Ruth ran her fingers over her own tempestuous black curls, barely contained by the rubber band, wondering if she could straighten the strands and twist them up into a smooth updo.

When they approached the cottage, she could see through the opened screened windows that Mama was giving Miss Carlotta the tour.

The house had sat empty since last summer, so Mama had collected her buckets and mops, and three days ago she and Ruth had mopped the wooden floors, wiped the kitchen countertops, swept the porch that wrapped the entire house, and wiped each window with a clean rag damp with white vinegar. By the time they were finished, all traces of dank mildew had been replaced by the clean scent of linseed oil.

Now, the windows were open, and the soft ocean breeze made the porch swing creak against rusting chains as it teased the edges of new floral curtains. The main room was sizable by Outer Banks standards, but there’d been a guest or two from the mainland who’d complained it would have been too small if not for the stone fireplace stretching up to the vaulted roofline.

The furniture—a couch; two chairs; coffee, end, and dining tables; plus the four headboards—had all been handmade by Daddy and Uncle Henry. Each piece was solid and set low with thick armrests like the furniture Daddy had seen when his navy ship sailed the South Pacific. Instead of carving tikis and turtles into the oak, Daddy had etched the reclaimed wood with ospreys, sanderlings, and gulls. Mama had sewn thick cotton sailboat fabric into cushions and pillows.

Ruth had helped Mama make up the double-framed bed on the first floor with a spread of bright green, red, and blue sailboats. She’d also been tasked with dusting the dresser, the mirror, and a small chair in the corner. She had helped Mama clean her share of bungalow rooms but wished this time she’d taken more care and not swept a dust pile under the bedroom’s braided rug.

Mama’s voice drifted through the screened walls of the sleeping porch. “There’s two other rooms upstairs. The cottage can sleep eight, but let me know if you host any overnight guests. I like to know who’s on my property.”

“I won’t be having guests,” Carlotta said. “I’m looking forward to a little privacy and space of my own after years of living on the boat.”

“You’ve been on that boat for a long time.” Mama’s statement held hints of an unasked question.

“Fourteen years,” Carlotta said.

“How have you found it, the boat, I mean? All the traveling?”

A sensation curled in Ruth’s chest as she stood at the bottom of the stairs, drawn to their conversation as if a truth would be whispered.

“I like it,” Carlotta said. “We’re in a different port every day or two.”

“You don’t get tired of moving around?” Mama asked.

“No. I spent the first fifteen years of my life in one very small town.”

“Do you miss home?”