The bird inched forward at a leisurely pace. Finally, it stopped, directly in front of the setting sun, its head raised, poised in what looked like a deliberate pose. She held her breath and clicked three quick frames, catching the elegant creature in profile against the dying light of the day.

She expected it to fly off then, but the heron turned slightly, then continued on down the beach as the light turned lilac and the sand turned gray.

Drue collapsed back into her chair, pulling up the three photos, silently marveling at the beauty of what she’d just witnessed, at the same time amused at her own ridiculous sense of achievement. God, she scoffed. She’d turned into a total tourist cliché in her own hometown. Soon she’d be clipping coupons and eating dinner at five o’clock.

For now, she settled back in her chair. She was watching for the green flash, the moment just before sunset, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Jazmin Mayes and Yvonne. And Aliyah, the mermaid who didn’t know how to swim.

27

Breakfast for supper had been a long-standing Sunday-night staple of her childhood years. As an adult, she now realized her mother’s menu was dictated by economy—eggs and cereal and toast being much cheaper than chicken or steak. But at the time, Sherri made it seem exotic, as though pancakes, or more often, Pop-Tarts, were a delicacy to be reserved for special occasions. Like Sunday nights. Since she’d moved into Coquina Cottage it was a tradition Drue had unconsciously revived.

She stood at the stove, absentmindedly shaking salt and pepper into a bowl of scrambled eggs before pouring the mixture into her grandmother’s cast-iron skillet. The bacon was cooling on folded-up paper towels on the countertop.

Drue stared out the kitchen window, thinking about her last week’s dinner with Brice. Had she imagined his startled reaction when she’d brought up the name of Colleen Boardman Hicks? There had to be a reason her mother had kept that file of clippings about the “missing local beauty.” Was there something sinister there? She thought back to what her mother had said about Brice over the years, which really was surprisingly little, now that she thought about it.

Once, shortly after she’d moved back to Lauderdale after that disastrous year with Brice and Joan, she’d worked up the nerve to ask Sherri what had prompted their divorce.

“He’s a chaser,” Sherri had said in her matter-of-fact way. “Your dad is always looking out for that next best thing—a job, a house, a woman. He’ll never be satisfied with what he’s got. And that includes a wife. Do yourself a favor, Drue. Don’t ever marry a chaser.”

Had Colleen Boardman Hicks been one of the women Brice had pursued?