Chris had been two grades above me in high school, and he could rewire anything, including Principal Trusken’s car. How he got it onto the roof of the school remains an urban legend. He and his friends all had to go to summer school and didn’t graduate on time because of it, but if they could, they would do it again. Glory days are fleeting. One must make the absolute most of them.

The classic white colonial might have seemed out of place compared to the beach houses that had taken up residence all around it, with their cedar shakes and hardy board siding. But this grand estate at the long end of a narrow peninsula—alone except for the Thaysdens’ house beside it—was the oldest home on the beach. Saxtons had lived in this house for hundreds of years. We had moved into it when I was seven, after my grandparents retired to Florida. I knew every back staircase and hidden nook, every ghost, every creak of the stairwell. And I loved it all. As I drove down the long, live-oak-lined street, I smiled at how the ancient trees made a canopy over me. Not for the first time, I thought that I would love to live here one day. It seemed a little bit crazy, since I wouldn’t have children to brighten the shadowy corners or fill the antique beds.

But Robby and his wife, Trina, already had three adorable but very rowdy boys. They, no doubt, would be the next Saxtons to inhabit Dogwood. I always teased them that when they moved in, I would take over Aunt Tilley’s apartment. Every Southerner needed a batty relative living in the attic—or, in this case, the east wing. Trina would squeal and go on and on about how much fun we would have while Robby looked horrified. I shuddered, thinking of it now. It had been all fun and games until my recurring nightmare about turning into Aunt Tilley had started.

I had a hard time deciding whether to go see Daddy at the farm first or to head straight home. I figured that, either way, my parents’ worlds were about to be shattered by the news that their golden girl had disappointed them.

I decided to go home first. As much as they drove me crazy, I really couldn’t get enough of Mom and Aunt Tilley, especially when they were together, a little codependent disaster area full of hairspray.

I pulled into the grassy lot—well, mostly dead grass, since it was winter—that served as Dogwood’s overflow parking, opened the door, and was finally embraced by the smell of the salt air that had begun wafting in through the lowered convertible top the moment I reached the beach. As I stepped out of the car, it actually brought tears to my eyes. When I lived here, I got used to it, couldn’t smell it. After a day or two, I would lose it again. But, for now, it was the scent of coming home.