Page 25 of Chasing Sunsets

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’tparticularly 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.”

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