As he waved and went on his way, she stood up and held the quilt by one edge, letting it flap in the wind to blow the sand away. Then she folded it and took her time crossing first the dunes and then the bridge, thinking all the while of a distance she could not get over—the great divide between where she was and where she longed to be.

twenty-six

Over breakfast at a waterfront café in Titusville, Peyton unfolded his father’s map and reviewed, for what seemed like the hundredth time, the neatly written notes, all in pencil, that traced his path out into the blue ocean. Most people wrote in rounded letters, but his dad wrote in architectural, boxy letters, sometimes at odd angles, as if he couldn’t be confined to a straight line—not so much writing his thoughts, hard and permanent, as sketching them with a fluidity that could be reconsidered. Next to a tiny arrow pointing to Merritt Island, he had written, “Could hide away here with Kate forever.”

Peyton wondered if his father had ever envisioned himself having a son back then, or did he dream only of being a husband? His father had never done anything to make him feel like an unwelcome addition to the perfect union, but maybe he had been, at least in the beginning. Aunt Gert might have the answer. Then again, maybe he would find it on a Florida island marked by an arrow written in his father’s hand.

After paying his tab, Peyton climbed onto his bike, heading south to a bridge that crossed onto Merritt, dense with palms and palmettos. On its western shore, it was separated from the mainland by the Indian River. To the east, the Banana River flowed between the island and Cape Canaveral. It was isolated yet far from quiet, reverberating with the hum of cicadas punctuated by birdcalls. Cranes waded its shallows, while ducks noisily congregated on the island’s lakes and ponds. Now and again, the narrow pavement would play out altogether, and Peyton would find himself pedaling across hard-packed sand, gravel, and shells.

At last, he came to the first sign of life—human life, at least—that he had seen here: an unpainted, wood-frame house slightly elevated on low coquina pillars, with tall windows, a metal roof, and a deep front porch. An old woman wearing a cotton dress, tennis shoes, and a wide-brimmed straw hat was sweeping the front yard, which was much too shady for a lawn. She threw up her hand when she saw him. Peyton stopped and waved back.

“You got time to come in?” she called to him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he pedaled into her yard.

She propped her broom against a tree and walked out to meet him. “Matilda Jenks,” she said, extending her hand.

“Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand. “I’m Peyton Cabot.”

Her eyes grew wide as she stepped closer to him. “Cabot?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all.”