Eyes glistened. “She very well may be. But my grandmother retold this story all her life, right up until her last days, when she was blind and bedridden. She insisted a shipwrecked orphan lived among us.”

It was the kind of story a girl told herself when her mother left her. Ruth most likely had told herself similar stories. “Did she ever say if this girl was happy?”

“She lived a good life, with loving parents, according to my grandmother.”

Carlotta eyed him, trying to determine if there was truth in this storyteller’s happy ending. “And the orphan never had a desire to find this wealthy father?”

“She was happy. Said there was never a reason to go looking for trouble.” From around his neck, he removed a silver ball chain with dog tags and a loop of wire holding a delicate cross. “When I joined the navy, my grandmother gave it to me.”

“In your story, Francesca left a cross with her baby.”

“Some whispered that my grandmother was that baby,” he said.

Her heart beat faster for the mother and child separated by circumstance. “But she never said for sure?”

Windswept hair brushed over his forehead and eye patch, giving him the look of a sweet devil. “The Andersons never let truth get in the way of a good story.”

She was charmed. “My goodness. That’s quite a tale.” She ran her thumb over the imprint of his name. “Atlantic or Pacific?”

“Atlantic.”

She’d sung to enough soldiers struggling to leave the war behind. Many could during the daylight hours, but at night, near the witching hour, the ghosts returned to haunt. She handed him back the tags and cross. “Looks like your grandmother was your good luck charm.”

“I kept her with me every step of the way.” He strung the chain around his neck again but left it hanging roguishly outside his shirt.

“What has you out walking on the beach this late at night?” she asked softly.

“Why are you up?” he countered.

“I suppose we all have ghosts,” Carlotta said.

Moonlight illuminated the amber depths of his whiskey swirling slowly in his glass. “Why would a lovely woman like you be haunted by ghosts?”

She had always known she was attractive. The boys had come sniffing around the house when she was thirteen. She’d run away at fifteen, and by sixteen, she’d fallen for a young man with a gentle heart and a powerful need to wander. “Who doesn’t have ghosts?”

He regarded her over the glass lingering at his lips. “A husband? Boyfriend?”