“But what if I don’t?” Ivy asked.

“Then you don’t,” Ruth said. “And you’ll have to make the best of it, just like the rest of us.”

“That’s not fair,” Ivy grumbled.

“Life’s not fair,” Ruth said.

Ruth’s gaze held an iron resolve that wasn’t muddled by emotion or tears. She traded only in facts. Santa wouldn’t find Ivy. She wasn’t going to Jessica’s birthday party. The beach was home for now.

CHAPTER THREE

IVY

Tuesday, January 18, 2022, 8:30 a.m.

At the grocery store, Ivy made her way to the seafood department, knowing even in the off-season the offerings would be fresh. When she’d worked in the Seaside Resort kitchen, she’d made gallons of fish chowder, mountains of corn bread, and thousands of fig cakes. Suddenly, she had a taste for the seafood stew and Ruth’s fried chicken.

She bought clams, Old Bay, clam juice, and, from the meat department, fatback and organic chicken legs. From produce she scooped up bags of potatoes, onions, carrots, preserved figs, and nuts. On the baking aisle she found bread crumbs and all the fixings for a cake, and finally from dairy, she bought butter and buttermilk. It had been twelve years since she’d cooked the Seaside Resort menu, but much like a forgotten toy that had been retrieved from the attic, the idea of cooking Ruth’s recipes again was fresh and new.

Remembering the cluttered interior of the cottage, she nabbed more green plastic trash bags (twenty boxes in all) and tossed them in with the groceries. Checkout took less than five minutes (in the summer that time quadrupled), and her credit card cleared yet again. Within fifteen minutes she was driving on the beach road back to Ruth’s.

She balanced all six grocery bags between her hands and climbed the stairs to the porch. Each gust of northern wind cut through her jacket.

After wrestling with the front door lock, Ivy shoved inside the cottage and moved to the small, dark, L-shaped kitchen. She opened the refrigerator, bracing for a mess, but found it cleaned out. Her fairy godmother had struck again. She put the groceries away, then rummaged through the spice cabinet, tossing several bottles of outdated cinnamon, oregano, and basil. Normally, Ruth had kept her spice cabinet up to date, but like everything else, age or shifting priorities had diminished the importance of the task.

Ivy walked into the main room and wove amid the clutter, conceding Dalton’s idea of the dumpster was a good one. She unlocked the door to the sleeping porch, tugged a few times at the swollen wood, and opened it.

The moist breeze off the ocean whistled past her into the cottage’s rafters. The winds had churned up the water, and the waves crashed onto the shore in their timeless way. She stepped out onto the porch, the only clutter-free spot in the house. The screened walls flapped, and sandy grit crunched under her feet as she stared out over the swaying sea oats. As welcoming and beautiful as this land could be, it was just as ungracious and forbidding. The barrier islands expected much of their inhabitants, but their promises of a good life extended only until the next storm.