Page 12 of Shifting Sands
We pass a food truck called The Shuck Shack with twinkle lights strung along the awning.
“Let’s get lunch,” Erin says, pointing at a walk-up window.
We each order fried oysters and fries, plus three sweet teas. They hand the food over in little paper trays, and we sit on a bench near the dock, dipping fries in ketchup and enjoying the view.
“Okay, serious question,” Jena says, mouth full. “If you had to be stuck here for a year—like stranded, no bridges, no way off—what job would you do?”
“Easy,” Erin says. “Run a bookstore-slash-bakery. Sell muffins and coffee and romance novels.”
I laugh. “So, you’d want to be Ansley.”
Our friend Ansley owns Well-Bred Café.
“Exactly.”
Jena chews thoughtfully. “I’d start a surf school. For dogs.”
Erin chokes on her tea. “Dogs?”
“There’s a market for it,” Jena insists. “People want to take their dogs everywhere and have them do everything they do.”
“She has a point,” Erin says.
They both look at me.
“What about you?” Jena asks.
I pop a fry into my mouth while I contemplate the question. “I don’t know. I guess I’d see if the mayor needs an assistant.”
“Boring,” Erin sings.
“Fine. I could always give haunted golf cart tours.”
“Now you’re talking.” Erin grins. “The hunt for the infamous Lighthouse Ghost—harmless haunting or serious threat?”
I laugh so hard that I drop a fry. A seagull swoops in and snatches it before it even hits the ground.
After the wharf, we head toward town. The boutiques on Main Street close early on weekdays in the offseason, so we don’t have long to shop. The buildings are all pastel cedar shake, their windows full of things you don’t need, but suddenly can’t live without—handmade soaps, sailor’s knots, driftwood crosses, and novelty mugs shaped like sandcastles.
We spend forever in a bookstore with a creaky wood floor and a cat sleeping in the window. I find a worn copy ofThe Magic of Sea Glassto buy. Jena disappears into the back corner and comes out with a puzzle of a sailboat. Erin finds a candle that smells like the ocean.
As we leave, the sun is starting to set, staining the sky pink and orange. I drive us up to the point so we can watch it dip below the horizon.
The wind whips our hair around, but we all climb out of the cart and huddle together.
“Wow,” Jena says softly.
We stay until the sky turns navy and the air is full-on cold.
“It’s almost seven. We’ll order delivery when we get back to the cottage,” I say.
Then we pile back into the cart, cheeks flushed and noses red, and head back to Aunt Ida’s.
“This was a fun day,” Erin declares.
“The best,” Jena agrees. “Next time we come, we’re staying for a whole week—in July though.”
Brew
