Page 11 of Shifting Sands

“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 breezeup 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.

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