Chapter Twelve
Tabby
T he late afternoon sun streams through the office window, casting long, golden beams across the counter, where I’m checking in another camper. The campground is quiet today with just a few families setting up their sites and the usual retirees arriving in their motorhomes while the rest of the visitors spend the sunny day at the beach. This is the lull between the early weekend rush and the first checkouts of the week, which means I finally get a chance to relax a little.
“All right, Mr. Reynolds, you’re all set. You’re on site fourteen, right near the beach path,” I say, sliding the map across the counter toward the older man.
He adjusts his ball cap and grins. “Perfect. My wife loves to wake up to the water.”
“I don’t blame her,” I reply with a smile, handing him his receipt. “If you need anything, just let us know.”
He thanks me and heads out, and I stretch, rolling my shoulders. It’s been a slow afternoon, which I don’t mind. I’m about to grab my water bottle when the door swings open, and in walks Sabel with a woman I don’t recognize.
“Ladies,” I say, leaning against the counter. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for Freda,” Sabel replies, pulling off her wide-brimmed sun hat. “We figured she’d be hiding in here.”
“She is,” I say, already calling toward the back of the office. “Freda! You’ve got visitors.”
A moment later, she appears, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Oh good, you’re here. Tabby, you know Sabel. This is her neighbor Ida Mae.”
“It’s nice to meet you, dear,” Ida Mae says.
“Nice to meet you too. What trouble are you three getting into today?” I ask.
Sabel grins. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about all those tomatoes sitting in your community garden.”
Freda nods. “It’d be a real shame if they went to waste.”
“I know. They really took off, didn’t they? I’ve been encouraging all the campers to help themselves, and I’ve even been giving them away on the beach,” I say.
“Well,” Sabel says, clasping her hands together, “we could pick them and make a batch of our famous tomato juice, and Freda can do some canning. Lord knows we all could use a good Bloody Mary now and then.”
I snort. “Ah, that’s the real motivation, isn’t it?”
Sabel winks.
Freda crosses her arms, pretending to think it over, but we all know she’s already in. “All right,” she finally says, “let’s go save those tomatoes.”
We lock up the office and leave a note, stating we’re tending to the garden in case anyone needs assistance. Then, we head over to the raised beds. Pete fenced in this small area just a few days ago, and I’ve started planting more late summer vegetables, herbs, and flowers. It’s turning out to be quite productive—I honestly wasn’t sure it would be. Growing things isn’t particularly easy on the beach, but I’ve been extremely attentive, and it’s paying off. The tomatoes, in particular, have gone wild. The vines sag under the weight of their fruit—big, ripe tomatoes in every shade of red, orange, and yellow. Some are so heavy that they’ve pulled their cages sideways.
Freda grabs a couple of woven baskets from the shed and hands them off. “Let’s get to work, ladies.”
We dive in, picking as many tomatoes as we can carry. The air smells rich and earthy, the scent of warm tomatoes mixing with the sharpness of the basil growing nearby. The sun beats down on us, but none of us mind. It’s the kind of work that feels good, satisfying in a way that modern life doesn’t always allow.
Freda hums as she fills her basket while Sabel and Ida Mae chat about their latest batch of juice.
“I swear, last time we made it, it was the best yet,” Ida Mae says, plucking a tomato and dropping it into the basket.
Sabel nods. “We adjusted the spice blend just a bit. More horseradish, less celery salt. That’s the key.”
“You two take this seriously,” I say, grinning.
Sabel points a tomato at me. “Good tomato juice is an art, Tabby. We’ll teach you how to make it if you’d like.”
My grandmother and I used to make pasta sauce together from the vegetables she grew in her garden. I would soak in all the knowledge as I stood on a step stool by the stove, watching her add each ingredient. Then, my grandfather would help her drop the sealed mason jars into the boiling pots. I miss those days.
“I’d love that,” I say as my phone dings with a message.
I fish my phone out and tap the screen.
Anson: Hey, my friends and I are hanging out at the beach today and are thinking about having some food and cocktails. Want to join us?
I stare down at the message.
“Something important?” Sabel asks.
“Oh, no. Just a friend inviting me to have dinner with him and some of his friends,” I say.
“A friend?” Freda asks.
“Um, yes. Anson. I think you know him,” I say, turning to Sabel.
“Oh, yes. Anson and my grandson have been inseparable since they were boys. He works for my husband, Sebby,” Sabel says as she plucks a ripe heirloom tomato from its vine and places it in her basket.
“You own the charter company,” I say, piecing things together. “That explains why you sent him to pick up the wind chimes.”
She nods. “Yes, we adore Anson. He’s like one of our own. He’s a rascal, but he’s our rascal.” She beams. “It’s wonderful to see that you two have become friends.”
Freda glances down at the phone in my hand. “Aren’t you going to answer him?” she asks.
“Oh, right. Um …”
“You should go. We can finish up here,” Sabel encourages. “He’s probably going to introduce you to my grandsons, Sebastian and Lennon, along with their girls, and my great-granddaughter, Leia. I know they were all spending the day together at the beach with Parker and Anson.”
I blow out a breath. That’s a lot of people.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she says, gently patting my hand. “You’re going to love them.”
I nod and tap a reply, asking him where and when. He immediately answers that they are packing up now and heading to his friend Sebastian’s house for a barbeque.
“Where does Sebastian live?” I ask.
“Across from me, about five miles in that direction, toward the Intracoastal,” Sabel says, pointing down the road that leads to the campground’s entrance. “Do you need a ride?”
My phone dings with another message.
“No. I’ll just borrow the bike. If that’s okay?” I ask Freda as I tap the screen to read it.
“Of course it’s okay. Pete told you to take it anytime,” she says.
Anson: I’ll swing by and pick you up in ten.
Me: Ten. As in ten minutes?
Anson: Yes.
I look down at my dirty hands and fingernails, noticing the fertilizer-stained shorts I’m wearing.
Me: I’ve been working in the garden.
Anson: So? We’ve been sweating our asses off on the beach all afternoon.
Me: I’m filthy.
Anson: Mmm. Nope. Not gonna touch that. *winking emoji*
Me: I’m serious. I need to hose off.
Anson: Making it worse, Trouble.
Me: Ergh. Just give me twenty minutes.
Anson: Fine. Twenty minutes.
“Never mind. He’s going to pick me up,” I say, looking up to see the three of them grinning at me.
I thank them and excuse myself to freshen up. I run to the bathhouse and quickly shower off, then change out of my shorts and tank into a gauzy white sundress that ties behind my neck. After that, I slip into a pair of soft brown leather sandals and wait for him to arrive.