“Oh, Linnea,” Cara said, her voice tinged with compassion. “When I told you about the legacy of the beach house, I meant for you to understand that it is your sanctuary too. I admit, I was worried when you kept inviting people to stay with you.”

“I was trying to pay it forward,” she repeated.

“And you did.” Cara chuckled. “You didn’t fail. Don’t you see? You succeeded.”

“How?”

“The beach house became like the mushroom in the children’s story. Remember the one?”

Linnea squinted. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s one of Hope’s favorites. All these animals seek shelter from the rain under a mushroom barely big enough for one. The rain kept coming down and the animals kept arriving. Somehow, they all managed to find shelter. When the sun comes out the following morning, they discover what happens to a mushroom in the rain. It grows!” Cara smiled. “It’s such a sweet story. Your care and love is the rain, Linnea. As it was your grandmother’s. Love grows. That is the magic of the beach house.”

She reached out to smooth a lock of Linnea’s hair that was falling across her face and tucked it behind her ear. Linnea closed her eyes at the gentle touch, feeling it deeply.

“Sometimes, though, a woman gives too much. When things start to fall apart, when you begin to feel angry, when you make mistakes, it’s time to stop and take stock.” She laughed. “Control is an illusion. I learned that lesson.”

“I guess I still have to learn that one,” Linnea said.

She felt something scratching at her hand. Startled, she softly shrieked and looked down. A hatchling was trying to climb over her fingers. “Oh my God, Cara! The hatchlings. They’re coming!”

Oh so carefully, Linnea and Cara rose to their feet, lest they step on one of the dozens of hatchlings scrambling past them. Even as she moved slowly. Linnea felt her excitement bubble.

“I’ll stay by the nest. You guide them to the sea,” Cara called out.

Linnea flicked on her red flashlight and made her way gingerly ahead of the squadron of tiny brown hatchlings marching toward the ocean. In the dim light they looked more like moving pebbles covering the beach. Some were circling around and heading back to the dune. There were too many of them for her to use her feet as blockades.

“They’re turning!” she called to Cara.

“Be the moon!”

Linnea hurried to the surf and, thankful she was wearing sandals, stepped into the sea. The water was bathwater warm and as dark as ink. She hated being in the ocean at night; it was hunting time for sharks. She’d seen more than her share of sharks in shallow water. Still, the hatchlings were disoriented and duty called. Higher by the dune, she saw the narrow beam of red light of Cara’s flashlight as she walked with the red bucket, scooping up hatchlings to bring them closer to the water and safety. The perils of a dark sky with bright streetlights were a deadly combination.