eing the tourist season, it was a slow drive along Palm Boulevard to the opposite end of the island. The Marina was a cheery place with an island shop, restaurant and docks. Most of the boats were privately owned and ranged from small powerboats and Jet Skis to big deep-sea fishing craft and yachts equipped for ocean excursions.

She followed a worn path to the docks where she spotted a small wooden office built on pilings. Over it a modest sign read Coastal Eco-Tours. Beside this was a long, covered tour boat with a dozen two-seater benches on either side. A line of would-be cruisers waited to board. It was the usual assortment: a few seniors in Bermuda shorts, assorted out-of-towners with cameras hanging around their necks, and mothers and fathers with young children in tow.

She stood on the dock with her arms crossed trying to decide if she really wanted to join this family affair. Hours stuck in airplanes with complaining children were fresh in her mind. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her. Looking up, she saw a very tanned, very tall man with auburn, sun-tipped hair and eyes the same color as the faded blue shirt he was wearing.

She could only shake her head and laugh. “You.”

His smile lifted one side of his mouth and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “If you didn’t run off every time I’ve tried to meet you, I’d think you were stalking me.”

“Hardly. But I can’t seem to go near a boat without finding you hanging around.”

His eyes shone with amusement. “I happen to own this particular boat.”

She raised her brow. “You’re Coastal Eco-Tours?”

He nodded.

“What about the shrimp boat? Do you own that, too?”

“No. During the off-season I earn some extra cash working on boats and clamming.”

He wasn’t her usual type but, despite herself, she felt the zing of attraction again. And it wasn’t just his rugged good looks. His sexy restraint and old-fashioned masculinity had her blood pumping hard in her veins.

“You wanted to meet me?” she asked.

“Do you mind?”

Wearing sunglasses, she could quickly glance at his left hand without notice. There was no ring on his finger.

“No, I don’t mind. I’m just a little surprised. I was under the impression you found me amusing. Or should I say, rather a joke?”

He looked puzzled.

“Every time I looked at you, you were either smiling or laughing at me.”

Understanding dawned and his blue eyes flashed with amusement. He looked down at her sandals. “New shoes?”

“They weren’t that bad, you know.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

“Not that I’m not enjoying your company, but aren’t you a little busy for flirtation right now?”

He looked over to see people queuing up in front of the boat ramp. “Come on. You’re here for the tour, aren’t you?”

She hesitated, but he flashed her a full smile that melted any resistance. Telling herself that she was going to regret this, she followed his imposing physique down the ramp.

The line of people inched their way up the dock to board the boat. She took her place in line and watched as he casually stuffed the money into a metal box and wrote down the amounts on a piece of scrap paper. Not exactly high-tech but it worked, she thought, admiring his neatly formed letters and numbers. When it was her turn to pay he said, “No, that’s okay.”

Cara shook her head and pulled out her wallet. “Thanks, but I’d prefer to pay.”

He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders as though to say “As you wish” and accepted her money.

She found a seat in the rear of the boat, behind two middle-aged women who giggled like schoolgirls and whispered loudly how handsome they thought the tour guide was. Cara’s attention, like everyone else’s, shifted to the guide as he leaped from the boat to untie the ropes, then leaped easily back with the grace and finesse of Douglas Fairbanks. Everyone was in a good mood, taking pictures, joking, excited to be out on the water. Cara felt their enthusiasm but sat quietly alone, taking it all in.

Suddenly the big engines churned, the boat rocked, then slowly backed out of the dock. They made a wide turn, straightened, then headed out full speed into the waterway. The children hugged the railing on tiptoes, transfixed by the sight of the glorious sprays of water shooting out a wide wake. The breeze grew stronger and the mood shot skyward. They were on their way!

He was taking them along the Intracoastal Waterway, a stretch of water that went from the Florida Keys all the way north to Boston. He informed them that it was created in 1942 by joining two waterways so that ships could travel inland and safely transfer supplies during WWII. Their destination was Capers Island, a small barrier island designated as a State Heritage Preserve.

While the others looked out at the panoramic view of water and marshes, she watched the man at the wheel. He stood with his back to her in a wide-legged stance, a Viking of a man, taller by a head than any other man on the boat. The tails of his blue shirt flapped in the wind and the sleeves were rolled up exposing darkly tanned forearms and large hands. Though she sat in the rear of the boat, she sensed he was aware of her presence. The crackling of tension she felt was too strong to be one-sided.

From time to time as the boat chugged along he handed over the wheel to his assistant to talk to the group about the scenery. He introduced himself as a naturalist and it soon became evident that he wasn’t just giving himself an inflated title. He spoke with authority in simple, declarative sentences, reeling off an enormous number of facts about the area, the history and all the creatures in the sea. The passengers gathered around him, fascinated. He didn’t speak with the grand flourish that Palmer did. He was more a teacher than a storyteller, but he could make the molting of a crab sound every bit as thrilling as a ghost tale.

He was a pro, saving the best for last. The boat slowed to a stop in the Waterway. He reached over the side to pull up a small, bobbing, red buoy. As the tourists leaned forward in their seats, he bent low to pull at the long rope attached. Up from the water came a big, black, dripping mesh cage. The kids and women alike started squealing when they spied several blue crabs inside, their pincers out and snapping. Then he reached inside to pick one up with his bare hands. Cara gasped, kids clapped and adults grabbed for their cameras.

“This one’s aggressive,” he said, holding it up for all to get a good look at. The crowd gathered close but remained cautious. “It’s probably a female.”

The tourists chuckled, as they were supposed to. He released a short laugh and glanced again at Cara. She felt the smile widen on her face as their eyes met.

After a short while, the crabs were released into the water and the boat was underway again. He turned the boat over again to his assistant, then looked her way and gave a quick wave, indicating she should come up to join him.

Cara shook her head no.

He twisted his face in an adorable grin that said, “Come on.”

The two women in the seat ahead of her peeked over their shoulder with curiosity. Reluctantly she rose and walked up the aisle, grabbing hold of the seat backs so she didn’t fall over in the rocking boat into some stranger’s lap. Up in the front the rush of wind was brisk and teased at her hat.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, coming near.

“Very much.”

“I have to admit, you’re the last person I expected to see on my boat today.”

“Me? Why?”

“Well, for one thing, you grew up here. I’d have guessed you know Capers pretty well.”

She looked at him, astonished. “How did you know I grew up here?”

He looked back at her with equal astonishment on his face, then his face shifted to express chagrin. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Her mind went blank. “Should I?”

“Ouch. That cuts deep. Not even a glimmer of recognition?”

“I’m afraid not. Are you sure you’ve got the right girl?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure. It took me a minute to place you when I saw you in the bar, but it hit me when I saw you again at the shrimp boat. I came by to say hey but you ran off before I got there.”

“Where? How?” she sputtered.

“High school. I used to see you around. I was kind of fascinated with you, actually. Your nose was always in some book.”

“Do you remember my name?”

“Sure. Cara Rutledge. That is, if it’s still Rutledge.”

“It is,” she replied, amazed that he really knew her. She studied his long, squared face, the deep dimples camouflaged by a faint stubble, the aqua-blue eyes, the tawny hair that curled in the wind. How could she forget a face like that? “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Come on. Venture a guess.”

She drew a complete blank. “How about giving me a hint?”

His eyes crinkled as he warmed to the game. “I was a jock.”

“Ah, well, that explains why I don’t know you. We didn’t exactly travel with the same crowd.”

“I was also senior class president.”

She blinked and squinted her eyes, realizing she should know that one. What was the name of their class president? Then she remembered and looked at him askance. “My class president was Mary Pringle. My, my, Mary, but how you’ve changed.”

He laughed and his eyes glittered with mockery. “I never said I was your class president. I’ll give you another hint. I went to Wando.”

“Now that’s not fair. There were too many kids in that school. You win. I give up. Who are you?”

He made a mock grimace. “You’ve just shattered my ego. Does the name Brett Beauchamps ring a bell?”

Brett…Oh. My. God. Her mind reeled back to senior year high school and how every girl, not just at Wando but also at Charleston High, Ashley Hall, Bishop England, Porter Gaud and probably all high schools within their football league as well, had a crush on the dashing quarterback. Brett Beauchamps had it all: good looks, popularity, a natural talent for sports and a grade point average that had Ivy League colleges dropping scholarships at his feet.

“Of course I remember you. But by reputation only. We never met. Trust me. I would have remembered. Though I’m amazed you remember me. Guys like you didn’t have much interest in skinny, brainy liberals. I seem to remember that the cute, blond cheerleaders were more your speed.”

He shrugged that off. “You were different than those other girls. A loner, but kind of cool about it. Mysterious.”

“Like a shark?”

He laughed. “No, though maybe in debate. I used to watch you. You stood so straight with those big red glasses slipping down your nose. There was no holding back with you. You pulverized your opponents.”

“Oh, God, those glasses! I was pitiful. But it was the eighties. I should be forgiven all fashion gaffes. I do remember being terribly jealous of you when I heard you got offered all those Ivy League scholarships, though. I thought it utterly sexist and unfair.”

He shrugged modestly. “They were athletic scholarships.”

She studied him, wondering if his modesty was sincere. “But you had to have the grades to get into Dartmouth and Harvard. I’d have given my eyeteeth for either. And you turned them down! I still can’t get over that. Where did you end up going?”

“Clemson. I knew I wanted to settle down in South Carolina and I didn’t want to leave. I never applied to those other schools. They came to me. I always wanted to go to Clemson to study field biology.”

“You never even applied,” she repeated disbelievingly.

“So,” he asked with disarming sincerity. “Where did you end up going? You just sort of disappeared after high school.”

“I didn’t. Go right to college, I mean.”

“You didn’t? That’s a surprise. You were such a…an academic.”

“You were going to say nerd?” She grinned then turned more serious. This part of her history she gave in shorthand. “I left home. Moved to Chicago. I worked but eventually I got my degree. Then my Master’s.” With a spark of pride, she added, “All on my own.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

His smile dissolved the last hurdle of restraint and for a while they had nothing more to say. They looked out at the water as the boat made its way along the Intracoastal at a brisk pace.

“Back to work,” he said when she could see the long white beaches of Capers Island in the distance. He moved to take over the wheel while his assistant readied equipment.

Cara took her seat under the close perusal of the two women who seemed put out that she had had such a long, private conversation with their guide. Brett maneuvered the boat to a small dock that led to a wooded section of the island. The group disembarked and Cara felt as if she were on a school trip as she and the others followed Brett on the walking tour. His height made him easy to spot as they passed oyster beds in mud flats, a cluster of ancient oaks that spread a magical webbed canopy of leaves dripping with Spanish moss and alligators sunning in freshwater ponds.

They ended up on a sparkling white beach strewn with dark, fallen tree limbs called Boneyard Beach. Everyone had an hour to wander off on their own before they headed back home. Cara felt her skin tingle, not from the sun but from the certain knowledge that Brett would seek her out. She slowly walked along the sand, stopping from time to time to inspect a shell. From the corner of her eye she saw that he was trapped by the two women who seemed determined to keep his attention this time. Catching her eye, he cocked his head and smiled. The women at his side turned to look her way, their mouths pinched.

She smiled back, then bent to pick up another shell. A moment later, she saw his shadow stretch long on the sand beside her.

“That’s a whelk you’ve got there.”

She looked at the large curling shell that resembled a small conch. “I used to know the names of all of these when I was little. But I’ve forgotten.” She shook the sand out from the center, checking to make certain no snail inhabited the shell. “Can I keep this?”

“If you like. I ask that folks only take one. And no sand dollars. People take so many of those, even the green ones, that they’re becoming endangered. Come on, let’s walk a bit.”

“How did you get away?” She looked over her shoulder. The two women were walking leisurely toward the water.

His smile came slow and seductive. “I told them I had to go join my wife.”

They walked toward the cluster of dead trees that rose from the sand in a ghostly forest, their roots curled around shells and rocks. The sun shone with exceptional clarity and the sea sparkled. Brett stopped to put his hands on his hips and look around in a proprietary manner.

“Isn’t this the most beautiful place?”

She had to agree. It was low tide. The beach stretched far, far out and gulleys coursed through the sand like rivers. In the distance, a small child chased a gull along the surf. What was most captivating, however, was the quiet. The din of humanity seemed so very far away. The only sounds they heard were the gentle roar of the surf and the cry of the gulls.

“It feels a million miles away,” she said. “I see a tent over there. Can anyone do that?”

He nodded. “It’s open to the public. There aren’t many barrier islands left for folks to enjoy. They’re being sold off, lot by lot. It’s a real shame. If things don’t change soon, there’ll be a whole lot of people who’ll never get to see what you’re seeing now. But here you can pitch a tent, bring a can of beans and a fishing pole and you’re set.” He bent to examine a shell. “It’s a good place for lovers, too.”

He said it so fast she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Doesn’t it get a bit crowded?”

He straightened, turning his head to offer a cocky smile. “When it is, I’ve got my own secret places I like to go. I could take you there sometime.” When her brows rose, he added, “For a picnic.”

“I hate bugs.”

“I know where there’s a nice breeze.”

“Brett, are you asking me out on a date?”

“Twenty years too late. Yes or no?”

She brought up her shell and scraped the last bit of sand out from the center. It had a symmetrical shape and a lovely tangerine color. She’d give it to her mother.

“Yes.”

While Cara was on her tour, Lovie sent Toy shopping. Palmer had said he wanted to stop by and see her. In a fluster of delight she’d invited him to lunch and prepared some of his favorite summer dishes: shrimp salad, corn muffins, raspberry iced tea and cold baked custard for dessert. He arrived on time, but seemed rather stiff and waxy faced. He warily cast his gaze around the beach house.

“Is Cara around? Or that girl?”

She put on her hostess smile. “No, they’re both off on errands. I wanted to have a quiet lunch. Just the two of us.”

His face visibly relaxed and he seemed grateful that she would arrange that. He removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He’d always hated wearing a jacket and tie and her heart felt a pang of sympathy that he’d had to assume the heavy mantle of the family, in so many ways.

She led him to the screened porch where the weather accommodated them with offshore breezes heavy with the sweet scent of honeysuckle. The tablecloth fluttered prettily in the breeze. She carried the lunch to the table while he stretched his legs out. She saw longing in his eyes as he stared out at the ocean.

“This sure is a nice spot. It’s been such a long time. I’d forgotten just how great a view you have. Very nice.”

“You sound like a real estate agent.”

“Do I?” He laughed and picked up his fork.

“Remember how you used to surf your kayak right out there? I would worry about you, sure you’d drown or be bitten by some shark, but at the same time I thrilled to watch you. You were so lithe and brown as a berry.”

He smiled and she saw the boy in his face. “Not so much anymore. I wonder what ever happened to that kayak? I might oughta get another one. Cooper could learn.”

“And Linnea.”

“She’s more interested in the boys in the kayaks.” He paused and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “We don’t get out to our place on Sullivan’s much. It’s always rented.”

“What’s the point of having it if you don’t take time for yourself?”

His face clouded and he stabbed his salad. “I need the money, Mama. Things aren’t so good at the firm. Nothing to worry about,” he hastened to add.

Lovie wasn’t so sure. She’d heard enough comments from Julia that made her worry. “Have you talked to Bobby Lee?”

Robert Lee Davis was the family banker and an old, trusted friend. “I did. He says we have to retrench. Tighten our belts. I don’t agree. We need to expand. Take advantage of the growth going on here. Why, I know folks who are cleaning up on real estate deals all over the state. Doubling their money in a year.”

The panther was prowling, she thought to herself. So much like his father, never satisfied with what he had or taking the time to enjoy it. Or his family. Stratton was always out to build a bigger empire. It wasn’t the ambition that she found so distasteful, but the sense of entitlement. Like his father, Palmer believed the world owed him not just a living, but a grand lifestyle. Or, as he often put it, “the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

“Why don’t you bring Julia and the children here for the Fourth of July? We could eat barbeque.”

“Sorry, Mama, but I can’t. We’ve already got three invitations to juggle.”

“I just thought it would be nice to spend time together. Perhaps another time.”

“Sure!” he exclaimed. “Real soon.”

They lapsed into a silence during which Palmer finished his meal and Lovie tried to put together the words she wanted to say.

“That’s a fine, fine piece of property,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Lovie realized with a start that Palmer hadn’t been staring at the ocean at all, but at the lot directly across the street.

“There’s nothing else like it on the island,” he said in an easy drawl. “Three lots in a row. Look at that,” he exclaimed, extending his hand. “You are so lucky to live across from it. Even if someone builds on the lot in front of you, you’ll still have a view to the left. Damn, I wish I knew who owned that lot.”

“I thought you told me they were deeded to the Coastal Conservancy.”

“Those two over there are. Not the one directly across from you. No ma’am, that one is owned. And I’m aiming to buy it.”

“Maybe the owner doesn’t want to sell.”

“Everyone has their price.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t have any money at the moment.”

“It takes money to make money.” He turned in his chair to face her. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I’ve got a lead on who owns that place.”

Lovie dropped her fork. “Clumsy me! Excuse me.”

“You okay?”

“Of course I am. I’m just getting old. Now, what was that you were saying about the property?” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap but kept her smile fixed.

“Well, we’ve been digging around. Seems those other two lots were deeded to the Coastal Conservancy by Russell Bennett. Do you know him? One of the Richmond Bennetts?”

She hesitated, clenching her hands tighter. “Yes, I vaguely remember meeting him and his wife. Her name was Eleanor, I believe. She was a Huntington.”

“He was big into nature and ecology, that sort of thing. I gather he was a champion of sea turtles in particular.” He looked to her for confirmation. “Seems he foresaw how these islands would be developed and he deeded those two lots for the protection of the loggerheads.”

Still she made no comment.

“I can’t believe you don’t know about all this. It’s right up your alley.”

“I remember reading something about that in the newspaper. It was all such a long time ago. I admired him for that. It showed great foresight.”

“I’m surprised your paths didn’t cross more often, you being a Turtle Lady and all. And you traveled in the same social circles.”

“He was a biologist and I’m just a volunteer. You said you found out who owned the third lot?”

“Not yet. But here’s the thing. The lots were all purchased in the same year. We’re checking to see if Bennett didn’t own all three of them at one time.”

She coughed, waving away his hand at her back. After a moment and a sip of water she asked, “What if he did own them? Wouldn’t that mean that the land is held by his family?”

“There’s no record of it.”

She was exasperated and said sharply, “What possible difference could it make to you who owns it? You don’t have the money to buy that lot anyway. You said yourself that business was tight. It seems a waste of time to pursue this any longer.”

“We could use this place as collateral, then sell both lots. Or better yet, build on them like I was saying the other night. Mama, we’d make a fortune.”

“I’ll never sell Primrose Cottage,” she said quietly. “It means too much to me.”

His face screwed up in disappointment. When he spoke, his words were measured. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m going to have to cut back your allowance. Like I said, money is tight now and keeping up this place is becoming a burden.”

Lovie’s face colored as she felt the flames of indignation and fear. “That allowance was set in the will. You can’t change that.”

“Mama, be realistic. Costs have gone up. The dollar is shrinking. I know you don’t understand any of this business talk but, simply put, the money is just not there.”

Lovie shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes.

“Now don’t you worry, Mama. You’ll always be taken care of. You’ll be happy back at the big house with me and the family. We miss you.” He leaned forward, studying her face, his brows gathered in worry. “Mama?”

She opened her eyes and searched for the boy she loved in the stern set of his features. She’d always thought that Cara was the most like her father, but now saw that she’d been fooled by visible traits such as height, eye and hair color. As they aged, it was Palmer who had assumed his mannerisms. He had Stratton’s slump of the shoulders, the beguiling smile that did not reach the eyes, the way in which he could deliver an ultimatum with a cold swipe of the tongue. All these years she’d worried about Cara, but she’d been blind to the changes occurring right under her nose in her son.

“I’m staying for this summer, Palmer,” she said, drawing herself up. He was taken aback by her decisive tone. “I won’t go. Whatever you have to do, do it.”

“Mama…”

“I’m staying because this will be my last summer. I’ve been wondering all during lunch how best to tell you this, Palmer, but you must know now. I have terminal cancer of the lung.”

Palmer’s face grew ashen and his eyes protruded in shock.

Lovie nodded her head.

“Hell, no! I don’t want to hear this. What do you mean, terminal?”

“I think you know. It means, simply, that I’m dying.”

“There are treatments for cancer! I read about them all the time in the paper. Goddammit, Mama, we’ve got one of the best medical centers in the country right here in Charleston. If they can’t figure out what’s wrong with you then we’ll go someplace that can. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you tell me you’re dying when I haven’t even had a chance to fight this thing yet!”

“Palmer, come here.” She opened her arms to her son but he angrily shook his head, rose and walked to the edge of the porch to stare out.

“I’m sorry I can’t spare you this,” she said. “I’ve been to the doctors. I’ve had all the tests. There’s nothing you, or anyone, can do. I’m afraid it is in God’s hands now. No, please don’t argue. That’s why I didn’t tell you in the beginning, because I knew you would put up such a fuss. I simply don’t have the energy to fight you on this.”

He turned to face her, his own face filled with anguish. “What kind of a son would I be if I didn’t?”

“A good son. A son who loves his mama and does as she asks him.”

His face crumpled and he lowered his head. When she held out her arms to him again, he went to her side, buried his head in her lap and wept like he did as a child.

Later that day, Cara was sitting on the porch with Emmi, sipping sweet tea and eating berries. Emmi had stopped by with a big bowl of strawberries that she’d purchased at the market. They rocked together in rocking chairs, ate berries and yakked like old times. Cara remembered back to when they were preteens and had lounged on this same porch. Those hot summer days seemed to drag on forever back then.

“I got asked out on a date,” she said.

Emmi swung her head around. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I just got asked.”

“Who with?”

“Brett Beauchamps. Remember him? He’s the—”

“I know who he is! When did he ask you out?”

“He runs the Coastal Eco-Tours you were so hot to send me out on.”

Emmi gaped in astonishment. “Amazing. Who would have thought that Brett Beauchamps would end up a tour guide?” She shook her head again. “If he even managed to survive to forty, I would have bet he’d either be a billionaire or in prison. Brett Beauchamps,” she repeated with sparkling eyes. “Takes me back. Does he have his tour boat souped up and beer in the cooler?”

“Actually, he’s quite different than we remember him,” she replied, feeling the urge to defend him. No one had been more surprised than she to discover that the popular, irascible football star had grown up to be a rather remarkable man. “And he isn’t a tour guide. He owns Eco-Tours. He’s a naturalist.”

“A naturalist,” she said, drawing out the word. “That is so hard to imagine. He was such a wild, tempestuous good ol’ boy. How did you recognize him? Is he still as gorgeous?”

“Actually, I didn’t recognize him. He recognized me.” She laughed lightly at seeing Emmi’s shocked stare. It was hardly flattering, but Cara had to acknowledge that it was unlikely. “I didn’t think he even knew I was alive in high school. We didn’t exactly hang around the same crowds. He’s a lot mellower now, more laid-back. And yes, he’s still gorgeous, but in a chiseled way. More ruggedly handsome than dreamboat, thank God.”

“But my, my, my, I’ll bet he’s still got those football muscles.”

“I’ve always been a brains-over-brawn girl myself,” Cara said with a haughty lift of her chin.

Emmi smiled devilishly. “Brett has both.”

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’m simply living vicariously through you, reflecting in your glory. I have to do something since my own love life is in shambles.”

“What do you expect when your husband is out of town?”

Emmi’s rocking stilled. They’d suddenly moved into deeper waters and the mood shifted. “It’s not just when he’s out of town. It’s when we’re together, too.”

“Oh, come on. You and Tom are the poster couple for the All-American Love Story. You were childhood sweethearts and all.”

Emmi began rocking again. “All stories come to an end.”

“I hope you’re still joking.”

“No. I’m serious. Lately, I think he looks forward to going out of town. And I have to admit, I do, too.”

“But Tom loves you. He always has.”

She shrugged. “I’m sure he does, but not the way he used to. I don’t love him the way I used to, either.” Her face grew long as her voice lowered. “It’s hard to feel anything for him when he’s gone all the time. We don’t share any interests any more. Not even the children. And it’s not like we’re hot for each other, either. I mean, after twenty years there aren’t many surprises left.” She stretched out her legs and wriggled her toes. “I wouldn’t mind poking my toe in the proverbial pond again, just to see how it felt.”

“Emmaline Baker Peterson!”

“Hey, don’t look at me that way. Why not? I know he does.”

The image of a shy, red-faced Tom leaning forward to plant her first kiss on her lips shot through her mind. “I can’t believe that, either. Tom was so shy and so…conservative. He was the only guy we knew who didn’t believe in premarital sex.”

“He just believes in extramarital sex.”

“No!” Cara exclaimed.

Emmi just looked at her.

“You’re killing me,” Cara said. “That’s the third time my heart’s stopped. Are you sure?”

“I’ve left five messages for him at his hotel. At all hours of the night. Even Tom doesn’t work that hard.”

The silence stretched on while Cara tried to think of a plausible excuse. She couldn’t.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Emmi continued. “Of course, when he gets home, I never bring it up. We go about our lives as though nothing happened. I’m not a coward. I’m just lazy. It’s easier just to pretend I don’t suspect than to confront him. And the funny thing is, after a while I begin to question and doubt the whole thing. Before you know it, I let it slip out of my mind—until it happens again.”

“I had no idea,” Cara responded, not knowing what else to say.

Emmi tapped the arms of the rocker. “Hey, I don’t want to talk about this boring old stuff.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve made my bed and I’m sleeping in it. Even if it is in a different house,” she added, her wide mouth stretching into a mirthless grin. “The question of the hour is, where is Brett Beauchamps taking you on your date?”

“We’re going out for a picnic.”

“Oh, my God. Let me guess. That’s you, him, a boat and a trip to some way-off hammock. I heard about those picnics in high school. Better put bug spray everywhere.”

Cara laughed again, but inside she sizzled. She’d heard about Brett’s picnics, too.

Her eggs laid, the mother loggerhead now uses her rear flippers to rake sand over her nest and her front flippers to throw sand to disguise the area. When her work is done, the mother lumbers back to the safety of the sea. She’ll never return to her nest.