Page 67 of Shifting Sands

“Good. Now, I hear you’re going to be joining the kids for Friendsgiving, but I hope you’ll also join us for Thanksgiving dinner at my house.”

“I don’t want to impose,” I say.

“Nonsense. Ida Mae is family, and she spends every Thanksgiving with us. You’re family now, too, so I expect to see you at my table,” she says as she stands.

“Thank you. I’ll be there,” I reply.

She glances over her shoulder and adds, “Do you feel that?”

“What?” I ask.

“The breeze is kicking up. If we’re lucky, it’s carrying a little island magic.” She winks and then sashays across the street.

Island magic. If such a thing exists, I think Sabel Hollister is the one carrying it.

Brandee

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Sandcastle Cove, it’s that the people here take beach cookouts as seriously as other towns take their football. Or maybe religion. Or both.

Lennon and Amiya are hosting the Friendsgiving cookout. They have a beautiful beach house on the island’s west end, across from Wade and Eden. The home sits right on the sand, with fairy lights strung between driftwood posts, coolers lining the porch, and the faint sound of country music humming over the dunes.

I spent the day with Sebby, Sabel, and their extended family, which included Sebastian, Lennon, their girls, and their parents. It was a wonderful day. The girls were in the kitchen, helping Sabel prepare the meal, while the guys hung out with Leia, watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and then football.

Brew worked all day. Apparently, Whiskey Joe’s cook prepares a turkey dinner for people who don’t have family or are unable to cook one themselves, allowing them to enjoy a holiday meal with all the fixings. However, they operated with a skeletoncrew and closed early so the employees could spend time with their families. So, he’s meeting me here.

I spot him before I even make it up the walkway.

He’s leaning against a weathered railing, wearing a faded Whiskey Joe’s T-shirt and, yes, those shoes.

The same busted-up, hole-ridden, seen-better-decades pair of tennis shoes he always wears when he’s bartending.

He catches sight of me and grins, straightening up. “You made it.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t have missed it,” I say, lifting the brown bag in my hand. “I brought wine and a pie.”

He smiles. “I like how you brought goodies, even after Amiya insisted you not.”

“And I like how you assumed I followed rules,” I tease, handing it over. “I wasn’t about to show up empty-handed.”

He eyes the bag in my other hand. “You want me to add that to the gift table?”

I shake my head. “No, um, I thought I’d give it to you now,” I say, suddenly nervous. “Happy Friendsgiving. Thank you for including me,” I say as I thrust the gift bag toward him.

He takes it, and then his eyes return to me. “You drew my name?”

“I did. And don’t worry. It’s not fancy. Just a little something to show how much I appreciate the way you and your friends have taken me into your inner circle.”

He sets the wine and pie aside and opens the bag right there on the deck, tissue paper crinkling between his fingers. His expression shifts the second he pulls out the box inside.

He looks at it for a moment, silent.

Then back at me.

“Wait … is this—”

“The same brand as the ones on your feet?” I nod. “Yep. Figured you could use a new pair. I mean, I can see your sockthrough the toe on the left one.” I point down to where his sand-colored sock is literally winking at me.

His eyes flicker down, and he smirks. “I guess they have seen better days.”

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