Chapter Seven
Brandee
W e slept in.
After finishing our third pitcher of margaritas and watching an entire three-part documentary on Ted Bundy, we finally made it to bed around two o’clock. We decided to skip making breakfast and just grab an early lunch.
“Where’s the golf cart?” Erin asks, a coffee cup steaming in her gloved hands.
“Out back. I charged it last night.” I grin, slipping into my coat and grabbing the keys off the hook near Aunt Ida’s back door. “Wait for Jena, and I’ll go get it.”
I back the golf cart out of the garage, and just as Erin and Jena hop on, Sabel emerges from Avie’s house in a colorful caftan. She makes her way over to us, and I introduce the girls.
“Avie said you were having friends visit. Why don’t you girls join us at my house for dinner tomorrow? We’re throwing some ribs in the smoker tonight, so they’ll be perfect by tomorrow evening. Avie and Sebastian will be there.”
“We don’t want to impose,” I say, but she interrupts me.
“Oh, nonsense! The more, the merrier around here. We’d love for you girls to come.”
“Smoked ribs do sound good,” Erin quips.
“Are you sure?” I ask Sabel, who just smiles.
“See you girls at five tomorrow.” Then she walks across the road and disappears behind her gate.
“I like her. She reminds me of Leona,” Jena says.
“Really? I was thinking more Sara-Beth,” I say.
Leona is our friend Taeli’s mother. She’s kind of a hippie. She and Sara-Beth are best friends and the OG members of our girl gang.
“Maybe a bit of both?” Erin muses. “Which would be dangerous.”
“No doubt,” Jena and I both agree.
“All right, ladies. Buckle up. It’s time to introduce you mountain girls to island life,” I say as I pull my sunglasses on.
It’s chilly. North Carolina in November is a far cry from the Smokies, but it has teeth, especially with the wind off the Atlantic. However, the sky is a brilliant blue. It’s the kind of day where the sun is so bright that it tricks you into thinking you’re warm, and you let it lie to you.
I drive the golf cart down the back road toward town. This part of the island feels older. There are trees here—twisted oaks with limbs heavy with moss. The cart is old and worn from the salty air, but it runs smoothly, and that’s all you need on the island.
Erin sits beside me, soaking everything in, while Jena is in the back seat, arms outstretched like she’s on a roller coaster.
“Where are we headed first?” Jena shouts over the hum of the cart.
“First stop is the beach,” I announce. “Then we’ll loop down to the wharf to watch the fishing boats come in, and lastly, we’ll hit the shops before they close.”
“What about a ghost tour?” Erin suggests. “I bet this place has a spooky history like Charleston. Will we become victims of this sleepy little island’s sinister secrets?”
“Erin, this is a Hallmark Channel town, not a murder mystery location. I knew watching that documentary was a bad idea last night.” I laugh, though I can’t help scanning the streets with new eyes. Cobblestone alleys. Winding trees. A post office that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1800s.
Okay, maybe the Hallmark Mystery channel.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to ask about tours when we get to the wharf.”
We glide past rows of weathered beach cottages, some shuttered for the winter and others decorated with early holiday trimmings. Everything smells like the sea and brine.
As we turn the corner near Pelican Drive, the beach stretches out before us, wide and open and nearly deserted. The ocean is a moody slate color, and the waves gently roll in a soft, rhythmic hush.
I park the cart at a public access point near the pier. We all sit for a second, staring out.
“I could live here,” Jena says, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. “Like, for real. Just … drop everything and open a shell shop.”
“I’d visit you,” Erin says. “But as pretty as it is, I’d miss my mountain views.”
“And I’d …” I start, but then trail off.
What would I do? I’m only here house-sitting for Aunt Ida.
This town isn’t really mine. But when the wind picks up and carries that soft breeze up the dunes, I almost believe it could be.
“Sell everything and spend my time bunking at each of your houses. The best of both worlds.”
We wander to the pier, the planks creaking under our boots.
The sand is cool and damp, and shells of all shapes and sizes are scattered along the shore.
I pick up a piece of driftwood shaped like a lightning bolt and stick it in my coat pocket.
We kick off our boots and socks and carry them as we make our way down to the water.
After a long walk along the tide line, feet cold and damp, we head back to the cart and drive toward the wharf.
The closer we get, the more the smells change.
Seawater and fish. The boats are all in for the day, lined up at the docks with their hulls rocking gently.
Fishermen shout to each other over crates and barrels.
Seagulls scream above, like they’re trying to distract the men so they can steal their catch.
We pass a food truck called The Shuck Shack with twinkle lights strung along the awning.
“Let’s get lunch,” Erin says, pointing at a walk-up window.
We each order fried oysters and fries, plus three sweet teas. They hand the food over in little paper trays, and we sit on a bench near the dock, dipping fries in ketchup and enjoying the view.
“Okay, serious question,” Jena says, mouth full. “If you had to be stuck here for a year—like stranded, no bridges, no way off—what job would you do?”
“Easy,” Erin says. “Run a bookstore-slash-bakery. Sell muffins and coffee and romance novels.”
I laugh. “So, you’d want to be Ansley.”
Our friend Ansley owns Well-Bred Café.
“Exactly.”
Jena chews thoughtfully. “I’d start a surf school. For dogs.”
Erin chokes on her tea. “Dogs?”
“There’s a market for it,” Jena insists. “People want to take their dogs everywhere and have them do everything they do.”
“She has a point,” Erin says.
They both look at me.
“What about you?” Jena asks.
I pop a fry into my mouth while I contemplate the question. “I don’t know. I guess I’d see if the mayor needs an assistant.”
“Boring,” Erin sings.
“Fine. I could always give haunted golf cart tours.”
“Now you’re talking.” Erin grins. “The hunt for the infamous Lighthouse Ghost—harmless haunting or serious threat?”
I laugh so hard that I drop a fry. A seagull swoops in and snatches it before it even hits the ground.
After the wharf, we head toward town. The boutiques on Main Street close early on weekdays in the offseason, so we don’t have long to shop.
The buildings are all pastel cedar shake, their windows full of things you don’t need, but suddenly can’t live without—handmade soaps, sailor’s knots, driftwood crosses, and novelty mugs shaped like sandcastles.
We spend forever in a bookstore with a creaky wood floor and a cat sleeping in the window. I find a worn copy of The Magic of Sea Glass to buy. Jena disappears into the back corner and comes out with a puzzle of a sailboat. Erin finds a candle that smells like the ocean.
As we leave, the sun is starting to set, staining the sky pink and orange. I drive us up to the point so we can watch it dip below the horizon.
The wind whips our hair around, but we all climb out of the cart and huddle together.
“Wow,” Jena says softly.
We stay until the sky turns navy and the air is full-on cold.
“It’s almost seven. We’ll order delivery when we get back to the cottage,” I say.
Then we pile back into the cart, cheeks flushed and noses red, and head back to Aunt Ida’s.
“This was a fun day,” Erin declares.
“The best,” Jena agrees. “Next time we come, we’re staying for a whole week—in July though.”