Hope sprinted out the kitchen door to race to the oak tree. Linnea followed at leisure. By the time she arrived, Hope was already scrambling up the tree like a squirrel. Looking up at the window, she saw John standing there. He waved. Linnea waved back, not feeling the awkwardness she’d felt the first few mornings.

“What did you find today?” Linnea called.

Hope turned and, with wide eyes, showed her what looked like two sculptures. Linnea went to take them from her hands so Hope could climb to the ground. On close inspection, the figurines were roughly carved from soap.

“It’s a boy and a girl,” said Hope.

Something about the gift niggled a memory in Linnea’s mind. Suddenly she laughed out loud and swung her head to look at John. He was grinning.

“What’s so funny?” asked Hope, retrieving her precious soap sculptures.

“Well,” Linnea began, trying to figure out how to explain it to a child, “John and I have a favorite book. It’s called To Kill a Mockingbird. I just figured out that some of the gifts John left you in the tree were the same as a neighbor put in a tree for the two children in the novel. Jem and Scout.”

“Oh.” Hope didn’t seem particularly interested in that fact. But in Linnea’s mind, John shot higher in her regard.

THE HOUSE THAT Palmer Rutledge was building was well situated near a small creek that meandered lazily through the thick marsh. The tide was high. The water glistened. Linnea looked out over the waving, greening grass under a wide sky and thought she could gaze at this bucolic view every day for the rest of her life and never get bored. While beach views were thrilling, the real change of seasons, the mysteries of wildlife, were found in the salt marsh. The marsh was crawling with fiddler crabs, snails, worms finding food and shelter. It was a cornucopia of exploration for a child of any age.

Hope shot off to stand at the edge of the marsh. She scooted low and began investigating something with a broken stick that had caught her eye.

Shifting her gaze, Linnea took in the house her father was building. It was more modest in size than the last one he’d built on Isle of Palms—the house on Ocean Boulevard that Cara and David lived in now. This one was more quaint than grand, a traditional lowcountry house with a wide, covered front porch, gabled windows, and a tin roof. It sat prettily on a slightly raised hill overlooking the open expanse. She felt pride swelling in her chest. Once again, her father’s sense of symmetry and Southern flair were evident in the telling details. She turned back toward the marsh to check on Hope.

“So, little girl,” came her father’s booming voice from behind her. “What do you think?”

She spun back around to see his broad frame striding toward her from the house, the blueprints in his hand. Not far behind him came her mother.