“This is going to be your room,” Ruth had said to Ivy years ago as they’d entered the room.

“Why don’t you sleep upstairs?” Ivy asked.

“I like my feet closer to the ground,” Ruth said. “But you should love this room. It’s the best in the house. You can see the entire length of the beach from your window. Not many girls have that kind of view.” The room had twin beds, one covered in a green comforter and the other in blue, and between them a large window that overlooked the beach and ocean.

The floorboards creaked as a wind pressed against the house. “Is it scary at night up here?”

“When I was a girl, I lived in this room alone most of the time. Your mother also slept up here when she was your age. And now it’s your turn.”

“Why is she downstairs now?” Ivy asked.

“It’ll be better if she’s closer to me.”

“Does she get scared?”

“Sometimes.”

A frown furrowed in the center of Ivy’s forehead. “And if I get scared at night?” She stared out over the stretch of beach toward the crashing waves.

“You won’t get scared.”

“Why does Mom?”

“You’re different than your mother. She’s more like her daddy, and you’re more like me.”

“What was my grandfather like?” Ivy walked into the room and skimmed her fingers over the blue comforter.

“He wasn’t the bravest of men, but he tried to be the best he could.” Ruth shrugged as if knocking off an old weight trying to resettle on her shoulders.

“Where is he?”

“He died in an accident.”

“Like my dad?”

“Yes. Like your father. We Wheeler women don’t have the best luck with men.”

“Does that mean I’ll have bad luck?”

“No, you’re better than your mother and me put together.”

“What if I don’t want to live here?” she asked Ruth.

Ruth grinned. “I’d bet good money when you come full circle, this is where you’ll end up.”

The words had echoed in Ivy’s head for years, and whenever she remembered them, she always laughed, certain Ruth was wrong. Now, to prove a point, she said aloud, “This is a U-turn, not a circle back, Ruth.”

She spent the next hour carrying boxes of utensils, Bibles, napkins, and bowls out to her “free” spot at the end of the driveway. Then, when she could actually see the wood-paneled floor, she began sweeping in the far-right corner, corralling dust toward the door. When she came around the bed, she lifted the end and carefully moved the frame several feet to the left.

The shift exposed a collection of boxes under the bed, including what looked like homemade and store-bought sketch pads and a black box.

Ivy collected the items, carried them to the living room, and set them all beside the hotel-registration and address books. Her gaze was drawn to the older makeshift sketchbooks, which were a collection of paper place mats from the Seaside Resort stitched together. Judging by the images, the sketches dated back to the late 1940s or early 1950s.