Matt Malone. Was he married now? With kids? God, how weird, she thought, to think of that little prankster with kids of his own. She’d have to visit the Malones and find out for herself.
The speed limit dropped to forty-five as she edged closer to the small island’s city limits. a large sign displayed a hand-painted beach, with sea-oat-covered sand dunes and the familiar black-and-white lighthouse against the picture-perfect gray blue of the Atlantic. Welcome to Cassabaw Station stretched in a half circle of wide black letters at the top. At the very bottom, in the right-hand corner, the artist left her mark with a single dandelion, its wispy little petals floating up and away.
In the center of the flower, the letters KQ were inscribed. Emily remembered it well. Katie Quinn. Emily had the same dandelion tattooed onto her shoulder, the petals scattering up and over. Trent had always liked it; his mother despised it. She’d said tattoos were a little on the distasteful side. But Emily loved her body art. Loved what it meant to her. And on her shoulder it would stay. Forever.
Her eyes skimmed over her hand as it gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. There, on her inner wrist, her parents’ birth year was forever embedded with black ink. 1965. Trent’s mother had disliked that one even more.
“You can do this, you can do this,” Emily encouraged herself out loud. A burst of confidence surged through her, and she squealed. “Yes! I can do this!” It’d be her new mantra.
Although dying to see the Windchimer, she decided to go to the river house first. Then, later, the island cemetery. Emily heaved a gusty sigh and pressed the clutch, downshifting to Third as the speed limit declined again. Suddenly, the Jeep sputtered, almost stalling. With her foot pressing the clutch, Emily shifted back into fourth. The transmission lurched, but finally caught the gear.
“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.
Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.
Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.
Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.
Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.
“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.
More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.
Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief. Barely made it. She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.
Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.
Emmie! Reagan! Time for supper!
A sad smile tugged at Emily’s mouth as she recalled her mom’s sweet voice. It seemed like forever ago that she’d heard it. Blinks in time, those memories. She cherished every single one.
Male voices rose from the river, interrupting Emily’s reverie. She peered through the trees in that direction. Easing out of the open door, she slid her iPhone into the pocket of her vintage sundress and started across the hard-packed dirt path that wound to the marsh. Flip-flops smacked her heels as she walked, and the voices cleared.
“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.
“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”
“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”
“I know that, Dad.”
Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.
“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.
Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.
“Didn’t expect you till next week.”
It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then,