By the fourth ring, relief spread through her as Nick didn’t answer. She would have to see him again; Jack and Lisbeth were talking true love—there would be time to find out what had happened to him, to know. She didn’t need to call him.

“Hello, darlin’,” his voice came on the phone.

Her stomach clenched. “Oh . . . it’s me, Amy.”

“I know. I have caller ID—I’ve been waiting.”

The sound of loud motors or screeching chains filled the background. “What’s that noise? Do you want me to call you back?”

“I’m out on-site. Makin’ sure they are environmentally safe as they rip down another acre of pine to build a golf course.”

“Oh. Well . . . okay.”

“Where would you like to meet?”

She closed her eyes. “What?”

“Ame, where do you want to meet?”

“I’m not really sure I want to. I was just calling about the island and—”

“To see me.”

“No.”

“Yes. And for my help. But we need to talk first.”

“Can’t we talk on the phone?”

“No.”

Something other than her will, something of her cracked internal impulses answered. “I have to teach at two o’clock in Savannah on Thursday and then I have to take the class downtown Friday morning—”

He interrupted. “I’m in Beaufort, less than hour from the college. I’ll meet you Thursday. I’ll arrange to have Reese, my buddy with Eco-Tours, take your committee to the island. Would that work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Really? I’ll meet you at—where do you stay?”

“At Porter Hall. I’ll meet you there a little after three.”

“Perfect. Then we can meet your committee down at Carter’s Marina before four. Think they could do that?”

“Sure. Yeah, sure.”

“Ame?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” His voice, she was positive, cracked a little. The man who wavered between assured and sarcastic was still broken in the hidden places only she could touch.

PART II

PART II

I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it.

—Albert Einstein

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Nick opened the refrigerator, lifted the orange juice carton and popped the top off, then took a swig. He glanced around his familiar kitchen; although nothing was out of place, it appeared skewed, as if someone had slanted the picture, placed something there that he couldn’t identify. All of this was real: his wife, his children, his job, the photos on the shelf, the mail on the counter. Yet simultaneously Amy and the truth, destiny and second chances, were even more genuine.