The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs

even wider. “Caroline has kids?”

      “Little boy and little girl.”

      “Wow, I had no idea. I guess I’ll run into her at some point, then. Is she staying at her folks’ place?”

      “Didn’t ask that, either.”

      “Caroline Shelby. Two kids. Wow,” she said again, slowly shaking her head.

      Will had thought he and Sierra would have a kid or two by now. That had always been the plan, anyway. So far no luck. Not for lack of trying, which was admittedly his favorite part of the process. He was ready for kids. He pictured them growing up here, the place where his heart had always belonged. He had been all over the world while serving in the navy. He’d been deployed with his SEAL team to places most people had never heard of. His team had been based in Coronado, and he’d seen places of magic and stunning beauty, but when he thought about where he belonged, his mind always wandered back to Oysterville, where the summers burst over the land like golden blessings, and the winters roared through with torrential abandon.

      Sierra had agreed to the plan. Like Caroline, she had grown up here. Her father was still the senior pastor at Seaside Church, and her mother managed the church’s newsletter and social calendar.

      Sierra glanced at the clock over the office door. “I need to hit the road.” Stepping up on tiptoe, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Don’t hold dinner for me. I’ll probably be late. I might stay over in the city.”

      That was a compromise they’d made early on. If they were going to live out on the coast, she wouldn’t always make it home after a job. “Okay, let me know. Go be gorgeous.”

      “Right.” Small eye roll.

      “Be safe on the road. Love you.”

      And then she was gone. Love you. Of course he loved her. She was his wife. These days, their love yous were rote and reflexive, a sign they were in a settled phase of their marriage. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Yet sometimes he felt bad about it. He hoped it was his imagination, but more and more lately, his wife was showing signs of discontent. She talked constantly of the city life she’d lived while he was on deployment—L.A., Portland, Seattle. Now there were unsettling signals that their marriage was fraying at the edges. What would make her happy? He made a note to work on the cedar-lined walk-in closet he was building for her at the house. Maybe he’d finish it tonight as a surprise for when she got home.

      He organized his things for the day and made his way from the athletic complex, past the administration center to the high school. Colleagues and students greeted him along the way. Although Sierra called it a fishbowl, Will liked the close-knit feel of the community, the sense of permanence of life here. Growing up a navy brat, he’d never lived in one place long enough to truly fit in, and the only place that had ever felt like home was Water’s Edge.

      When he and Sierra had settled here permanently following his discharge, they were treated like small-town royalty—the preacher’s daughter and the wounded hero, a designation he was happy to shed as time went on. Now he was just Coach Jensen, settling into a job and a life that felt like the right fit for him—most of the time.

      Because of his coaching duties, he didn’t have a homeroom to supervise, so he hit the staff room to check his mailbox, then the math office to log in, view his calendar, and grab some supplies. The school hallway was festooned with notices—an upcoming Tolo dance, college night, club meetings—and after announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance, it was crowded with kids slamming their lockers, talking too loud, hauling their overstuffed backpacks to class.

      Will strode into his classroom just as the first period bell rang. He blinked the lights once to signal his arrival, then stood at the front of the class. “All right, you scholars and ne’er-do-wells,” he said, his customary greeting. “Let’s kick those brains into gear.”

      There were the usual shuffles and a few groans and yawns. Homework out. Phone check—he took attendance by the phone parking lot, a charging station at the front table. A missing phone meant a missing student—or a forgetful one. Seat 2C was not present. “Ms. Lowry,” he said. “You’re either absent or you’re Snapchatting after first bell …”

      With an elaborate sigh, May Lowry surrendered her phone to the charging station. “All present and accounted for,” he said, then turned to the whiteboard to pose the first problem of the day. “So let’s say you’re starting a car trip at nine in the morning from a point—”

      “What point?” called someone in the back.

      “From wherever, moron,” said the kid next to him. “It doesn’t matter.”

      “I say it matters.”

      “Fine,” Will interjected. “New York City. Your car trip is starting in New York City.”

      “And where am I going?” asked May.

      “Oysterville,” said another kid, “where else? Aren’t we the center of the universe?”

      “Listen up,” Will said. “The plot thickens. You’re traveling at forty miles per hour. At ten a.m., another car started traveling from the same point at sixty miles per hour in the same direction. At what time will that car catch up and pass you?” He sketched out the problem on the board.

      Jana Lassiter raised her hand. She was a cheeky girl, smart and fun to have in class. “I have a question. If I’m in New York City, why would I ever leave and come back here?”

      “Yeah, good question,” someone else said.

      “We’re America’s Tidewater Vacationland,” Will said, “according to the highway billboard. But that’s not the point—”

      “Have you been to New York City?” Jana asked.

      Will was sorry he’d brought it up.

      “Mr. Jensen’s been all over the world,” said another girl, Helen Stokes. Embarrassingly, she was one of several girls who had a crush on him, which he pretended not to notice. “In the navy, right, Mr. Jensen?”

      “Again, not the point. This is a rate, time, and distance problem.”

      “How is this going to help us in the real world?” asked someone.

      “You’re not even going to get to the real world if you don’t pass this class,” Will pointed out.

      “Did you have to know this stuff to be a Navy SEAL?”

      “Math was just the tip of the iceberg,” Will said.

      “Is it true you got injured saving a life? Is it true you have a glass eye?”

      “A prosthetic eye. I’ll tell you what’s true,” Will said, easily skirting the topic. “Detention, that’s what. And you’re about three seconds from a maximum sentence.”

      Chastened, the boy slumped in his chair. “Sorry, sir.”

      “So instead of trying to distract everyone, let’s work the problem, people. Let’s let D1 equal the distance of the first car, and t equals time …”

      Distance, rate, and time, reduced to a neat equation. It wasn’t messy. It had one and only one solution, not a hundred possible paths and permutations. If Caroline Shelby left town at warp speed and traveled a distance of a whole continent and ten years, at what point would he quit wondering what might have been?