Page 84 of Shifting Sands

“Langford blows snow at the resort until mid-March, but Mother Nature has been particularly generous with the real thing this year. You should come hit the slopes before race season gets back into full swing,” Garrett notes.

“I might just do that. Ida Mae is expected home after the New Year, and I’ll be in Charlotte, so I could escape for a long weekend when Brandee gets home,” I say.

Garrett’s smile widens. “I’m glad to hear that you two are making plans.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how it will all work,” I say as I rub the back of my neck.

He shrugs. “It’s not always easy when you live the lifestyle we do,” he says. “But it’s not always hard when you love someone either. It’s just logistics.”

He extends his hand, and I shake it.

“Thanks, man.”

The girls say their goodbyes. Brandee rests her hand on Taeli’s stomach, and the two exchange one last tear-filled hug. At the same time, Erin and Jena tease them.

“Jeez, you’ll see us again in a few weeks, you big baby,” Erin says as she hugs Brandee goodbye. “And you, Mr. Sexy Bartender, I’d better see you again real soon as well.”

I assure her that Balsam Ridge is on my itinerary for a stop when I have weekend events in Nashville in March, Bristol in June, and Nashville again in October.

“You’re going to get sick of me,” I promise her.

Brandee and I stayed up all night talking. I shared with her my plans to return to Charlotte in mid-January and gave her a brief overview of my schedule for the race season. We discussed how I could fly into Knoxville once a month and she could drive down to Charlotte. On occasion, when it worked for both of us, she could even fly out to meet me at the races and events. As we continued our conversation, we realized it wouldn’t be as difficult as we’d initially thought to make time for each other. We could spend three days together every other week and the entire offseason with a little effort.

And I know she’s worth the effort because, as I watch her friends drive away, I picture her in the car with them, leaving and never returning to Sandcastle Cove. The thought of neverseeing her again—never holding or kissing her, never waking up to her—makes me physically ill.

So, I tell her I love her. This time as I’m ravaging her to make sure she doesn’t miss it. We make promises and plans—plans that will grow and evolve as our journey together continues. But the sands are shifting through the hourglass, and I don’t see a reason to go slow. I want to dive headfirst into the future with her.

Life is full of small decisions you make every day, which, when you look back on them, turn out to be significant. These decisions are neither right nor wrong; they simply serve as pivots onto different paths. Along the way, you experience both good and bad, joy and misery, beauty and ruin. The key is to keep moving forward. Eventually, you’ll encounter more crossroads, allowing you to choose a different direction. So, instead of dwelling on the past and analyzing every step you took, focus on the future and make your next choice based on the knowledge and experience you’ve gained. That’s what shapes your story and builds a beautiful life.

We’re just two souls who were at a crossroads, searching for something more, and we found it at the end of my bar—with a little help from a dirty martini and a dash of island magic.

Brandee

One Year Later

Ican hear the roar of engines even now, though no cars are on the track. Maybe it’s a memory from the many days and nights I’ve spent with Brew at speedways across the country. Maybe it’s magic. Either way, it feels like home.

The sun spills golden light across the infield of the Nashville Speedway, painting the grass with warmth and settling in the folds of my gown. The whole place has been transformed. Ribbons of wildflowers and strings of lights sway gently in the breeze. Guests are seated in white folding chairs, arranged in a half-moon curve around us.

A wedding on a racetrack wasn’t exactly how I imagined this day once upon a time, but as I stand here now, with the scent of peonies in the air and the grandstand casting a long, protective shadow behind us, it feels perfect.

Brew smiles at me like I’m a dream he wished into existence, standing with Lennon and Wade.

I wait impatiently as my friend and neighbor—before Weston Tuttle stole her away—Anna, wearing her champagne-coloreddress, walks her daughter, Kaela, down the white carpet-covered aisle, the little girl tossing pink petals from her basket as the crowd gasps in delight. Isley follows in her champagne silk gown.

I clutch my bouquet tighter. My hands aren’t shaking, but my heart is pounding like it’s trying to match the pace of a NASCAR engine. I steal a glance over the audience and see everyone we love—Aunt Ida and Brew’s mom dabbing their eyes with monogrammed handkerchiefs; his grandfather, Brewster Cartwright Sr., sitting ramrod straight with pride; and friends from Sandcastle Cove and Balsam Ridge melting into each other like they’ve always belonged in the same frame.

It’s surreal, like two halves of our lives finally saying,Let’s meet in the middle.

And here we are—marrying in a place where rubber and asphalt tell a story, but today, it’s our names that echo in the wind.

The strumming of a guitar starts, followed by Garrett’s voice, and a hush falls over the venue. Everyone stands to watch as my father walks me toward my future.

Brew takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my wrist, grounding me. We’re standing under an arbor made from salvaged driftwood from Brew’s island home, ivy curling around it, fresh and stubborn. Someone—probably Sara-Beth and Leona—tucked in a few sunflowers, a nod to fall in the Smoky Mountains.

The officiant clears his throat, and I half expect a revving engine or a cheer from the bleachers, but instead, there’s stillness. A reverence. This wild, raucous place has gone quiet, just for us.

“Brandee and Brew have asked to speak their vows,” the officiant says.

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