Oystertip Island grew until the curved pale beach appeared before them as a welcome mat. The oyster beds clumped together like mounds of broken china—sharp and beautiful in their clinging mass. The briny smell of marsh, earth and unseen marine life mixed with the wind. A wood stork glided over the treetops and disappeared into the thick of the marsh’s cordgrass. Revvy pointed, but no one spoke.

To the left the beach faded into jagged lines of clumped grass which then merged with the maritime forest at the center of the island. Reese pulled the boat close to shore and threw out the anchor.

Amy looked at Nick. “How are we supposed to get to shore?”

“Walk.”

“On water?”

He laughed. She shivered at the sound.

“No, you can touch bottom here. You might get a little wet, but you can walk in.”

“Great.” Amy looked down at her jeans while Norah, Brenton and Revvy took off their shoes, threw their gear over their backs, then jumped in and began to wade to shore. The water hit the bottom of their knees, and they waved at her and Nick to come on.

Nick reached down and flipped off his boat shoes, then threw Amy’s satchel over his back. He hoisted himself over the side of the boat and looked up at her. “Come on, I’ll carry you on my back.”

“Really?”

For one moment she imagined herself riding on his back, her legs around him; then she jumped in the water. Jeans wet below the knee were nothing compared to the danger of wrapping her legs around Nick Lowry.

Norah, Revvy and Brenton stood onshore waiting for them. Brenton paced the beach, running his toes through the sand while he pulled out his notebooks.

They agreed to scatter and gather specimens and pictures, search different areas for the one thing that might save the island. Nick and Amy walked toward the interior where the house stood like a layer cake with whipped-cream icing left out in the rain.

Norah followed Brenton, while Revvy took off for the oyster-encrusted tip of the island, where he hoped to find a significant loggerhead nesting area.

Nick followed Amy as she kicked her way along the crushed-shell path toward the home. “We can’t get in, but I can show you the house,” she said.

“Hmm.” Nick picked up a fallen leaf, held it up to the sun. “I think this leaf is from a wild orchid—only a few left in the state.”

“Oh.”

He smiled. “Keep telling me about the house—I’m listening.”

I’m listening. Such sweet words.

“The house was built in the early 1700s by the Eldrin family, who were slave merchants and indigo farmers. It was their ‘country life’ house—used for holidays, parties, hunting. It is one of the few extant mansions in the Palladian style. Most Colonial-style homes were burned in Savannah’s fire of 1796.” She sighed. “I’m boring you.”