Despite the near-Christmas chill in the air, Mom and Tilley were sitting side by side in rocking chairs on the front porch when I pulled up in my rental car, Mom in a pair of sensible but stylish black pants and a yellow double-breasted jacket and Aunt Tilley in a white lace corset dress with matching parasol. She really seemed normal a lot of the time. This was not one of those times.

They both stood and began squealing for me to hurry up, waving their arms and gesturing to me, but they wouldn’t step off the porch, as though contained by an invisible fence. The porch floor was, as always, painted black for winter, to attract heat and keep it warmer. In the summer, it would return to the palest gray. The ceiling remained blue all year long to keep the evil spirits away. (And the mosquitoes.) But my separation from Thad was one evil spirit even the bluest of blue couldn’t scare off. Long and healthy marriages were a hallmark of the Saxton family, and I was ruining that streak.

“My baby!” Mom said, as Tilley lilted, “Liabelle!”

Even their joy couldn’t keep me from noticing the two broken spindles on the front porch and that the house, which would look stately to anyone else, seemed to sag a little. If I’d had time to think about it, it would have scared me. But I didn’t have time to be afraid because I had barely gotten over the threshold, the expansive water view beyond the porch nearly blinding, before “You are much too thin” and “Darlin’, you look exhausted” began. Tilley was dragging me inside, toward the kitchen. Stepping over the threshold felt so good. I loved the worn Persian rugs and the English antiques that had been inside this house for generations. I loved that I could see the soothing water from almost every room. Tilley was cutting me a slice of fresh pecan pie on the familiar blue-and-white tile counter when the doorbell rang and Mom went out to answer it.

I had just swallowed the first sweet, delicious bite when I heard Mom say, “Why, Parker Thaysden! To what do we owe the pleasure?” On her lips, the words sounded like “Parkah” and “pleashah.”

Aunt Tilley gasped and pointed her fork at me. “You are seeing Parker Thaysden, aren’t you? Admit it!”

“Aunt Tilley, I’m married to”—I cleared my throat—“to Thad.”

She was saying, “You can take the girl out of Cape Carolina—” but stopped herself when Mom and Parker walked into the kitchen, Mom saying, “Liabelle, you have a visitor.”

“A gentleman caller!” Tilley trilled.

I rolled my eyes and whispered, “He is not a gentleman caller.”

“Well, he’s a gentleman, and he’s not calling on us old ladies,” Tilley said, kissing Parker on both cheeks.

Parker looked terribly amused, while I was hoping the floor would open up and swallow me. I grabbed his wrist and said, “I am so sorry, Parker. Let’s go out on the porch.”