Amy’s love for preservation now had an outlet as she and Carol Anne worked together on historic homes, their clientele rising in both number and stature. They were doing what they loved—together; their energy poured where it was wanted and needed. The flow of clients increased every day, and Carol Anne was hiring more employees. Her clients signed waivers stating they came to her of their own free will and she didn’t take them from Mr. Farley, who lost most of his clients from the negative publicity over his plans to develop Oystertip. He was still ranting to whoever would listen about the evil ways of Carol Anne and Amy; he seemed to be tolerated in Darby as an amusing attraction.

Jack was dating a darling blonde from a family Amy had never heard of. The day Molly graduated with honors and obtained a full tennis scholarship to Saxton University was one in an increasing number of days when Amy knew she understood her place in the world.

She was still attempting to speak her truth to Phil, and her heartbeat had begun to return to the reliable rhythm she once knew—a scar over the softer places of regret, remorse and shame. Phil’s hard-won attempts at caring and listening were endearing, and at times amusing.

She didn’t blame Phil for what happened between them—even in her worst moments she knew it was a weakness within her—but the pain allowed them to talk about what they thought was missing in their marriage and life, and what they could do about it because they loved each other—then and now.

It was a long, circular journey that on her best days—like today—she was sure she could make, and on her worst, she was scared she wouldn’t be able to finish.

Although there were moments when she wanted to know how Nick was, if he was all right, she hadn’t contacted him. She did see the advertisement for Lowry Lowcountry in the SCAD newspaper with an explanation of the research and education he provided, and she’d smiled. At least he was doing what he always said he would.

Life’s rhythms had returned both at work and at home; she was content in this comfort. As her students worked on their sketches, she leaned against a peeling pillar of the Summerhill Home and stared at five men clustered around a fading live oak, apparently evaluating its ability to withstand another day—or century.