BooksBarbecue
Back The Summer Cottage
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. About the Author
  6. Dedication
  7. Quote
  8. Prologue
  9. Part One
  10. ONE
  11. TWO
  12. THREE
  13. Part Two
  14. FOUR
  15. FIVE
  16. SIX
  17. Part Three
  18. SEVEN
  19. EIGHT
  20. NINE
  21. TEN
  22. Part Four
  23. ELEVEN
  24. TWELVE
  25. THIRTEEN
  26. Part Five
  27. FOURTEEN
  28. FIFTEEN
  29. SIXTEEN
  30. SEVENTEEN
  31. Part Six
  32. EIGHTEEN
  33. NINETEEN
  34. TWENTY
  35. TWENTY-ONE
  36. Part Seven
  37. TWENTY-TWO
  38. TWENTY-THREE
  39. TWENTY-FOUR
  40. TWENTY-FIVE
  41. Part Eight
  42. TWENTY-SIX
  43. TWENTY-SEVEN
  44. TWENTY-EIGHT
  45. TWENTY-NINE
  46. Part Nine
  47. THIRTY
  48. THIRTY-ONE
  49. THIRTY-TWO
  50. THIRTY-THREE
  51. THIRTY-FOUR
  52. Part Ten
  53. THIRTY-FIVE
  54. THIRTY-SIX
  55. THIRTY-SEVEN
  56. THIRTY-EIGHT
  57. Part Eleven
  58. THIRTY-NINE
  59. FORTY
  60. FORTY-ONE
  61. Part Twelve
  62. FORTY-TWO
  63. FORTY-THREE
  64. FORTY-FOUR
  65. Part Thirteen
  66. FORTY-FIVE
  67. FORTY-SIX
  68. FORTY-SEVEN
  69. EPILOGUE
  70. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  71. AUTHOR NOTE
  72. Reader’s Guide
  73. Questions for Discussion
  74. The Heirloom Garden
  75. Abby

It is my favorite time of the day on the beach. My parents called it “the bewitching hour,” that time around 5:00 p.m. when the angle of the sunlight bathes the world in an ethereal light, making everything—the water, the sand, the dunes—look as if it has been dipped in gold. This is the time when the beach grows quiet, people gather their things and head for dinner.

I remember how my mom and dad would lie on the beach, my dad perched against a pillow of sand, my mom’s head on his chest, both reading. I thought those days would never end.

Maybe, in some way, they haven’t, I think, lifting my face to the sun and remembering what Bob and Grace said to me.

I grab some sunscreen and rub it over my face and body. I take a sip of lemonade and pull the paperback from my beach bag. I stare at the pretty, beachy cover of The Shell Seekers and then open it up. Sand trickles from the pages.

Oh, Mom! I think. You’re still here.

I lift the book and shake more sand free. Without warning, a piece of paper falls into my lap.

It is a piece of notebook paper, flattened, deeply creased and yellowed. I unfold it slowly.

Oh, my goodness.

It is a Crayola drawing of a sunset, my childish signature written in purple beneath a sky of orange, red and yellow. Staring into the sunset are three stick figures of a mother, father and daughter.

Everyone must be present for sunset! I’d written at the bottom of the drawing. There is a mirucle in ever one...because we’re hear.

I laugh at my misspellings and run my fingers over the drawing.

You must have used this as your bookmark, Mom, I think. You must have forgotten it was in here.

I study the drawing and then the pages between, which it had called home for so many years. My heart quickens as I read the following passage Rosamunde Pilcher wrote so long ago: “The greatest gift a parent can leave a child is that parent’s own independence.”

This catches me completely off guard, and I lift my head to the sky and say a prayer. The sun warms my face, and I can feel a great calm coming over my body. My eyes struggle to stay open. I fold the drawing and again place it between the same pages where it belongs.

I blink once, twice, three times, my eyes heavy, and before I fall asleep, I remember drawing that sunset so long ago, my parents explaining its importance.