Linnea moved closer to the fence and called out, “Hello, Flo!”

The old woman stared at her vacantly.

“Let’s go,” John said gently, guiding her back to the path. “It’s not a good day.”

He politely stepped aside so she could walk in front of him along the narrow beach path bordered by dunes. Linnea hoisted Luna higher in her arms and took the lead. The sand was warm and countless tiny black ants scrambled in their chaotic pattern beneath her sandals.

“Poor Flo,” Linnea said, shaken.

Linnea had never known the young Florence Prescott, but had heard the stories over and over from her mother and Cara how Flo was a firecracker. One of a kind.

She’d been one of the first sea turtle volunteers with Lovie on Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island. Back in the day, they’d tended turtles before the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources began managing the turtle population. They’d made their mistakes, but their hearts were in the right place. Flo had dedicated her life to the sea turtles and to her social work clients. She’d never married, never had children. No nieces or nephews, either.

She’d claimed she liked making her own decisions: “I never want any man telling me what to do.” Flo was right proud that she had bought the pretty Victorian-style house on her own merit. It had been in a state of disrepair. Flo spent her vacation time and weekends working on it herself, calling in favors, gradually bringing the old house back to its former beauty. When her father died, Flo took her mother in. Miranda and Flo couldn’t have been more different. Miranda was a bohemian artist adored by everyone. As outlandish as Miranda was, Florence was as conservative. Flo’s fiery wit and old-school wisdom kept most of the neighborhood—adults and children—in line. Her dearest friend was Lovie Rutledge, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her.

Or for Emmaline Baker and Caretta Rutledge—Emmi and Cara. She doted on them. The two young girls came together every summer while staying in their families’ beach houses a few blocks apart. The girls were inseparable and they both adored Flo, calling her their adopted aunt. The gate between Lovie’s and Flo’s houses was never closed. Sweet tea and sugar cookies were always on hand in the kitchens, art lessons were conducted in Miranda’s carriage house, and card games were played at night during the steamy summer.

As the years passed, however, Flo had retired, lost her mother, and found herself on hard financial times. That was the time of Emmi’s divorce from Tom Peterson. Linnea’s grandmother liked to say that good things happened to good people, and Linnea figured that must be true. After the divorce, Emmi had sold her family’s beach cottage to Tom. She was proud to say she took the rotter to the cleaners for it. In truth, his guilt let her.

Emmi used the money from her divorce to buy Florence Prescott’s Victorian, a house she’d always loved. Not only was it charming, it was smack next door to her best friend’s beach house. As a bonus, her buying the house also solved the problem of helping out an aging Flo. That year, Emmi and Cara had made a pact to take care of the old woman they both loved.