She and Edna had agreed to a two-week stay. Neither knew if the arrangement would work, but both were willing to try, knowing each offered something the other needed. By early July the Maisy Adams would be ready to sail again, and she would move on to the next port.

Suddenly restless, she sat up in her bed, listening to the heavy breeze. She missed the swaying of the boat—her home. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, petted a sleeping Whiskey, and walked into the small kitchen. She filled a teakettle with water and set it on the stove. A twist of a knob, and the burner fired to life.

Opening the refrigerator, Carlotta reached for the milk bottle and then saw the half-eaten sandwich. She would miss Ruth. The kid—Edna’s child—was a pistol. She worked hard, and she had a good heart. Carlotta found herself looking forward to the kid’s next visit.

Several times she’d caught Ruth staring at her. Maybe the girl was getting her first look at someone from the world outside. Maybe she saw more. Ruth was smart, and her drawings proved she was perceptive.

She walked to the sleeping porch, stared out over the clear skies and what looked like the remnants of a shipwreck. She knew the waters along this stretch of coastline were littered with wrecks, but as omens went, it was not a good one.

“And why do a collection of boards matter? Why does it matter how much Ruth stares at me?” It shouldn’t. But it did.

The captain of the Maisy Adams didn’t like lingering in any port more than three days because time led to broken heads and broken hearts, both of which were bad for business.

The teakettle whistled. She turned away from the wreck, hoping that coming here had been the right decision.

RUTH

Ruth had grown up with storms. She knew enough to respect their fury and listened when her parents told her to hunker down in the bathroom. Last night’s rainstorm had been a doozy, but it wasn’t the worst she had lived through. Talley had cringed under her blanket each time lightning cracked across the sky. To her credit, she’d not cried or asked Ruth to wake up and comfort her.

The smell of bacon and sweet buns drew Ruth out from under her covers, and she rose quickly. “Get up, sleepyhead! Daddy’s making sweet buns.”

“It’s time to get up?” Talley groaned.

“Afraid so.” She made her bed, dressed, and brushed her teeth and hair before dashing down the stairs to the kitchen.

Daddy was standing at the stove, fishing crisp bacon from a cast-iron pan. “Morning, peanut.”