She thought back to a special wedding anniversary, when Marshall had taken her to The Olde Pink House in Savannah—such a beautiful restaurant, with immaculate white linens, polished silver, and candlelight. It was hard to say what she remembered most about him that night. His hand cupping a wineglass the same way it cupped her face when he kissed her? Eyes the color of the ocean right before a rain? An unexpected smile on a face often serious?

After dinner, Kate and Marshall had driven back to their house on Tybee and lay together in a big chaise lounge on a little crow’s nest that made them feel like they were floating in the night sky, high above the rooftops, with nothing overhead but stars.

Was Marshall looking down from that sky right now? Could he see her somehow?

She longed to go with him, but she had a son to raise, and Peyton deserved the best she could give. Part of her wished she had made him promise to call every day. But Marshall would say that was defeating the purpose of his journey. She would just have to trust them both.

twenty-one

By lunchtime on the first leg of his trip, Peyton had made it to Flagler Beach, where he had a cheeseburger and a mountain of fries at the restaurant on the fishing pier. The ride through Flagler was especially nice because A1A ran like a ribbon along the ocean, hugging a watery view. After lunch, he had walked onto the pier and watched the surfers for an hour or so before hopping back on his bike—and realizing he had the first flat tire of his journey.

He found a shady spot across the highway from the pier, took out his pump and an inner tube, and soon had his bike road-ready again. He refilled his water flask and was repacking his supplies into the saddlebag when he spotted something he didn’t remember seeing in there before—gray leather fingerless gloves. Peyton pulled them out and read the note tucked inside: “To keep those blisters on your hands from getting any worse. Love, Mama.”

He turned his palms up and examined the red places already forming at the base of his fingers and the inner sides of his thumbs, where he gripped the handlebars. For whatever reason, the sores on his hands made him think of the watch on Doctor Crenshaw’s wrist the day of his father’s accident. Peyton remembered how he had studied the watch, wondering whether it had been an heirloom passed down from the doctor’s father. Maybe the blisters on his hands were his legacy, his inheritance, wounds handed down with no promise of healing. This much Peyton was sure of: He needed to get this journey done. He needed Lisa.

The afternoon ride into Daytona proved much more taxing than his morning travels. Even in late May, which was nowhere near the hottest part of summer, the Florida sun was beating down. He had drained his flask, and his T-shirt felt heavy and sticky, clinging to his body like moss on a rock. While his ball cap protected his face, his exposed arms and thighs were feeling the effects of a full day in the sun, and his eyes were stinging from salty sweat, which found a way to trickle in, no matter how much he swiped at it. His throat felt like sandpaper. Peyton could think of nothing right now but water—water to drink, water to cool his blistering skin, water to wash himself clean.