But she couldn’t say all that to this boy. Not yet, anyway.

Maya looked down at his sculpture. He’d continued attaching random pieces to his hay bale and now it resembled something like an octopus with a shell on each tentacle. “Right now what I want to do is help you with this octopus.”

He laughed. “I thought it was a hay bale and a chicken.”

“It was, but . . .” She grabbed hold of a feather on each side. “I think it’s more surf than turf now.”

Someone else asked her a question and she stood and walked over, feeling Tyler’s closeness in every hair and nerve ending on her body. It wasn’t too long before Trudy began walking student to student, writing notes of instruction about gathering materials and cleaning up. As she did this Maya handed out info sheets about the art festival, letting them know what to do if they wanted to sell any items at the festival.

By the time she made it back to Tyler, he was all cleaned up, his creation sitting proudly in front of him. “I’m definitely not entering this into any art show, but I think I like it.”

“You should. It looks great.” She waved to a group of students as they walked out, and as Tyler stood to leave, he put a hand on her arm.

“Some friends of mine are going out to Soldiers Creek tomorrow. Will you come with me?”

“Soldiers Creek?”

“You’ve never been? Everyone goes there. All the young people anyway.”

She shook her head no. It had been a long time since Maya had been young.

“Well, that settles it.” He grinned. “You’re coming with me.” His smile slid from his face. “Only if you . . . I mean, I’d like you to come, if you want—”

She laughed. “Okay. I’ll come.”

When he walked out a moment later, he waved over his shoulder and flashed a smile that warmed her all the way to her toes.

* * *

Violet was standing in her yard, her mind tangled in long-gone memories, her fingers idly rubbing the skin around her wrist. The bracelet had been there for such a short time, but in certain moments—like this calm morning tinged with the scent of brackish water, freshly cut grass, and jasmine blossoms—she could still feel its weight, the cool brush of metal against her tender skin. As she gazed out at the river, her mind spooled backward to another morning just like this one.

1982

Violet walked carefully through the grass around the side of the little cottage, birdseed in hand. She’d been collecting unique bird feeders for years now, and she had seven posted at various spots around her half acre. Each one attracted specific kinds of birds—the umbrella-shaped feeder hanging from the thick pine tree held safflower seeds for the doves and cardinals, the round feeder covered in blue mosaic glass staked near the hydrangeas was for the robins and jays, and of course, the bright red glass feeder up near the porch was for the hummingbirds.