“Ivy Neale?”

Turning, she spotted a tall man with a barrel chest, a thick shock of white hair, a gray handlebar mustache, a bulbous nose, and rosy cheeks.

The local vet, Dr. Brown, and his wife had eaten every Friday at the Seaside Resort. Seafood chowder. Bread with extra butter.

She grinned and walked toward him. “Dr. Brown.”

He wrapped her in a bear hug as if the last dozen years had never happened. “Good to see you back, kid. The seafood chowder was never the same after you left.”

She inhaled the scent of tobacco and dog. “Thanks.”

He stepped back, regarding her. “You look great. The years have been good to you.”

“I could say the same for you.”

He laughed. “And you would be lying. But I’ll take it.” The smile dimmed. “Real sorry about Ruth. She was a pistol.”

“She was,” Ivy said. “Thank you. Good to see you.”

“You too.”

As Ivy drove back to the cottage, it struck her that Ruth had gotten along with everybody except Ivy. When they were in the same room, sparks flew along with terse words. Ruth often said it was because they were so alike. “Can’t have two she-wolves in the same kitchen and not expect trouble.”

Ivy had always claimed she and her grandmother were not alike. However, in the last few years, the Ruthisms, which always began with Hard work never hurt anyone, had crossed her lips more frequently. Other gems included Enjoy the good times while they last, Actions have consequences, and Always room at my table.

In her mind, she heard her mother’s voice. “Ivy, sit up straight,” Mama had said.

Four-year-old Ivy rolled her shoulders back and glanced over at her mother as she shifted gears. As her mother drove down the beach road, the cold winter air leaked in around the edges of the window. So far, they had passed seven green mile markers, one mini golf course, and more houses on pillars than Ivy could count.

The back of their car was packed with eleven green garbage bags filled with her and her mother’s clothes. Ivy also had her favorite quilt, a stuffed bear with one eye, and a baggie filled with the three last Goldfish. “Are you sure we’ll be back home in time for Christmas? Santa won’t be able to find me down here.”

The rearview mirror caught her mother’s nervous smile. “Don’t worry. Santa will find you.”

Mama ran long fingers through her thick, straight black hair, which elongated her narrow face. Even at age four, Ivy envied her mother’s slim lines and hoped her stout legs would grow as long and her dark, curly hair would magically straighten.

Ivy wiggled out of her car seat straps, leaned forward between the seats, and pushed the scan button on the radio dial, searching for music. For the last two hours, none of the radio stations had matched the ones in Richmond. She pressed again. And again.

Finally, she found a hazy “Always Be My Baby.” Some of the day care moms weren’t a fan of Mariah, but Mama didn’t care.