Annie bent to check it out. She pushed away a clump of seaweed and grasped what looked like a disk from the bottom of a bottle; she pulled out an orb of aqua glass, about two inches in diameter, smooth and frosted by the tides.

“Lucy! Look! We have a winner!” She held it up to the sunlight, in awe of the work done by the sea.

Lucy scrambled over and held open a bag. “Nice going. Drop it in before you lose it.”

Annie set it carefully in the bag, as if, despite its being tumbled who knew how many times on the seafloor, dropping it into a cloth bag would cause it to break.

“Years ago Gramps taught me to use my feet to pull apart the seaweed. He said that’s where the good stuff is.”

“Looks like he was right,” Annie replied.

“He usually is.” Lucy looked in the opposite direction from where they had been walking. “If we split up,” she said, “we’ll find more stuff. I’ll go south. You go north.” She handed Annie the bag and took the empty one.

Annie deferred to her; she doubted this was the first time Lucy had gone beachcombing.

So they split up, and Annie meandered to the right, strolling with her head bent to the sand, aware that this was far more fun than dwelling on her troubles. She collected several small, pretty stones, a few pieces of wampum, all with possibilities for a nice “Vineyard natural” décor. She thought it might be fun to challenge guests to add to the Inn’s collection; maybe she should offer one of her soaps as a prize each week for the most creative “find.” Lost in peaceful thoughts, she then noticed a group of boulders where the land curved toward Cape Poge. Another bundle of seaweed, much larger than the first, was twisted among the rocks.

Following Earl’s instructions, Annie maneuvered her toes to separate the seaweed. But the dark-green mass was tough and slimy and too knotted to let loose. She looked around the beach. Her gaze landed on the driftwood by the dunes; she went over and retrieved a narrow but sturdy shard.

Poking at the mass again, she hooked a sizeable clump nearly the size of a soccer ball. She lifted it from between the rocks, and realized that the seaweed was wrapped around something hard . . . Another rock?

She dumped the whole thing on the sand and used the stick to peel away the weeds, and, sure enough, another rock was there—this one kind of whitish. She gave it a sharp poke . . . and punched through what might have been a hole. She wondered if it was a conch shell—a beautiful, smooth, white island one, not like the plastic ones in souvenir shops in beach towns or the huge pink ones transported by the thousands from the Caribbean.

“Well, jeez,” Annie muttered, mimicking Lucy.