Walking the circumference of the cottage, Peyton could see that it was more porch than house. On the porch ceiling, he spotted two sturdy hooks about five feet apart. They likely had held a swing or a hammock at one time—long gone now. The whole structure from floor to ceiling was built of cypress. Its tall windows were all shuttered. Peyton unfastened the shutters covering one of them and peered inside. The place looked empty. He tried the front door, which immediately creaked open into a large room with a little kitchen built into one end and an oversized wicker chaise, apparently pulled in from the porch, sitting in the middle of the floor. A sole interior door led to a tiny bathroom. The rest of the one-room house was empty.

Every front-facing window had a mate on the back of the house. Its cross breezes must be amazing when those windows were all open. Finn had told him how important it was to get your windows right in a Florida house because they could save it from the pressure of a hurricane—let the storm blow through instead of blowing you away.

Peyton heard the wind kick up a bit, and the palms and bananas were now in constant motion, making a sound that was part sigh, part click as the stiff fronds swayed up, down, and around. Returning to the porch, he looked out and saw that the turquoise water, usually smooth as glass, was getting choppy. Nothing major, just a slight motion—the kind of thing Finn had taught him to pay attention to.

Peyton had the strangest feeling that his father had been here, primarily because it was exactly the kind of place his dad loved—simple, authentic, quiet, and private. Private most of all. Peyton knew that he would be oddly homesick for this little house once he left it, but his better instincts told him to get back into town before the weather broke. He took one more look around in hopes of spotting something that might connect the cottage to his dad. But the house kept its secrets.

After closing the shutters and securing the front door, Peyton climbed down the steps and headed toward Duval. Now he heard distant thunder, and the wind was blowing at a steady clip. He had traveled only a couple of blocks when something stopped him. Slowly, he slid the aviators on top of his head and stood very still, as if the slightest movement might turn his vision to a vapor.

On the corner up ahead was a girl with long, auburn hair blowing in the wind. She was standing with her back to him, looking up and down the street as if she couldn’t figure out which way to go. Nobody else had hair like that. Nobody. He recognized the white cotton dress with the wide belt that had clusters of strawberries all around it.

Peyton took a few tentative steps. “Lisa?” he called out.

She immediately whirled around. “Peyton?” The wind lifted her hair away from her face and swirled the skirt of her dress around her legs. He couldn’t quite read her face—was it joy or shock that he saw there? Maybe a little of both?