Allowing smoke to spill over her lips, she stabbed the butt into an ashtray. She and Henry had been flirting the last couple of days, each always finding a reason to tease or compliment the other. Moistening her lips, she clicked on a porch light, knowing he would notice.

He paused, the tip of his cigarette glowing red, and she felt his stare. In the ring of light, she rose and adjusted the tie of her robe.

Henry walked down the beach another fifty yards past her cottage, triggering disappointment. Was she losing her touch, or had she misread his lingering stares?

He stopped, turned around. His return trip was a bit faster, and when he shifted toward the dunes near her cottage, she smiled. Her touch was just fine.

Henry climbed the dunes and moved toward the stairs leading to the porch. He rested one foot on the bottom step as the moonlight caught the flash of even white teeth. “You’re up late.”

“It was your ghost story,” she teased. “I still keep waiting for Francesca or the wolfhound to come floating down the beach. The guests will talk about it for years.”

He climbed the stairs, opened the screened door, but didn’t enter. “I always say, if you do something, do it well.”

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“I have sand on my feet.”

She looked down at his naked feet and ankles caked in damp, moist sand. “I’m sure you can figure out what to do.”

While he sat on the stairs and dusted off his feet, Carlotta retrieved a second glass. The steady squeak of the porch door closing sent a slow thrill down her spine.

This close, he looked taller as he stared at her camera. “You a photographer?”

She handed him his glass. “I dabble. Strictly for fun. I travel so much the places blur, and the photos help me remember where I’ve been.”

He took a sip. “Nice.”

“Don’t be boring, and don’t drink bad whiskey.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

She topped off her glass. “Where did you come up with that story?”

“Pieces of the truth woven into a few embellishments.”

“And what part was true?”

“The ship was likely called the Liberty T. Mitchell, which was headed from South Carolina to New York.”

“And the baby?”

He gently swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “There were some legends surrounding a baby who was found in the shipwreck. Word is she was raised by locals.”

“Why wasn’t the child returned to her father?” Carlotta asked.

“As the tale goes, there was a note tucked in her blanket that stated she was safer in God’s hands than her father’s.”

A gnawing curiosity left her a little breathless. “Who told you this story?”

“My grandmother,” he said. “She knows most of the secrets on the Outer Banks.”

“Maybe she’s simply a gifted storyteller like you?”