Page 35 of Shifting Sands

“You’re going to a lot of trouble for some girl you talked to at the bar for a little bit,” Anson says on the drive back to the beach house.

“We might have spent a tad more time together than that,” I admit.

He turns his head to me. “Really? How much time?”

“Overnight.”

He stifles a laugh. “Well, okay then. I’m assuming it was a good night.”

“A very good night.”

“Is she in town for long?” he asks. “I’m guessing she’s not a local if she doesn’t know you own Whiskey Joe’s.”

“Nah, she’s just house-sitting for her aunt Ida Mae.”

He laughs loudly. “You’re kidding me. Ida Mae? Are you out of your mind? Look, she doesn’t need to have the nose of a bluetick hound. Her aunt is friends with Sabel Hollister and is also neighbors with Seb and Avie. She’ll know all about your background—your social standing and family history—before you even manage to get that old boat back under Willis’s tarp. You’d better tell her yourself before one of them does.”

Brandee

Brunch with the girls on Sunday was so fun. Avie’s friend Amiya is a brilliant, sassy badass who invited herself along for today’s island hop.

The truck hums beneath us as we merge onto the highway, the early morning light pouring through the windshield like liquid gold. Amiya has her sunglasses pushed up into her blonde hair, her bare feet resting on the dashboard, with a grin that keeps spreading as she sings along to the radio.

“Remind me again how you talked me into waking up this early?” she asks, sipping iced coffee through a paper straw.

“You said, and I quote, ‘I love Bald Head Island, and I could use a day out of the house.’” I smirk at her. “Then you pulled your phone out at the table and booked your ticket right then and there.”

She laughs. “Oh, right. Sunday brunch me is so much more adventurous than Tuesday morning me,” she says as she pulls the glasses over her eyes and lays her head back against the seat.

“We should have gotten you an extra shot of espresso.”

“I’ll be fine once we’re on the bicycles,” she says. “I can use the exercise. We are renting the bicycles, right?”

“There will be bikes,” I promise, turning up the music just a little. Something soft and folksy, the kind of thing that makes you want to roll the windows down and stick your hand out like you’re slicing through water. “I canceled my golf cart reservation yesterday and booked two.”

Sandcastle Cove fades behind us, sleepy and sun-drenched, and the road stretches toward Southport, where we have to catch the ferry.

By the time we pull into the port, the ferry terminal is already alive with motion—couples in matching sun hats, families herding kids toward shaded benches, cyclists loading their gear onto racks. Amiya and I hop out, stretch, and grab our backpacks.

“You ever been to Bald Head before?” she asks as we get in line.

“Once, when I was younger,” I say. “Barely remember it. I think I got sunburned. But I remember the ferry.”

Amiya grins. “It’s a neat place. Like Sandcastle Cove’s older, more sophisticated sister.”

“Time to lather up,” I say, pulling out sunscreen.

The ferry’s horn sounds low and long as we board, seagulls circling overhead like they’re chasing the sound. We find seats at the back, the breeze whipping our hair as the boat pulls away from the dock.

Bald Head appears gradually, first as a sliver of land, and then the lighthouse comes into view, rising like a tower from astorybook. The ride takes about twenty minutes, but it feels like only five. Amiya talks about her partner—Sebastian’s brother, Lennon—who I learn used to serve in the Navy, but now works for the Coast Guard at a station near Caswell Beach.

When we dock, it feels like we’ve stepped into a painting. No cars. Just bikes, golf carts, and the soft crunch of foot traffic. The air smells like marsh and ocean and something sweet—maybe winter honeysuckle.

We rent two powder-blue cruiser bikes from a little shop near the ferry dock, the kind with wide tires and woven baskets. Mine squeaks when I test the brakes. It’s perfect.

We pedal off without a real plan, letting the shady paths lead us. Bald Head Island wraps around us like a whisper—still and colorful and full of old Southern coastal charm.

We ride through winding trails, tall seagrass brushing against our legs. There are houses tucked back from the road—some of them cottage style with big porches and rocking chairs, others looking like someone built a dream beachside mansion with all the modern amenities. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to write letters, not emails.

---