As Ivy’s skills grew in the kitchen, so did her confidence, and when many of her friends were floundering in high school, she found her purpose. No matter what, she knew she would be a chef.

Ivy set the ingredients up just as Ruth had taught her nearly twenty years ago. She no longer tested the oil with a spoon because thousands of hours in kitchens had honed her senses, so she knew when the oil was just right or when the chicken needed to be turned or removed.

Forty-five minutes later, the aroma of frying chicken filled the old cottage, stuffing the air with as many memories as scents. Libby rose from her bed and came into the kitchen, her ears perked.

“It has that effect on people,” Ivy said. She made a bowl of dog food and sprinkled a few bits of crispy chicken skin on top. “I’m creating a very bad habit, but a new mother deserves to treat herself.”

Ivy set the bowl down, and the dog gobbled it up. There was something satisfying about watching someone enjoy the food she’d created.

She picked up a leg, blew on it, and held it up to her nose. For her, smell was the strongest conductor of memories. And smelling Ruth’s fried chicken again reminded her of the life she could have had.

CHAPTER ELEVEN IVY

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IVY

Friday, January 21, 2022, 7:00 a.m.

Ivy woke up to the sounds of bulldozers grating against sand and soil. “Good morning, Dalton.”

She sat up in her old twin bed and looked out her window toward the ginger sun peeking over the horizon and glittering fresh light on the Atlantic’s waters. She swung her legs around and stretched the lingering tightness from her back. As the machines ground over the lot next door, she rubbed her eyes and padded down the stairs into the kitchen. She turned on her coffeepot, then glanced around the boxes at Libby and the sleeping puppies. Libby looked ready for a break.

She took the dog out the back door and toward the dune. As the dog sniffed and considered her options, Ivy was glad to see the wreck was still visible. If the veil between the living and dead truly had thinned, Ruth had to be close. And that gave her comfort.

She took Libby back in the house, fed her, and refreshed her water bowl as her coffeepot gurgled. She filled a large earthenware mug, walked back, descended the stairs, scaled the dune, and crossed the sand to the old vessel. She skimmed fingertips over the damp, darkened petrified wood, now harder than steel.

Dani had texted last night and asked if her father could stop by midday and see the wreck from the sleeping porch, which had the best view. Ivy had quickly agreed, and they’d settled on 11:00 a.m. Enough time to drink coffee and shower.