Ruth cut through the lobby out the back door to the large rectangular pool that Daddy had put in at the end of the war. The pool was a risk, but Daddy bet it would be the extra attraction to set the Seaside Resort apart from the growing number of hotels on the barrier islands.

Talley stood beside the tiki bar, carefully folding a stack of freshly bleached towels. The towels not carted off by guests would be washed thousands of times in the next twelve weeks. The few that survived the season rarely made it through the next.

Talley was tall and thin and wore her thick blonde hair, so like Mama’s, in a ponytail. She was the youngest of eight, and her kin—their kin—were from the mountains of western North Carolina, near Asheville. Mama and Talley’s mama, Jolene, were sisters. Mama also had a twin named Patsy and another sister, Beth Ann.

Ruth had never met any of her extended family, but Talley said her mama exchanged regular letters with her sisters back home. Sometime last winter, during the course of a few letters, Mama and Jolene had decided Talley should work at the Seaside Resort for the summer.

Not only was Talley afraid of the ocean, but she didn’t like sand between her toes. When they’d returned from the beach last night, she’d washed her feet twice and then fished two worn paperbacks from her suitcase and started reading. She’d declined Ruth’s offer to go for a walk early this morning.

Ruth glared at the stack of unfolded white towels. “I swear they grow whenever your back is turned.”

“What, the towels?” Talley regarded the stack. “Towels don’t grow.”

Ruth reached for a fresh terry cloth rectangle, folded it in half once and then again. “Just you wait and see. You’ll have a full stack of folded towels; turn your back, and a pile of dirty ones will have taken its place in a blink.”

“I don’t mind folding,” Talley said. “It’s relaxing.”

“If I had a nickel for all the towels I’ve folded, I’d be rich.”

Beyond the pool, the waves of the Atlantic crashed against the shore, chasing off a flock of gulls rooting for tiny crabs bubbling below the moist sand. “What’s it like growing up by the ocean? I mean, it’s a sight to behold, but it scares me.”

Ruth looked past Talley to the smooth-as-glass ocean. “It’s calm today. Has been since you arrived.” Ruth grinned. “Mama don’t tolerate storms on opening day.”

“She can’t control the weather.”

“Daddy swears she can,” Ruth said.

“I’d like to collect some shells,” she said.

“I thought you were afraid.”

“I am, but my curiosity is getting the better of me.”

“You’ll have a million of them by the end of summer.” Ruth still collected shells, but as she’d grown up by the ocean, selectivity was key if she didn’t want to be overrun. The half clamshell or conch needed smooth, clean lines, or she placed it back in the sand. “Is the ocean as pretty as the mountains? I’ve only seen pictures.”