by T. I. Lowe
“Do you remember the first time I shared this box with you?”
“Yes. I wasn’t very nice to you about it as I recall.” He set his chin on her shoulder and peered down at it.
“And you weren’t all that impressed by what I kept as a treasure inside it.” Opal ran her hand over the clock face. “But more importantly, do you remember me telling you that God knew I needed you?”
Lincoln’s chest tightened, overwhelmed by how God had such a well thought-out plan for him even when his anger and shame had him too blind to see it. “Opal, he knew I needed you.”
Opal turned sideways on his lap and placed the box in his hand. “See if the treasure inside impresses you this time.”
Blinking away the wave of emotion, Lincoln flipped the lid open and could hardly believe what he found.
“Marry me, Linc.”
Lincoln eyed the silver ring with a rich wood inlay. “What? No!”
“No?”
Exasperated, he snapped the lid shut and handed the box back. “You’re always meddling in stuff you got no business meddling in.” He eased her out of his lap, stood up, and began pacing the room.
“Wanting to marry your ornery butt is my business. What’s so wrong with that? Just say yes, you stubborn man!” She stamped her foot and actually growled at him.
Taken aback, he halted the pacing and leaned close to her flushed face. “No,” he repeated in a terse tone. “This ain’t a part of my plan.”
Opal looked so livid that even her red-gold curls vibrated with anger. After letting out another growl, she turned to hightail it, but Lincoln caught her hand and twirled her back to face him.
“Now, wait just a minute.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of their treasure chest, which was already filling with shells at record speed. “Go look inside and see how your meddling threw a monkey wrench into my plans.”
She heaved a few haughty breaths before doing as he instructed, but with a good bit of trepidation. As the lid opened, a gasp echoed around the room, followed by a sob.
“You know how difficult it was to track down the perfect opal? One with enough green for my woman?”
Opal sniffled but kept her focus on the ring sitting among their seashells.
Lincoln reached over her and plucked the ring out. He’d had a jeweler place the stone in a delicate platinum setting, which took longer than he’d thought it would. He would have put it on her finger the day he came back home to Sunset Cove if it’d been ready. “Customizing a ring is quite a process. It’s been in the making for a while now, but your little meddling behind just couldn’t sit tight, could you?” He turned her around and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his free hand.
“I know what I want and I was tired of waiting,” she screeched as the tears got heavier.
“Tell you what . . .” Lincoln placed the ring on her finger. “You agree to marry me, even though I can’t drop to one knee and ask properly—”
She snickered through a sob. “You know traditional isn’t my style anyway.”
“Clearly . . .” Lincoln shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Can’t believe you proposed to me on the same day I was going to ask you . . .” Lincoln tsked.
“Tell you what . . .” She reached behind her and pulled the ring out of the clock box. “You agree to marry me and I’ll do the same.”
“Yes,” Lincoln whispered without hesitation and allowed her to slide the ring onto his finger. “There’s a lot more wishes I want us to see come true, and the next wish I need granted is you becoming my wife. Right away.”
“Yes. That’s a wish I’d be happy to grant.” Opal winked one of her knowing green eyes at him as she reached up and kissed him good and proper.
Lincoln hated to but he ended the kiss to tell her, “Your daddy said as long as I put aside reading the stars, I have his permission to marry you ASAP out at the estate. Your momma and mine have already gotten the catering and florist stuff lined up.” The hippie astrologist had become a running joke between Lincoln and her parents.
Opal balked. “Really?”
“Yes, ma’am. They said all we gotta do is get dressed up and be there Sunday afternoon.”
Opal twisted her mouth to the side, looking thoughtful. “I suppose that’s doable, but, Linc . . . I really like when you tell me what the stars say.”
He grinned so big, he could feel it all the way to his soul. “Baby, if you’ll agree to marry me Sunday, I’ll happily read them for you the rest of our lives. It’ll be our little secret.”
“Deal.”
Lincoln leaned down and brushed his lips against his sweet pixie’s, knowing as long as he stayed close to God and had her by his side, no wish was out of reach.
Watch for the upcoming releases in the Carolina Coast series, Driftwood Dreams and Sea Glass Castle
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1
Standing in the midst of the ebb and flow of her daily chaos always gave Josie Slater the same feeling as standing in the surf—it was ever-changing, yet she felt trapped in the same spot with her feet slowly sinking in the sand. She absently handed an order slip to a passing waitress while ringing up the couple sitting at the counter in front of her.
“This place is amazing.” The middle-aged man handed over a couple of bills.
“Why, thank you.” Josie offered a polite smile along with his change. She didn’t even have to be present in the moment anymore to serve up generous portions of Southern hospitality to tourists.
“The candied pecan waffles were delicious,” the wife added as her husband helped her off the stool.
The couple had been sitting there chatting Josie up for the better part of the last hour about their thirtieth wedding anniversary trip to the Grand Strand. They were both dressed in brand-new swimwear and were pasty white, except for the fresh streaks of sunburn across their noses. Even if they hadn’t told her, they were broadcasting their tourist status. Josie often wondered why vacationers couldn’t figure out how to properly apply sunblock. Over the years she’d seen various red-and-white stripes, Rudolph noses, hairline sunburns, and handprints.
Even with their neon noses, Josie thought they were the cutest and wondered if such happiness was ever going to be in the cards for her. Seemed the only card she owned was the one that kept her rooted behind this counter, parroting courteous responses to customer accolades.
The man wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “And just think, we were about to walk on by, but the people piling in and out of this old building made us curious enough to step inside.”
“A hidden gem is what Driftwood Diner is.” The wife added a generous tip to the old-fashioned milk can that served as the tip jar for counter service. “It’s the best meal we’ve had since arriving.”
Josie couldn’t agree more. She was right proud of the establishment created at the hands of her parents. The timeworn, rusted shanty sat proudly, even with its arthritic lean to the left, on the sand of coastal South Carolina and had been a prominent fixture in the Sunset Cove community for nearly four decades. Its breakfast fare was legendary, and it usually took just one taste of the biscuits and gravy to have a newbie hooked for life. Josie’s father replaced the traditionally used ground sausage with chopped shrimp, taking the already-decadent dish over the top.
“Y’all have a good time at the beach, and be sure to come back for lunch.” She waved goodbye to the couple.
“Oh, we will. I have to try the shrimp burgers.” The husband waved one last time before guiding his wife out the screen door.
Josie continued on autopilot, gathering the dirty dishes and wiping down the counter while her mind wandered toward happier thoughts of the upcoming weekend meeting with the Sand Queens.
Just as the aged shack had held its ground against passing storms over the years, so had Josie and her two cl
osest friends, Opal Gilbert and Sophia Prescott. The Sand Queens of Sunset Cove had affectionately earned their moniker from their mothers, who practically raised them on the very sand in front of the diner. Their bond was as solid as the galvanized screws that secured the tin roof to the graying clapboard structure.
Josie had witnessed a similar bond with the motley crew of geriatric ladies who were making their way into the diner at the moment. Well . . . her dad said ladies was too generous a word for the Knitting Club, considering they were a thorn in many a Sunset Cove resident’s side. Busybodies was the term most folks used for the half-dozen or so old ladies of various shapes, sizes, and races.
“Josephine, this gout is killing me. Get us to our table ’fore I fall out,” Ethel grouched, limping into the dining area, carrying her walking cane like a purse strap in the crook of her arm. She was dressed in her blue uniform, so Josie knew the ole grouser would be making customers miserable at the post office later in the morning. How the woman had kept her position as head postmaster for over forty years was an unsolved mystery. She also seemed to make it her mission to call everyone by the wrong name.
Case in point, Josie’s name was not Josephine, but she chose to ignore it just as she did anything that could be considered confrontational. Instead, she pointed to Ethel’s arm. “The cane would be more helpful if you’d actually use it, Miss Ethel.”
“Oh, hush up.” Ethel plopped into her chair as several other women followed suit, each one groaning and grunting while settling in at the long wooden table.
Josie gravitated to her favorite of the bunch with her order pad in hand. “Good morning, Miss Dalma. What can I get you?”
Dalma Jean Burgess grinned up at Josie, showing off the fact that she had forgotten her teeth. Who knew where they would turn up? Josie made a mental note to look for them later when she stopped by Dalma’s house.
“I’m fine, dear. I had a bowl of cereal earlier.” Dalma plucked a sugar packet out of the small mason jar on the table, tore it open, and dumped the contents into her mouth.
Josie’s eyes narrowed and scanned the tiny lady who didn’t even make it past five feet in height nor one hundred pounds in weight. Dalma wore a pair of worn brown corduroy overalls with a fine silk blouse in a blush shade. A straw hat sat lopsided on top of a head full of long, wavy white hair. With the eighty-nine-year-old’s ever-present smile and quirky wardrobe, she reminded Josie of a friendly scarecrow one would find in the corn patch out at Pickering Farms. Except for the pink bedroom slippers on her feet, that was.
“Miss Dalma, you’re out of milk,” Josie stated after refocusing on the woman’s comment. Milk was on the shopping list she needed to knock out after her shift. “How’d you manage eating cereal?” She reached into the back pocket of her jean shorts to make sure the list was still there.
Dalma waved off Josie’s concern, the overhead lights glinting off the giant ruby ring on her index finger. “I had vanilla ice cream. Works just as good as milk.” She shrugged her thin shoulder and winked one of her cloudy-blue eyes. “Tastes better than milk, as a matter of fact. Will you add another pint to the shopping list?”
Even though Dalma had retired more than ten years ago, she would always be considered the town’s librarian. Josie recalled Saturdays spent sitting on a rug in the children’s room while Dalma acted out whatever book she was reading for story time. No one could tell a humorous story like Miss Dalma, and yet her own story seemed quite tragic in Josie’s opinion. She’d lived long enough to bury her husband and only child, leaving her alone except for her church family and the Knitting Club. And, well, Josie too. Five years ago, Dalma’s mind seemed to start slipping, so Josie stepped in and designated herself as caregiver.
Josie scribbled two fried eggs, coffee on the order pad before moving her attention to Bertie, who was unofficially the ringleader of what should have been named the Busybody Gossip Club.
“I heard a certain someone was back in town,” Bertie drawled while keeping her eyes focused on a menu she probably had memorized. She patted down the side of her freshly teased gray hair with her free hand, going for casual but failing.
A name, followed by an image, skirted through Josie’s mind regarding who that certain someone could be, but she quickly shut down those thoughts and chose not to take Bertie’s bait. Besides, there was no way he would ever return to the small town of Sunset Cove when the world was his oyster.
“Would you like the Sea Traveler’s Special today, Miss Bertie?” It was her usual and Josie was trying to hurry things along, but when Bertie used the menu as a fan and grinned wide, she knew there would be no hurrying along whatever was going on.
“Ah . . . traveling the world . . .” Bertie sighed. “Such a romantic idea. Don’t ya think, Josie?”
Josie’s chest began to burn. It was the same reaction produced each time he drifted into town for a quick visit with his family. She always made herself scarce during those times, not wanting a reminder of all the dreams that one man represented that would never be hers. It was no one’s fault but life itself, and Josie would willingly lay down those dreams all over again to be there for her father. Some folks declared her too shy, while others outright claimed she was too passive. Maybe she was a little more of both than she should be, but more importantly, Josie was loyal to a fault. And sometimes that loyalty needed her to put herself aside for the betterment of others.
“Did you hear me, honey?” Bertie’s question dripped with false sickly sweetness, but Josie saw past it to the pot the old lady was working on stirring.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Josie waved over one of her waitresses. “Tracy, please take these ladies’ orders.” She shoved the pad into Tracy’s hands and hurried to the counter to find something, anything, to do to tamp down her emotions. She took a minute to shoot Opal a text, asking if she was planning on stopping by. When an answer didn’t come in after a few beats, she slid the phone back into her pocket and rang up a customer with a take-out order.
After a small rush of customers passed through, Josie felt somewhat settled. She scanned the Knitting Club’s table and caught Dalma pouring maple syrup into her cup of coffee. She was just a wisp of a woman but had filled a giant void in Josie’s life. A smile pulled at her lips as she thought about helping Dalma plant tomato bushes the week before even though the lady adamantly declared they were strawberry plants.
Josie’s reverie came to a screeching halt as the screen door squeaked open and ushered in not only a briny breeze, but also a vision from her past.
With a pronounced air of confidence, August Bradford walked over to the counter and halted in front of a dazed Josie. Her heart jolted at the sight of him, something only this man could elicit. He spoke—or at least his lips moved—but she couldn’t hear anything over the roar suddenly residing in her eardrums.
The Knitting Club’s table kicked up in volume, sounding like a bunch of hens clucking away, but there was no focusing on what they were clucking about either. She knew the answer anyway and had a feeling their timing wasn’t coincidental. All Josie could do was just stand there and stare, as if looking into his silvery-blue eyes had turned her to stone. With a hint of purple near the center, those uniquely hued eyes were made to belong to an artist such as August Bradford. The thick fringe of black eyelashes only emphasized their beauty. It was enough to spawn jealousy in Josie, her own fair lashes barely visible, but it didn’t. It only tempted her to stand there and stare unabashedly. Mouth agape, that’s exactly what she did.
“Are you okay?” A throaty voice penetrated the roar in her ears as a hand waved in front of her face.
Oh, my . . . that voice . . .
The words simply wouldn’t come—only pitiful squeaks of breaths escaped—so Josie did the only thing to come to mind. She hightailed it into the kitchen.
As the swinging door flapped a few times before shutting behind her, she knelt behind the workstation and tried working some oxygen into her seized-up lungs. The normal comforting scents o
f fried seafood and sizzling breakfast meats did very little to calm her as she slowly inhaled and exhaled.
“What in the world’s ailing you, Jo-Jo?” Her dad turned his back to the grill, wiped his hands on his apron, and ambled over to check on her.
She shook her head when her tongue remained frozen.
The burly man glanced out the small circular window in the door and grumbled under his breath. “We got two girls out sick today and customers lining up. Whatever this is, you need to get over it.”
“I just n-n-need . . . a minute,” she managed to stammer out while wiping away the sheen of perspiration that had broken out on her forehead.
With another grumble under his breath, her dad pushed through the door and then let out a guffaw boisterous enough to have Josie scooting over to the door. She cracked it open just enough to catch sight of the dark-haired man at the counter. Seeing him was so exhilarating it was nearly devastating.
“August Bradford! All the way back from New York City! How are ya, boy?” Jasper moved around and grabbed the boy, who was close to a foot taller than him, into a bear hug.
“Good to see you, Jasper.” August returned the hug with as much exuberance while chuckling in such a deep baritone it seemed to rumble throughout the building.
“Are you just passing through?” Jasper gave August’s shoulder a firm clap before moving behind the counter.
“No. I’m home to stay.” August settled onto one of the stools.
“Really? I figured those hoity-toity galleries up north wouldn’t give you back to us.”
“Nah. I have a few of my pieces on display in a couple different galleries there, but my uncle offered me the front space in his music studio here.” August shared the impressive information with as much humbleness as if he had merely said his art would be on display at the run-down flea market up the road. It was a charming characteristic Josie had always admired about him.
Dishes clanged from behind her and drowned out whatever August was saying. She glanced over her shoulder and gave the guy on dish duty a stern glare, which he returned with a confused shrug as he dropped another pan into the giant stainless steel sink. She turned back to the cracked door and leaned her head out a little farther.
