Chapter Two
Brandee
“A re you sure you don’t want me to take you to the airport?” I ask as Aunt Ida wheels her suitcase into the living room.
She was up before the sun this morning, making us pancakes for breakfast before her flight.
“I’m positive. My friend Sabel is dropping me off on her way to Wilmington,” she says.
“She and her husband, Sebby Hollister, live across the street. They’re wonderful people, and if you need anything while you’re here, you can call or text them.
I left their contact information on the refrigerator. ”
No sooner does she get the words out than the front door swings open. A stunning woman with silver hair and a bright smile sweeps into the living room.
“Good morning,” she chirps.
I glance from her to the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall that separates the living space from the kitchen.
It’s not quite six a.m. yet, and the sun hasn’t even risen.
These two look like they’re ready to go out for brunch while I’m still in my pajama pants, one sock on and one sock off.
You’d think I was the one with silver hair.
“Good morning, Sabel. Let me introduce you to my niece. This is Brandee,” Aunt Ida announces.
I set the coffee mug I’m gripping aside, wipe the maple syrup on my fingertips onto the front of my T-shirt, and take her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“You too, dear. Ida Mae has told me so much about you. I hope you enjoy your time here on our island.”
“I’m sure I will,” I say.
Aunt Ida goes over her checklist one more time, making sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.
I carry her suitcase out to Sabel’s waiting car and load it into the trunk just as the door to the cottage next door swings open.
A young girl with dark spiral curls comes sprinting out and heads straight for us.
“Nana,” the child squeals, and Sabel opens her arms just in time to catch her. A blonde, who looks a couple of years younger than me, follows. “Where are you going?”
“I’m taking Ida Mae to the airport. She’s going to see her new grandbabies,” Sabel tells the little girl as she sets her on her feet, then turns her to me. “This is Brandee. She’s Ida Mae’s niece, and she’s going to be staying and watching her house while she’s away.”
The girl looks up at me curiously. “Why does the house need watching? It’s not like it can run away.”
That makes me giggle, and I go down to a knee to face her.
“I think I’m here to watch the cats and water the plants more than the house,” I say.
“Oh, that makes more sense.”
The blonde rolls her eyes. “I’m Avie. This little smarty-pants is my daughter, Leia. We live next door.”
I smile up at her, then look back at the girl. “It’s nice to meet you, Leia. Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors.”
Leia’s eyes light up.
“Avie is married to my grandson, Sebastian,” Sabel informs me.
“So, the cul-de-sac is a family compound,” I guess.
“Pretty much. Ida Mae included,” Sabel agrees.
And I realize she reminds me of Isley’s mother-in-law. Sara-Beth Tuttle is the unofficial matriarch of Balsam Ridge, and I have a sneaky suspicion Sabel Hollister holds that title here in Sandcastle Cove.
“Come on. We need to get you to school,” Avie says, turning back to me. “Brandee, you should come over for a glass of wine later. I’ll fill you in on all the latest island gossip,” she adds as she hugs Sabel and Ida Mae before wrangling her daughter into the back of a Bronco.
I stand on the sidewalk and wave as they all drive away. Turning back to the peaceful cottage, I feel a gentle, velvety brush against my ankle. I look down to see a puff of cloud-white fur and two blue eyes staring up at me.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, and Snowflake meows in response.
I reach down to pick her up, but she backs up and glares at me like it’s my fault her mom left.
“Fine. Let’s find your brother so you two can have breakfast while I enjoy a second cup of coffee before heading out to explore,” I say as she turns and prances toward the porch and I follow.
The wind is different here.
It cuts off the Atlantic in sharp, crisp waves, ruffling my hair and finding the soft spot behind my ear, where my scarf has come loose.
I tug it tighter as I stand at the edge of the weather-worn pier that jets out into the water, stretching toward the gray horizon.
I thought it would be colder, but the temperature on the island is still reaching into the mid-sixties during the day—the breeze cool, but not cold—which is nice.
I glance around at the folks who are casually casting their lines into the waves on this lazy November afternoon as I walk down the long structure. The wood groans as I make my way toward the railing at the end.
It’s a far cry from the Smokies—no golden leaves drifting down, no woodsmoke curling from chimneys, no familiar hush of pine needles underfoot.
Just the endless chatter of seagulls and the steady purr of the ocean.
I miss the mountains already, but I’m not upset with the milder temperatures.
We’ve already hit frosty days and frigid nights in the valley.
Aunt Ida’s place is all driftwood and chimes, perched in the cove and edging the marsh that sings with frogs, even in November. I actually opened my bedroom window last night so they could sing me to sleep. I’d have frozen solid if I had done that back home.
I’ve spent the afternoon touring the island. Making use of the golf cart Aunt Ida had tucked into the detached garage beside her cottage.
Sandcastle Cove is charming. My family used to visit every summer when my mother was alive, but it’s been twenty years since I’ve been here.
Back then, it was a tiny beach town with a dozen or so scattered houses and a few eating spots.
It wasn’t on tourist maps, nor in any guidebook of the North Carolina coast. But that has obviously changed over a couple of decades.
The island is dotted with beautiful, stilted homes, coffee shops, beach-supply rental companies, restaurants, and everything locals and vacationers could want or need.
Yet it’s managed to keep that small town charm.
No skyscraping hotels. No name-brand chains or supermarkets.
No fast-food drive-through. It reminds me a lot of the valley in that way.
The coast’s answer to Balsam Ridge. The thought makes me smile.
I run my hand over a bench that sits at the edge of the pier with an inscription etched in the wood— Welcome to Sandcastle Cove. Sit a spell and let the ocean talk to you.
I take a seat, close my eyes, and listen to the waves crashing against the wooden stilts below. I feel as restless as the water sounds.
I’ve been pondering what comes next. I love my life, but it’s felt kind of stagnant lately—like I’m on the precipice of something more.
I’m listening, ocean. Tell me what’s next.