“My grandmother,” Lily said, eyes filling with tears as she wished that Maeve had run away with her nine years ago, that they had gone to Cape Hawk together, that they had both run as far from Edward Hunter as they could.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The days were long in Cape Hawk, Nova Scotia, with bright northern light lingering until well past nine at night, when fireflies would flash in the pines, and owls would begin their long hunts down from their mountain nests. A heat wave had settled over the area, and every morning dawned clear and golden, the bay's flat, calm surface unbroken by anything but whales coming up for air.

The whale-watching fleet would begin its daily trips at eight-thirty in the morning. Tourists flocked to the wharf, to board the Neill family boats. Many of them had spent the night at the Cape Hawk Inn, owned by the same family. Jude Neill captained the vessels, his wife Anne operated the inn, and his cousin Liam was the town's resident oceanographer.

Honeybees buzzed in the roses, but the real buzz took place in the hotel—where preparations for the monthlong Ceili Festival were fast and furious. Marisa Taylor walked along the harbor path, hearing strains of all the different Irish bands—fiddles, tin whistles, guitars, and accordions filling the air. She stared at the ferry coming across the strait, laden with vans full of musicians and their instruments.

When she got to the wharf, she reached for the brass key ring and unlocked the door to In Stitches, Lily's needlework shop. Marisa and all of Lily's friends had been taking turns keeping the shop open while she saw to things back home in Connecticut. The walls and baskets featured Lily's needlepoint canvases—of summer gardens spilling over with roses, lilies, delphinium, and larkspur; of Cape Hawk's blue harbor, bright with whale-watching boats; of Nanny, the famous and beloved pure white beluga whale, native to these waters; scenes of mothers, daughters, friends, and sisters.

Sisters, Marisa thought as the music drifted down from the hotel, through the shop's open door. Turning on the shop computer, Marisa instantly checked her own e-mail—although she had checked at home just thirty minutes ago, before leaving her kitchen. Still nothing.

Jessica, her nine-year-old daughter, came running down the dock, waving madly. She had come down to the harbor early, to look for starfish at low tide. Her jeans were rolled up, and her sneakers squeaked as they slapped the wharf slats.

“Did she write back yet?” Jessica asked, flying through the door.

“Whoa, wet feet!” Marisa called. “It's not our shop, remember?”

“I know,” Jessica said, kicking off her sneakers. “Did she write back?”

“Not yet,” Marisa said, watching her daughter's face fall.

“This is a sad summer so far,” Jessica said. “Aunt Sam's not writing back to you, and my best friend went away.”