Chapter Six
Anson
T he early afternoon breeze carries the scent of marsh grass and sun-warmed pine as I pull my truck into the crushed-shell driveway of the old cottage. It sits right on the edge of the Intracoastal Waterway, tucked behind a stand of live oaks draped in Spanish moss. Weathered gray cedar shakes cover the exterior, and a wide porch stretches across the front—the perfect place to drink coffee in the morning and enjoy a cold beer at night. It’s the kind of house that has stories. One that’s been standing long before I was born and will probably still be here long after I’m gone.
“My, my, my,” a voice singsongs behind me. “Anson Leggett, looking at real estate. Should I be concerned? Is this a sign of maturity?”
I sigh, turning to find Margie Denton striding toward me, a giant leather tote slung over one arm and a pair of oversize sunglasses perched on top of her head. She’s been selling real estate in Sandcastle Cove for longer than I’ve been alive, and she’s somehow both the town gossip and its most trusted secret keeper. She’s also the only realtor I know who wears leopard-print flats and a linen blazer in eighty-five-degree heat.
“Afternoon, Margie,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I see you’re in full character today.”
She grins, unbothered. “Honey, this isn’t a character. It’s my no-nonsense business armor. Now, are you just window-shopping, or are we serious about finding you a forever home?”
I glance back at the cottage. “Guess we’ll see.”
Parker bought the beach condo we currently share from his aunt and uncle last year, and he plans to ask Audrey to move in this summer. Although he hasn’t mentioned anything about me moving out, I feel it’s time for me to start considering putting down some roots of my own. I turn thirty-one this year, and I believe it’s time. Besides, the last thing I want to do is cockblock my buddy in his own home. If he and Audrey want to hump like rabbits all over the place, who am I to prevent that from being a reality?
Margie hums knowingly. “Mmhmm. That’s what they all say before they fall in love with a house and begin naming their future children.”
“Children? I think you have me confused with someone else. Future dogs maybe.”
She clicks her tongue. “You keep telling God how you see your life going and see what happens.”
I shake my head, but I don’t argue. She sounds just like my mother, so I know it’s pointless.
She marches ahead, keys already in hand. “All right, let’s take a look before I start picturing your hypothetical golden retriever on that front porch swing.”
I follow her up the steps, and the wood creaks beneath my feet in a way that somehow feels solid rather than fragile. The screen door groans as Margie pushes it open, and the scent of old wood and salt air welcomes us.
The inside is exactly what I hoped it would be. Wide-plank pine floor, whitewashed beadboard walls, exposed beams on the ceiling. It’s simple but sturdy, built back when people took their time with things. The living room opens up to a stone fireplace, and beyond it, French doors lead to a sunroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the water.
Margie watches me take it in, her painted-red lips curling into a smirk. “Go ahead. Say it.”
I glance at her. “Say what?”
“You love it. Don’t you? I can see it written all over that handsome face of yours.”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “ Love is a strong word, but it’s got … potential.”
She lets out a sharp cackle. “Lord, you men. Always pretending you’re not emotional about houses. It’s fine to be smitten, Anson. I won’t tell a soul.”
I roll my eyes and walk past her, stepping into the kitchen. It’s small but functional with an old farmhouse sink beneath a window that looks straight out to the water. Open shelving lines the walls, and there’s even an old-school bread box on the counter, like something out of my grandmother’s house. I could see opening up the wall between it and the living room and adding a butcher block island, giving it more of an open concept and making the entire space feel bigger.
Margie leans against the doorway, watching me. “Needs a little work, sure, but nothing you can’t handle. I bet you know your way around a toolbox.”
“Yeah,” I say, running a hand along the wooden countertop, where a concrete slab would look great. “My dad would like this place.”
She nods. “It’s got that old-school craftsmanship he’d appreciate.”
Margie’s husband, Earl, and my dad are golf buddies.
My dad, Porter Leggett, is a retired public servant. He served on the Sandcastle Cove town board for over thirty years. We don’t always see eye to eye, but we both know the value of something well built. Something meant to last.
Margie claps her hands, snapping me out of my thoughts. “All right, let’s check out the rest before I get all misty-eyed about the good ol’ days.”
I follow her through the hallway, peeking into the two small bedrooms, both with slanted ceilings and old iron bed frames. One has a built-in window seat, and I can already picture someone curling up there with a book, the light streaming in from the water.
The bathroom has a claw-foot tub, which Margie gestures to dramatically. “Imagine it now—long baths, candles, a glass of wine. You, of course, will be taking showers like a normal man, but someone will appreciate this.”
I eye the shower, a fiberglass shell likely added in the ’90s. It needs to be removed and replaced with a more spacious tiled option.
“The shower needs to be ripped out and updated,” I say.
She reaches over and squeezes my biceps. “You could do that, but you haven’t seen the master bedroom yet.”
She leads me down a hallway that ends at a set of barn doors. They slide open to reveal a spacious room with a four-poster bed sitting in front of a white brick fireplace. Four large windows look out over the backyard. An open archway to the right of the fireplace leads to a double vanity with a huge walk-in shower to the right and a water closet to the left.
Margie stands aside while I take in the bathroom. I open a door that hides an ample custom closet.
“This definitely isn’t original,” I say.
“The room is, but the old fireplace was given a facelift, and the bath was added a few years ago. I bet you can imagine yourself in that shower now, can’t you?”
I shoot her a look. “You always this pushy?”
“Only when I know I’m right.”
I shake my head, but don’t argue.
Returning to the kitchen, we finally step out the back door onto the wraparound porch, and the view nearly seals the deal right then and there. The waterway stretches out before me, calm and glassy, the late afternoon sun making it shimmer. A wooden dock extends from the backyard, and there’s a tiny boathouse at the edge of the marsh, half hidden by reeds. A couple of pelicans glide low over the water, and somewhere in the distance, a fish jumps, sending ripples across the surface.
I let out a slow breath. “Damn.”
Margie leans on the railing beside me. “Yeah. That’s the kind of damn that means you’re already picturing yourself here, isn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away, just run my fingers along the wood rail, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin. The thing is, I never really thought about buying a house before. My whole life has been lived in the moment, bouncing between whatever feels right at the time. But standing here, looking at this place, I feel something different.
Like waking up to a view that’s mine every day wouldn’t be so bad.
Like maybe I could build something here.
Margie nudges me with her elbow. “So? You gonna make an offer, or do I have to drag another clueless out-of-towner through here?”
I let out a laugh as I turn back toward the house. “It would need some work to make it what I want, and I’m not afraid of that, but I know it’s a heritage cottage, so there will be restrictions. I’m not sure I want to engage in that battle.”
The traditional Cape Cod–style home is an important part of the region’s cultural heritage and holds significance due to its connection to the community’s history and stories. Most of the homes on this side of the island are classified as heritage homes, unlike those on the ocean side. Last week, I toured three other houses within my price range before contacting Margie to see this one, and it’s by far my favorite—mainly because of the stunning view. Add in the fact that it has an existing dock and boathouse, and it’s damn near perfect.
“That’s true. The Sandcastle Cove Heritage Society, a local organization, protects the historical integrity of homes on their registry. However, don’t let that scare you. They mainly aim to preserve the historic character of these houses, so they may require special considerations for any renovations, but as long as you’re not demolishing the structure down to the foundation and replacing it with a contemporary home, they’ll be quite reasonable.
“For any additions, they generally prefer that they are either detached from the main house or positioned at the back of the property. They understand your rights as a property owner and are supportive of efforts to bring the house up to modern codes, making it as comfortable and cozy as you’d like. Just be considerate and use common sense, and you should be fine,” Margie explains.
“Let me think about it,” I say.
“Uh-huh. That means yes.”
“It means maybe,” I insist.
She grins, triumphant. “Well, I have a few more properties to show you but I’ll go ahead and keep the paperwork for this one ready anyway. Just in case.
I shake my head, but as I look back at the house—the way it sits there, strong and steady against the water—I already know.
This is it.
I’m home.