Two figures were approaching at the shoreline. They stopped when they saw the tracks, then slowly followed them to the nest. When they were certain the mother was gone and the eggs had been laid, they studied the sight with flashlights, made a circle in the sand around it, and sunk a small stake with yellow tape. Mercer could hear their soft voices—two women—but was safely hidden from their view. They would return at daylight to secure the nest with wire fencing and signage, something she and Tessa had done many times. As they walked away, they carefully kicked sand over the turtle’s tracks to make them disappear.

Long after they were gone, Mercer decided to wait for the sun. She had never spent the night on the beach, so she nestled into the sand, reclined comfortably against the dune, and eventually fell asleep.

4.

Evidently, the island’s literary gang was too afraid of Myra Beckwith to say no to a last-minute invitation to dinner. No one wanted to offend her. And, Mercer suspected, no one wanted to risk missing a gathering where they would almost certainly be talked about in their absence. Out of self-defense, and curiosity, they began arriving at the Vicker House late Sunday afternoon for drinks and dinner to honor their newest member, albeit a temporary one. It was Memorial Day weekend, the start of summer. The invitation by e-mail said 6:00 p.m., but for a bunch of writers that hour meant nothing. No one was on time.

Bob Cobb arrived first and immediately cornered Mercer on the back porch and began asking questions about her work. He had long gray hair and the bronze tan of a man who spent too much time outside, and he wore a gaudy floral-print shirt with the top buttons open to reveal a brown chest with matching gray hair. According to Myra, the rumor was that Cobb had just submitted his latest novel and his editor wasn’t happy with it. How she knew this she wouldn’t say. He sipped her homemade brew from a fruit jar and stood uncomfortably close to Mercer as they talked.

Amy Slater, the “vampire girl,” came to her rescue and welcomed her to the island. She went on about her three kids and claimed to be thrilled to get out of the house for the evening. Leigh Trane joined the circle but said little. Myra was stomping around the house in a hot pink flowing dress the size of a small tent, barking instructions to the caterer, fetching drinks, and ignoring the pack of dogs that had the run of the place.

Bruce and Noelle arrived next, and Mercer finally met the man responsible for her little sabbatical. He wore a soft yellow seersucker suit with a bow tie, though the invitation clearly said “extreme casual.” But Mercer had long since learned that with a literary crowd anything goes. Cobb was wearing rugby shorts. Noelle was beautiful in a simple white cotton shift, a narrow one that hung perfectly on her slender frame. Damn French, Mercer thought, as she sipped Chablis and tried to keep up her end of the small talk.