy

Gutted, I collapse onto one of the bench seats at the small eat-in table as tears begin to fall.

Pete’s face appears in the doorway. “He left you,” he states. It’s not a question.

“He did,” I whisper.

His kind expression shifts to one of anger, and the floorboards creak under the weight of his large frame as he steps into the RV.

“That sorry son of a biscuit,” he says, patting me on the shoulder.

I crumple the note in my fist and take a deep breath. I guess he wasn’t my forever after all.

“Is there anything I can do?” Pete asks.

I look up and smile as I wipe my cheeks. “Can I borrow one of your bikes?” I ask.

“Sure thing. I’ll leave the three-wheeler by your picnic table,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He gives me a nod and turns to leave.

“Pete?” I call after him.

He glances back at me.

“I know some of the people here rent year-round. Is that something I can do?” I ask.

“You can. I have one of the permanent spots opening next week. You want to move over there?” he asks.

“Price?” I ask.

“I charge fifteen hundred a month, but if you’re interested in helping the missus and me manage the park through the busy season, I could give you a discount. Say, eight hundred a month,” he offers.

Living steps from the beach for eight hundred dollars is a great deal. The campground offers twenty sites with full RV hookups, including electricity, water, and sewage. There are ten permanent spots, along with ten spots available for weekly rentals. It also features a bathhouse equipped with showers, a laundry room, and a community bonfire pit with a gathering area, where campers can socialize, enjoy meals together, and play games.

“I’ll take it! I’ll get the money today for the first payment,” I accept, then frown. “But I don’t have a way to move locations.”

He smiles. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll hitch you to my pickup and move you over,” he assures me.

“Thank you again, Pete. Just let me know how I can help around here. I’m willing to do anything you and Freda need,” I tell him.

“You’re welcome, Tabby. I’m glad you’re staying. You’re a ray of sunshine,” he says. “I’ll go get that bike for you.”

He disappears, shutting the door behind him, and I glance around my camper.

It’s a single-axle white-and-turquoise travel trailer—fifteen feet long, seven feet wide, and eight feet tall. We purchased it from a dealer using my money and refurbished it by replacing the aluminum skin and updating the wiring, plumbing, and propane system. We also bought a new refrigerator, painted the interior, and replaced five out of ten windows.

Inside, the trailer features an extra-large twin bed, a kitchenette, a water closet with a toilet and window, and a dinette, equipped with a laminate tabletop and bench seats upholstered in turquoise vinyl. There’s a small porcelain sink, a two-burner gas stove, a retractable work surface, ivory curtains, and a vintage-style Bluetooth radio.

We were unable to find a hinged door at the junkyard to replace the busted one on the water closet, so I creatively covered the doorway with strings of colorful beads.

The exterior has a ten-gallon fresh-water tank, an eight-gallon black tank, a five-gallon propane tank, mounted on the tongue jack, along with a storage compartment, retractable canvas awning, and pull-down aluminum steps.

I fell in love with it the moment I first saw it. I knew it was meant to be my home. It was quirky and had wheels, ready to whisk me away from my parents’ lofty expectations, the insufferable fiancé they’d hand-picked, the crowded city, and the stuffy old manor where I had grown up. I dreamed that Indigo and I would live in it until we found the perfect place in Florida to settle down and raise a family of our own one day, but I guess he didn’t share that same dream after all.

Shaking off the tears, I open the cabinet under the sink and reach up to feel around until I wrap my fingers around the small plastic container holding the cell phone I powered off the night we left and a velvet box, which I tucked on the interior ledge. I pluck it from its hiding place, open the lid, and take a relieved breath when I see the contents are still there. A diamond tennis bracelet that was a graduation gift from my parents and the antique ruby ring I inherited from my grandmother. The only treasures I brought with me when I left home. I wrap my fist around them and close my eyes.

I can hear my grandmother’s voice clear as a bell. “They’re just material objects, Tabby. It’s okay.”