hree days later, Cara sat in the waiting room of the oncologist’s office located inside the hospital complex. Around her, older men and women sat in a depressed silence reading old, worn magazines, some carting along oxygen tanks that clanked when they moved, a few dressed in those flimsy hospital gowns that were universally awful. Cara wouldn’t touch the wrinkled, curled magazines or the arms of the chair. She didn’t want to touch anything. She tried to compress herself and stared at her hands in a private misery.

She despised hospitals. They all looked the same, she thought to herself as she shifted her weight in the uncomfortable metal chair. Cold and sterile with long, narrow halls that wound around linoleum floors and passed through double doors like a maze. The worst thing about hospitals was that they were filled with sick people. Cara didn’t like being around illness. She hated flying because, to her mind, it was like being trapped for hours in a giant germ bank. When someone coughed in a theater, she’d lean far away. If someone sneezed in a crowded elevator, she’d hold her breath until she escaped. Which was why Cara was convinced that her mother’s persistent cough, and now the hospital visits, was God giving her a kind of purgatory for sins of the past.

Not that she was complaining. Her love for her mother was more powerful than any aversion to illness. So she quietly sat hunched over in the metal chair while Lovie underwent multiple tests. She waited, thinking every minute what a saint Toy had been for so long. While Cara was oblivious in her career in Chicago, Toy had driven Lovie to her radiation treatments and waited like this, pregnant and tired, probably having to get up to pee every ten minutes. Cara fervently believed there was a special place in Heaven for caregivers.

After two and a half hours, the nurse emerged to ask if she’d join Dr. Pittman in the examining room. Cara practically sprang from the chair to follow her through the very narrow hall. When she entered the room, she found her mother sitting on the examining table still wearing the papery green robe and chatting away with an unnatural cheerfulness.

“Look who’s come to join us!” Lovie exclaimed, her eyes feverishly bright.

Lovie was trying too hard to be cheerful and Cara immediately felt on edge. She looked over to the doctor, a young, bookish man with heavy eyeglasses and a long, serious face. Dr. Pittman was writing in the chart but managed to look up briefly and smile. They’d spoken on the phone at length when Cara had first learned of her mother’s illness, but this was the first time they’d met.

“Take a seat, Miss Rutledge,” he said, indicating another metal chair.

“Thanks, but I’ll stand,” she replied, walking to her mother’s side.

“So, what’s the verdict?” her mother asked, again with a forced optimism.

Dr. Pittman’s silence spoke volumes. Lovie’s balloon of cheer deflated as his expression turned somber.

“I didn’t like what we found today.”

When Lovie turned her head, Cara saw that the fevered cheerfulness was, in fact, fear. She reached out to hold her mother’s hand.

“The cancer has spread more rapidly than we’d anticipated. In particular, it has moved into the trachea, which would explain the coughing.”

“Is surgery an option?” Cara asked.

“The trachea is inoperable. The mass is…everywhere.”

Cara’s stomach tightened but she tried to maintain calm. “Surely there’s something we can do, Doctor.”

He sighed. “We could consider initiating another round of radiation therapy.”

“No.” Lovie was adamant.

Dr. Pittman looked at Lovie and smiled weakly. He closed the chart and looked at Cara with compassion. “We’ve entered the final phase of the disease.”

Cara heard him clearly and returned his gaze unflinchingly, grateful for his honesty. She couldn’t have stood it if he was evasive or tried to mask the harsh realities. “I understand.”

“Your mother understands that the best we can offer at this point is palliative treatment.”

Lovie patted Cara’s hand. “What he’s trying to say is there’s nothing he can do.”

To his credit, he smiled. “That’s right, as far as treatment goes. However, there is a great deal we can do to make certain you are comfortable, Mrs. Rutledge. There is absolutely no reason for you to suffer. Since you’ve decided to remain at home, I’ll arrange for a visiting nurse to set up regular appointments and for oxygen to be delivered. It just makes it a little easier when you feel like you’re not getting enough air. Use it. Don’t be shy. We can also discuss at length the use of morphine.” He glanced at Lovie. “But there’s no need to do that today.”

To Cara he said, “This is a process that needs to be understood so you can best help your mother. It’s time to be practical and realistic as to what treatments you can manage at home and what you might need help for. Time to gather together a support group. Is Miss Sooner still around?”

“Yes. She’s a great help.”

“Good. But she’s having a baby soon, isn’t that right?”

“She’s due September 15.”

“I see.”

“Cara can handle this,” Lovie said. “She’s very competent, you know.”

Cara didn’t miss the pride in her mother’s voice and felt a chink in her self-control.

“Good,” he said emphatically. “But don’t take it all on yourself. Too often I see a competent daughter or wife feel she can manage it all and in the end she suffers burnout. There’s no need for that. A good caregiver takes care of herself. Remember, it’s important to have a two-pronged support system. The first is your medical support staff. We’ll get you lined up for visiting nurses, social workers and hospice. The second you have to arrange yourself. You’ll need a support group that will provide a caring atmosphere for both Mrs. Rutledge and yourself. A group of good listeners who can be counted on to help when needed.”

Cara and her mother exchanged a glance.

“The Turtle Team,” they said in unison.

The phone began ringing off the hook as word leaked out about Lovie’s illness. Volunteers asked if they could bring over a covered casserole, soup, anything at all from the four basic food groups. Brett did all the lawn work. Emmi called every time she left her house just to make sure some errand didn’t need to be run. Miranda came by just to sit beside Lovie on the bed and keep her company while they watched TV. Flo briskly walked in twice a day full of enthusiasm and energy, talking loudly and bringing along something fun or interesting to read that she’d painstakingly searched out. “Got to keep her spirits up,” she said with a knowing look to Cara each day before returning home.

Cara couldn’t keep count of all the turtle paraphernalia that arrived each day from well-wishers. Turtle jewelry, shirts, candles, wind chimes, hats, cups, flags, key rings—Cara didn’t know where folks found so much turtle stuff. Lovie was moved and grateful for it all and tried to take the time to speak to everyone who stopped by or called. On occasion, the visitor would break down into tears and it was Lovie who had to offer comfort. Before the week was out, Cara saw how her mother’s energy was sapped and she began restricting visitors. Word was sent out that Lovie needed her rest and, gradually, peace was restored at the beach house.

Lovie’s bedroom looked increasingly like a hospital room, though. It couldn’t be helped. The oxygen tank and cart took up a lot of space beside her bed, and the bedside table was covered with a tissue box, a water glass and several small pill bottles. A TV had been moved in as well as a bookshelf. Cara tried to order a mechanical bed that moved position but Lovie was horrified at the thought. She wanted to sleep in her own four-poster bed, the one her mother had slept in, and her mother before her. She refused any discussion on the matter.

Thus, in short order, the house went topsy-turvy. Lovie spent a good deal of time in her room resting, reading, watching television and organizing the photo albums that had become an obsession. She tried to keep involved with the household decisions and turtle affairs, but it was a struggle.

Cara also began preparing more of the meals. Toy helped but her advanced pregnancy made her slow and cumbersome in the kitchen and she had to put her feet up frequently because of swollen ankles. Several nights a week she grew antsy and said she had to get out of the house for a little while, too. Toy began going to the local movie theater on a regular basis.

That was how Cara became the official gatekeeper, cook, laundry woman, housekeeper and chauffer. She managed the meals, the medication and the complaints. She scheduled medical appointments, did the shopping and paid the bills. She had several offers to help but was reluctant to accept. She didn’t like to bother folks with her problems. Besides, in her mind it was easier and quicker if she just did the job herself. There was, however, one person she felt should step up to the plate.

Palmer opened the door of his home and his face broke into delighted surprise. Then, as if catching himself, the warmth iced over and his smile turn stiffly polite.

“Hello, Cara.”

“Hello, Palmer.”

He looked healthy and tanned in his pale-blue polo shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. Cara guessed he’d been boating or golfing, or both. She was dressed in plain khakis and a madras cotton shirt that made her look almost girlish compared to his sophisticated casualness. She regretted not dressing up more for the discussion.

“What brings you here?”

“I thought we’d chat about Mama.”

He thought about this a minute while she shifted her weight. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her.

“Come on in, then,” he said with reluctance, opening wide the door.

She entered the house with a firm stride to disguise her nervousness. This was only the second time she’d visited her old home since her arrival. There had been no more invitations to dinner nor had there been any more visits to the beach house from Palmer since the Fourth of July party.

“Where are the kids?” she asked as she passed through the marble-floored foyer.

“They’re out playing somewhere.”

“Too bad.” She was disappointed not to see them. But perhaps it was just as well, given the topic of conversation. She made her own way into the living room. When he joined her, he indicated two plush armchairs covered in a gorgeous Italian fabric.

“Are these new?” she asked, admiring them.

“No, those are the ones that used to be in Daddy’s library. They had that tapestry-looking fabric on them, remember?”

“They look very different,” she said, sinking into one of them. They must have set Palmer back a few pennies. “Very nice.”

“It’s all Julia,” he replied without enthusiasm as he took the opposite chair.

“How is she? I haven’t seen her in a long time. She hasn’t stopped by.”

“She’s at some committee meeting at school. She’s always doing something over there. Things are heating up now that school’s started up again.”

“Things are busy at the beach house, too.” It was an opener and they both knew it.

Palmer nodded noncommittally.

Cara leaned forward, eager to end the polite chitchat and get to the topic at hand. “I called you about Mama two weeks ago.” She paused for emphasis. “I thought I’d clearly explained to you what Mama’s doctor had said but perhaps you didn’t understand. So I’m here to talk about it.”

“I understood what you said well enough, but I don’t agree.”

“You don’t agree? What’s to agree with? Mama’s got cancer. She’s dying.”

“I don’t believe she’s dying.”

Cara leaned back in the chair, stunned. She hadn’t been prepared for that.

“That’s denial, Palmer,” she stammered.

“Says you. I talked to the doctors over there myself and no one told me that she was dying. Hell, she’d be in the hospital if she were.”

Cara stared back at him, not knowing what to believe. Either the doctors were hedging with Palmer or he wasn’t listening. “Mama doesn’t want to go to a hospital. She wants to die at home.”

“She’s not dying,” he repeated.

“Palmer, listen to me. It’s bad. She needs to see you. She asks for you all the time. And for Cooper and Linnea.”

“You know we want to come out there more, but you see how it is. The kids have got Julia running ragged with one thing or other. And we were there just the other week.”

“You mean the children came out. You haven’t been to see Mama in over a month.” Her tone was accusing.

“I’ve been busy,” he said with a flat voice. “You’re the one with all the free time. Besides, Mama’s designated you as caregiver. You and that girl.”

Cara’s resentment knew no bounds. “I can’t believe you’re treating this so lightly. Talking about kids’ schedules and being busy—at a time like this!” She felt a fury welling up against her brother. “What are you so afraid of? The possibility that Mama is dying?”

“Like I said—”

“Or are you angry at her?” she interrupted. His mouth shut tight and Cara knew she’d hit the truth. “I know you had words on the Fourth. You upset her, Palmer.” She was relieved to see regret in his eyes. “But she won’t talk to me about it and I’m not asking. I don’t need to know what the argument was about. I don’t care. But surely you’re man enough to overcome mere pique when our mother is dying.”

His jaw flexed and his eyes sparked with anger. “You let me be the judge of my own dealings with my mother. I’ve been seeing to her needs for a lot longer than you have.”

“No one’s denying that, least of all Mama. But she needs you now. I need you.”

“You seem to have everything under control out there. Yes, ma’am. Things are going just the way you like.”

“I’m not quite sure—”

“You’re doing a fine job,” he said with false bluster, rising to a stand. “Real good. I’ll be by soon. And call me if there is an emergency, okay? Listen, I’ve got to run.”

He was pushing her off! She couldn’t believe it. She rose in a huff and followed him through the foyer.

“What’s gotten into you?” she snapped, unleashing her frustration. “Don’t you care about your own mother?”

“Don’t you dare question my love for my mother!” he bellowed back in her face. “Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t know what love is. Who do you think took care of her all those years while you were in Chicago? Me, that’s who. You left!”

“I got kicked out!”

“Only because you forced the issue with the old man.”

They stood inches apart, glaring at each other, while the memory of that night played in both their minds.

Cara stepped back and brought her hand to her temple. Her fingers were shaking.

“Hell,” Palmer cursed, putting his hands on his hips and looking out the beautifully etched transom windows that bordered the front door. “I was damn proud of you that night.”

“I don’t see why,” she replied softly. “I’m ashamed to think of it.”

“I hated my own guts for being such a chickenshit. And I hated you for leaving me behind to hold the bag.”

“I didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

He shrugged as though to shake off the heavy history.

She saw the gesture, the set jaw, the squint of his eyes, and saw him again as the wary teenager she remembered. The older brother who laughed and told a good story on the outside had held a lot of pain on the inside. “I really think you should come visit Mama. In fact, I’d come right away, if I were you.”

Palmer looked at his shoes. “She doesn’t need me.”

“Sure she does. Now more than ever.”

“Not when she has you. You’ve always been her favorite.”

“You were her favorite.”

His lips rose in a smirk and he said almost contemptuously, “Is that what you think? Then, honey, you don’t know anything.” He turned from her to open the door wide. “Go on back to her and to your damn beach house. And leave me the hell alone.”

The following day an enormous bouquet of flowers was delivered along with a card that said, “Get Well Soon! We love you!” It was signed “Palmer and Julia.” Cara held the bouquet in her hands at arm’s length and wanted to throw it in the compost. This was Palmer’s reply and she found the gift heartless. Her mother would see through the ruse and be crushed.

She dutifully carried them to the kitchen, added water and Floralife into the cheap glass vase they’d arrived in, plastered on a cheery face and delivered them to Lovie’s room.

“Look what Palmer’s sent!” she exclaimed through a tight smile.

“He sent those?” Lovie asked, rising to a sitting position as her eyes lit up. She coughed with the effort as her hand reached out toward the bouquet. “Oh, they’re beautiful! Such extravagance! No, no,” she snapped at Cara, jabbing a pointing finger in the air. “Put them over here so I can smell them.”

Cara pinched her mouth tight and moved them to the bedside table.

“Isn’t he a wonderful boy? Cara, could you get me my thank-you notes? Right away?” She leaned over to smell the flowers, murmuring, “Wasn’t he thoughtful? Do you think he might come visit soon?”

When Cara came out of the room she saw Toy pounding the sofa pillows with vigor.

“Easy, girl. What’s got you in such a fury?” Cara asked as she crossed the room to the small writing desk.

“I overheard. I can’t believe she thinks that Palmer is such a prince. It makes me boiling mad. Don’t she care that he hasn’t even bothered to come by and see her? Her own son? Shoot, anybody can send flowers.”

“I don’t think she wants to even think that. It’s too painful for her to accept. I just let her be. She has enough pain to deal with now.”

“What about you? Don’t you get mad at him?”

Cara almost launched into her fight with Palmer the day before but thought better of it. “I can’t spare the energy or the time to get mad. I’m too tired.”

“I sure would be. She sings his praises and all he does is sit on his butt and send flowers while you do all the work.”

Cara pulled out a drawer of the desk to find her mother’s box of ice-blue, monogrammed thank-you notes. It was the same pattern she’d used for as long as Cara could remember. She traced the elegant blue swirling letters with her fingertip, recalling how her mother had always rigidly demanded that Cara sit and write a thank-you note immediately after a gift or a kindness was received. Naturally, her mother couldn’t wait to write Palmer. How could he deny that he was her favorite?

Cara doubted she’d receive such a formal thank-you for all that she was doing for her mother now. After all, how do you thank someone for being the martinet and badgering her to drink Ensure and water, for scolding her to eat and take her pills, for being the mean one to enforce the doctor’s orders when all Lovie wanted was peace? In her heart, Cara knew her mother was grateful and depended on her. She didn’t need or even want a piece of paper to validate her efforts.

But it was just plain hard to see Palmer receive such lavish praise for so miserly an effort. Hurtful. Mama always made such exceptions for the males in her life and the pain was as stinging now as it had been as a child when her mother would praise anything and everything that Palmer did, barely noticing her own hard-won successes. His term paper with a B-was posted on the fridge while her A was accepted as a given.

She brought her hand to her forehead, amazed at the power of her anger. Her hand was shaking! It was ridiculous to still be jealous of her brother at forty years of age. She was ashamed of herself.

Cara looked over at the pillows on the sofa. With her face set she walked directly over to them, bunched her fists, then, glowering, pummeled one hard. Again and again and again. She could hear Toy laughing beside her.

“Go for it! Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Cara stepped back and put her hands on her hips, nodding, breathing deeply and feeling a release. “You’re right. I am angry. I’m angry at Palmer. I’m angry at my mother. Mostly I’m angry that I’m caught in this damn position again. I left home to get away from this, and here I am, stuck back in the mire.”

“You’re not stuck. You’re doing a nice thing, the right thing, taking care of your mama. When she goes, you’ll know you did your best. That’s more than Palmer is going to be able to say.”

“I suppose,” she said, raking her hand through her hair. “But it’s too bad. It breaks my heart. I know he loves her.”

“Maybe he just can’t stand to see her sick. Some folks are like that.”

“He’s been spoiled all his life. First by Mama and now by Julia. He’s used to letting women handle this kind of thing.”

“He’s a man.”

“I hate stereotypes, but the social worker told me that women provide most of the caregiving in this country.”

“No surprise there. Most men figure it’s woman’s work.”

“It shouldn’t be. It’s the duty—no, the honor—of all children to take care of their sick parents.”

“Well, I’m never taking care of mine,” Toy said, her face mutinous.

“Never say never. When I was your age I would’ve said the same thing. But here I am, twenty years later…And I thank God. I would’ve died somewhere in my heart if I hadn’t had this chance to tell my mama I loved her before she died.”

Toy’s face twisted.

“Oh, Toy, I didn’t mean to imply—”

Toy shook her head. “I know. It’s just that my mama had to take care of her sick daddy till the day he died. He was a terrible drunk, but she loved him. And at least she had her sister to help her.”

“I have you.”

Toy’s eyes rounded before she looked away, wringing her dust rag. “Yeah, big help I am lately. I’m sorry I’ve been away so many nights. I shouldn’t leave you alone.”

“You need time to yourself. You’re young and going through a big change of your own.”

“I’m trying to figure so many things out right now,” she said, appearing a bit guilty. “It’s so confusing. I’m going to be a mother soon but I’m still just a kid, you know?” Her voice went higher. “I—I—What am I going to do with a baby? How can I take care of him?”

Oh Lord, Cara thought, unable to stop the grimace on her face. With all that was going on, she’d clean forgotten about Toy’s situation. Not forgotten, maybe, but shoved it aside to the corner of her mental desktop, like she did a lower priority problem at the agency. Her mind was spinning as she wondered what she could do to help. Or even if she had it in her to handle one more crisis. She felt used up, sucked dry of any advice left in her.

She plopped down on the sofa and patted the cushion beside her. Toy reluctantly joined her, grabbing a pillow and tucking it behind her back for support.

“What have you got planned?” she asked, hoping the girl had given the situation some thought.

Toy took a deep breath. “Well, I’m going to take the GED test soon. I feel pretty good about that. Then, I don’t know. I guess I’ll start looking for a job.”

She guessed? “Anything in particular?”

“Anything as long as the pay’s good and I get health insurance. I don’t care what.”

“Do you have any skills? Experience? Anything you’ve done before that you liked?” Cara was grasping at straws.

Toy looked down with dejection and shrugged.

“Who will take care of the baby while you work?”

“I dunno.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Have you looked into day care centers?”

She shook her head.

“Toy,” Cara exclaimed, her frustration sneaking into her voice. “What have you looked into?”

Toy grabbed the pillow from behind her back and held it tight across her chest. “I guess I was thinking about the GED first.”

Cara closed her eyes. This was much worse than she’d thought. Toy had done nothing to plan for her future. That she could be so careless was unthinkable, even infuriating, to someone as goal oriented and driven as herself. She remembered the comparison her mother had made between Cara at eighteen and Toy. She’d described Toy as childlike and Cara as someone who had always known what she wanted. Was that knowledge and drive something one was born with? Or was it something learned? But it was ironic, too. Toy could be meticulous around the house. How could a young girl who couldn’t see spilled milk on the counter without grabbing a sponge stand by, her whole life lie strewn out before her, and not make a move to pick up the pieces?

Whatever the answer, she thought as she looked at the dejected pose of Toy across from her, it wasn’t important now. Cara knew that it was also part of her personality to try to fix a problem.

“You know you don’t have to leave the beach house right away.”

“I know. But I also know I can’t stay forever. Miss Lovie is…well, you know her time is limited. And I expect you’ll be going back to Chicago?”

“Yes. I’ll be going back to Chicago. After…” She didn’t finish.

“So, I guess I have to figure out where I’ll go.”

Cara was filled with a spiraling panic as one more responsibility piled on to join the others. “Don’t worry. We still have time. We’ll think of something.”

Toy nodded and plucked at the pillow.

Cara didn’t see the optimism and faith that had filled her eyes at the beginning of summer. Back then, the days loomed long and they were all filled with plans. Now they’d run out of time and she only saw the same terror and worry that Cara felt in her heart.

That night, Cara had a mental meltdown.

“I’m not Toy’s mother!” she exclaimed, clinging to Brett’s shoulders. “I’m not my mother’s mother. I’m not anyone’s mother!”

“No, you’re a hellcat,” he chided. “Retract those claws before you draw blood.”

Cara groaned and flopped to her back on the bed, flinging her arms over her eyes. “Brett, I can’t take much more. I’m ready to explode or run away, whichever comes first.”

He turned onto his side to rest his head on his palm and gently moved her arm from her face. She looked up at him, searching for comfort. Beside him, she felt the same peace she felt when she looked out at a mountain range with its jagged terrain and imposing breadth. There was a power in Brett’s quiet strength and even-tempered goodness, just as there were hidden mysteries and dangers lurking beneath the surface.

“No one thinks you’re her mother,” he said in his low, rumbling voice.

“They don’t have to. I feel it.” She brought her palms to her face, dragging them down while her breath came short. “I hate feeling like a mother to my own mother,” she confessed. “It’s not natural. And it makes me feel like some kind of ogre. Sometimes she acts like this little kid. She pouts when I give her pills or hides them under her pillow and pretends that she took them. And she has this tight-mouthed grimace—” she turned her head to imitate it “—when I bring her water to drink. I swear, I’m ready to start saying, ‘Open wide for the choo choo train.’ Ugh!” She grabbed the pillow and tossed it over her face. “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to see her like this.”

Brett gently moved the pillow from her face, blessedly silent.

“And Toy…She thinks of me as a mother figure, too. Me! What a joke.”

“Why is that a joke?”

“Look at me,” she exclaimed, looking at him disbelievingly. “I’m not the least bit nurturing and I’m a loser at relationships.”

“You don’t think worrying about Toy and nursing your mother is nurturing?” he asked gently.

She grew annoyed that he might be nearer to the truth than she wanted to admit. “It’s not the same thing. How can I take care of her when I can’t take care of myself? I’m falling apart. I seem to work harder every day and accomplish less. I’m so exhausted most of the time I find myself just staring at the walls on the verge of tears.”

“You’re taking too much on yourself. You need to ask for help.”

She laughed bitterly, still feeling the hurt and disappointment in Palmer keenly. “I asked my brother for help and he sent a bouquet of flowers. Brett, the responsibilities are endless. I can’t keep up. I didn’t ask to be anyone’s mother.”

“What spooks you about being a mother?”

“I’m not spooked. I just don’t like being forced into a role I haven’t signed up for.” Her voice was harsh, deliberate, as though she was saying the words as much to convince herself as him. She turned her shoulder from him and pulled the sheet up higher over her chest, simmering. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

He shifted to sit up in the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder, drawing her back to face him. “Can I say one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“I think you’d make a wonderful mother someday.”

She turned to stare back at him, sensing more.

“Maybe even a fine wife.”

He’d said it with a smile, but she saw in his eyes that he was feeling vulnerable, venturing on shaky ground. The air grew thick with expectation. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

“Nope, not me,” she said, grabbing hold of the sheet and rising to sit.

He seemed thrown off guard. “Why not you?” he asked, reaching out again to draw her closer. She held herself rigid.

“The same reason for you. Folks like us are just not cut out for marriage. Or children. We’re loners, right?”

“I don’t know that I’ve actually sat down and decided not to get married or have kids. It just hasn’t happened yet. Maybe folks like us take a little longer to come around to it.”

She couldn’t deal with this now, couldn’t handle one more thing. She threw back the sheet, rose and began slipping into her underwear.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to get back. Toy wants to go out to the movies again.”

“I wanted—”

“I have to hurry.” She didn’t need to look at him to know he was watching her. Feeling self-conscious, she fumbled with her T-shirt, not caring that she’d put it on inside out.

“Wait, Cara. Don’t go yet. I want to talk to you. I’ll drive you back.”

“I don’t think I want to talk anymore tonight, Brett,” she said, stepping into her shorts, keeping her head down. “And I rode my bike.” She almost tripped over his sandals as she raced for the door. Turning her head before leaving the room, she saw Brett sitting in the middle of the bed. His powerful body was slanted, a sheet draped around his muscular thighs. But the expression on his face made her think an earthquake had just rocked the mountain.

When she returned home, Cara found her mother asleep and Toy in her room, studying. All appeared peaceful. Relishing the quiet, she went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, then brought it out to the leeward porch. She lit a scented candle—a rare treat—feeling the need for comfort tonight. She slumped into the rocking chair, tucking one leg beneath her. Then, for no reason she could name, she began to cry.

A few minutes later footsteps sounded on the porch steps. Cara stiffened in the chair, wiped her eyes and peered through the dim light toward the noise. “Hello?” A woman’s figure appeared, her white hair an aura in the candlelight.

“Hello there,” Flo called out softly. “I was walking and saw the light. Is this a good time?”

“Sure. Yes. Grab a chair.”

Florence dragged a chair near Cara. “So, how’s everything?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Lovie?”

“She’s sleeping.”

Flo stopped rocking and looked directly at Cara. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Then, because it was Flo, she said, “Everything.” She started sniffling again and reached up to wipe her eyes, embarrassed for the tears. “I feel ridiculous.”

Flo reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of tissues and handed one to her. “It’s an old habit from my days as a social worker. You always seem to need a tissue.”

“Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just tired. It’s been a hard week.”

“Do you need help?”

“Thanks, really, but I can handle it.”

“Yes, I see how well you’re handling it.”

Cara blew her nose then shook her head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight. If I’m not weeping, I’m snapping at someone.”

“Oh-oh,” Flo said with humor. “Who’d you snap at?”

“Brett.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t understand it myself. We were talking about my mother and Toy and the next thing I knew we were talking about motherhood and marriage. I just panicked. I couldn’t deal with where his feelings were headed. It was too intense, too much. All I wanted to do was run away.”

“So you did.”

She nodded.

“That’s not so horrible.”

“You didn’t see his face. I hurt him, Flo.”

“Looks to me like you’re hurting, too. Do you want to end it with him?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Then tell him that. Don’t sit on this and let it fester. Call him. Talk to him. Tell him what’s going on. He can’t understand unless you open up to him.”

“I’m not good at those kind of conversations. What would I say?”

Flo smiled. “You can start with hello.”

The phone rang several times before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Brett, it’s me. Cara. Did I wake you?”

“No. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me, neither.” She gathered her words in her mind like cue cards. “I’ve been thinking about tonight. I didn’t thank you for listening to my rant. I guess I was wound up pretty tight.” She was relieved to hear him chuckle. “You’re the only one I can let go with and get all my frustration out,” she said, then laughed nervously. “Aren’t you the lucky one?”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

“It’s probably a backhanded compliment, but I mean it as one. I feel safe with you, Brett. And I wanted to say thank you.”

“Okay.”

She waited for him to say more. When the pause lengthened, she asked tentatively, “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” She felt a little deflated and was about to say goodbye when he spoke again.

“We all get tied up in knots once in a while. You know,” he said with invitation in his voice, “whenever that happens to me, I go fishing.”

When the hatchling reaches the ocean and gets its first taste of the sea, instinct kicks in. The crawling motion is replaced with power strokes by front flippers. The turtle will go nonstop for twenty-four hours in what’s called a “swimming frenzy” to reach the Gulf Stream.