Lucy made no further comment, but Annie supposed the conversation might resume at a later point. The girl was far too stubborn—like her dad—to let it go.

They trundled off to the low, soft dunes and found a path through slender stalks of beach grass that waved in easy synchronization, the way swimmers sometimes did.

Then Lucy asked, “How are you going to control beach access so your guests don’t trample everything?”

Yes, Annie thought, for the hundredth time, John’s daughter was definitely an island girl. “Good question. But Kevin and your grandfather have met with the environmental people several times. I expect it’s been discussed.”

Lucy unwrapped her sandwich and dove into it while they walked. “It’s very important to help prevent erosion wherever possible. I’ll talk to Gramps to make sure it’s been considered.” Sometimes she seemed older, wiser than her years.

They kicked off their sneakers and stepped onto the beach that stretched below the Inn and proved its description as waterfront property. Like the burial ground at Christiantown, the beach looked as if no one had been there since the previous autumn; it seemed untouched by man or even the gentle beasts of Chappy—rabbits, chipmunks, deer. But nature had done its wild bidding, thanks to the icy winds of winter: quahog, scallop, and other shells were scattered across the sand; small stones of multicolor variations were gathered in a ribbon at the tide line; clumps of seaweed were wound around debris—a remnant of a fish net, a barnacled conch shell, charred remnants of a log. John had told Annie that charred wood on the beach was often from a campfire, but sometimes had been petrified after a fire on a wooden boat and had washed ashore. She had told him she’d rather think it was the result of a group of happy people who’d been together on a summer night, toasting marshmallows, telling tales, and studying the champagne bubbles of stars painted on the night sky.

“All I see is lots of crap,” Lucy said. Perhaps she wasn’t as much of a romantic as Annie. “But check out the driftwood.” She pointed to a row of logs strung along the base of the dunes, as if the previous owners of the property had attempted to build a wall to protect the sand. “They’d have been better off to plant more beach grass. The more plugs in the sand, the stronger the hold.”

The only experience Annie had with beaches was from when her family had rented a small cottage on the Vineyard for two weeks every summer. Back then few people were concerned about erosion—at least she didn’t remember it being talked about at their dinner table.

Just then a ray of sunlight sparkled off a piece of something bluish that was tucked among the stones.

Sea glass?