The spring sun beat down mercilessly on his skin. He’d lathered on suntan lotion but the sweat was dripping it off. Man, he was seriously out of shape. He’d been out walking the beach during his quarantine and lifting weights. He’d arrived home from England with skin like the underbelly of a fish. After only two weeks he’d regained the beginnings of a decent tan. He had his grandfather Stratton’s coloring, like his aunt Cara—dark hair and skin that tanned after only a day in the sun. That used to drive Linnea insanely jealous; she was more like their father and grandmother Lovie, pale-skinned and blond, lobster red after a day in the sun.

He turned off Palm Boulevard and headed toward the ocean. A few blocks later, he arrived at the familiar yellow beach house. It was perched on a scrubby dune overrun with wildflowers. He pulled off his helmet, wiped sweat from his brow, and took in the cottage where he’d spent so many summers. Unlike his parents’ beach house, this one oozed charm. His grandmother used to say there wasn’t another place like it, and he believed she was right.

Lovie. He smiled thinking of her. Oh, the times they’d had in this cottage! He remembered sitting on the porch in the late afternoons with all the women who came to Primrose Cottage. A gaggle of geese, his father had called them uncharitably. He tried to remember who all the women were. There was Lovie, of course. And Florence Prescott, the old woman who lived next door. She used to scare him and he never wanted to cross her. His aunt Cara and Emmi Peterson, or Baker now since the divorce. He scanned his brain, but he couldn’t remember the names of the turtle team members. They came and went. Oh, yeah, there was Toy Sooner. Only she’d married. He couldn’t remember her last name now. And her daughter, Little Lovie, was always tagging along. Then, of course, there was Linnea. Everyone knew she was Lovie’s favorite.

That left Cooper the only male. They’d fondly called him Little Fox, as in the fox in the henhouse. He chuckled. What a dork he was. Back then, he’d thought they’d called him that because he could be clever, even sneaky, about grabbing candy and cookies. Only years later did he figure it out.

He walked his bike to the small area under the porch that was used for storage. He spotted Linnea’s surfboard, Big Blue, which had once belonged to Brett. Cooper felt a pang at seeing it. He’d adored that man. Brett was his role model of all a man should be—more even than his father. Cooper had been jealous when Cara gave the board to Linnea—not that he blamed his aunt; Linnea was getting into surfing and she was living with Cara at the time. It all made sense. But still. He would’ve liked something of meaning that had belonged to Brett. Sometimes, he thought, being a male in the Rutledge family, for all the history of primogeniture, felt a bit second-tier.