Page 9 of Chasing Sunsets

“I don’t want to impose,” I begin, but Freda cuts me off.

“Oh, stop that nonsense; you’re not imposing. We were just talking about the nice facelift you’ve given the campground. Sabel complimented your eye for design,” Freda says, then liftsthe wind chime for her guest to see. “Look at this! Tabby made it for me. Isn’t it lovely?”

Sabel traces her fingers over one of the shells. “It certainly is. Do you have any others?” she asks.

“That’s the prototype. I plan to make a bunch of them this week and sell them at the farmers market on Tuesday.”

“I saw one in a shop in Wilmington, made of pearlized oyster shells with hand-painted verses written on each one. Can you do that?” Sabel asks.

I shake my head. “No. I did watch a video about the process at the library, but you need a lapidary grinder to polish the nacre layer of the shell and reveal the natural mother-of-pearl inside. If I sell enough of the shells, I might be able to purchase a used grinder one day. In the meantime, I could use iridescent paint on the larger clamshells and write verses on the inside of those.”

“How much are you going to ask for them?” Sabel inquires.

I shrug. “I’ve seen some in a boutique selling for seventy-five dollars, but I was thinking more along the lines of forty-five or maybe fifty for larger chimes,” I reply.

“If you don’t sell them all, I’d love to buy whatever you have left. They’d be perfect for the fundraiser the church is doing next weekend.”

“I’d be happy to make some and donate them,” I offer.

“No, no, we don’t mind paying. We’ll just mark them up a bit,” she says.

“How about this? I’ll set aside twenty for the church, and you can send me a few verses or words of encouragement that you’d like included on the shells. The verses need to be short, but I can add a longer one across the driftwood at the top if you’d like. You can sell them for any price you choose, and then pay me twenty-five dollars for each one that sells. I’ll take back any that don’t sell. Does that sound fair?”

“That sounds very fair. I’ll have my grandson or one of his friends drop by to pick them up on Thursday. Does that give you enough time?” she asks.

“Sure. I’ll work on them this weekend.”

Freda claps her hands excitedly. “Perfect! Now, Tabby, please have a seat. I’ll get you a cup of coffee and some cake.”

Anson

The 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 secretkeeper. 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.

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