Anne shook her head, her smile wide. Giving Marisa a hug, she went back to work. “If she comes, we'll be ready for her,” she called back over her shoulder.

Telling her friends she was taking a walk, Marisa headed down toward the harbor. The water shimmered, blue and silver under starlight. She looked out at the fishing fleet, tugging at their moorings in the flood tide. Gazing south, she imagined Patrick on his boat in Connecticut, Sam in her apartment in Baltimore. It seemed so easy to imagine them both coming to Cape Hawk, yet impossible at the same time.

She pulled out a paper and pen and wrote the words “storm tossed.” She knew they were the beginning of a song. She even thought she knew who it was for.

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Maeve had been dreaming of her granddaughter, the two of them working in the garden, tending the roses. The sea air was so fresh and clean, the fragrance of roses so sweet. She heard her own voice in her ears, calling for someone to come. Blinking, her eyes blurred as a man approached. Was it Patrick? An angel down from heaven? Or someone else? Maeve wiped her eyes, and she saw.

Edward Hunter stood over Maeve's bed. He stared down at her with cold eyes. Maeve felt her mouth drop open. Sweat sprang out on her brow, and waves of nausea passed through her. She never felt afraid, or at least never let people see her fear. But she couldn't help it now. She must have been making sounds, because he leaned down, put his ear near her mouth.

“You're babbling,” she heard him say. “You're not making any sense at all. That's why you're in here. Because you're losing it. You're an old lady, and no one cares about you. Even your precious granddaughter can't be bothered with you.”

Maeve felt like shrieking, but instead she just closed her eyes. She heard his voice and knew his cruelty. It reassured her in some small way. She wasn't crazy, wasn't crazy at all. Edward was being Edward. It was one thing she had always been able to count on.

She went deep inside. His voice continued, but she no longer heard it. She saw his vicious face, but then honeysuckle and roses emerged from the darkness to crowd him out.

The roses were beautiful. They grew in a tangle, deep in the garden. The sound of the waves was a lulling shush, shush, shush against the sun-kissed rocks The wishing well was cool and deep. Maeve dropped a penny down, as she had so many times over the years. She made a wish. Her eyes closed, she waited for the wish to come true.

“I want my granddaughter,” she wished silently. “Mara, Mara . . .”