PROLOGUE
Bunyan, North Carolina, Then
The screen door slammed.
Amy ran down the back porch steps clutching her sketchbook. “Wait for me!”
Her sisters were already loading the car. Meg carried a beach mat. Jo lugged the cooler. Beth toted an old plastic pail and shovel—as if they all weren’t too old for sand castles now.
“What took you so long?” Jo asked.
“I had to wash my hair.”
“Why? We’re going to the beach,” Jo said. “You’ll just get it wet again.”
Jo never cared how she looked. Or what other people thought of her. Amy stuck her nose in the air. “Aunt Phee says appearances are important.”
Jo grinned. “Too bad about your face, then.”
“Jo, don’t be mean,” Meg said.
Their mother emerged from the barn, two of the baby goats—Hector and Hermione—trotting at her heels like puppies. “All set?”
Meg nodded.
“Good. Drive safely,” Momma said.
Not,I love you. Not,I’ll miss you. Not,Have a good time. But there was a note in her voice—wistfulness?—that caught at Amy’s heart.
Come with us, she almost said.
But she didn’t. Momma wouldn’t. Their mother never took a day off. Not since the girls were small. Besides, the trip wouldn’t be the same if their mother came along. Amy was practically a teenager and she was tired of being treated like the baby. She couldn’t go to the beach with her friends like Meg did. But goingwithMeg felt special. Grown-up.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Meg said. Responsible, as always. “I’ll be careful.”
She was driving the old Ford Taurus that belonged to their father. Daddy was away serving in Iraq, on his second tour as an army chaplain.
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry.” Momma’s smile flitted across her face. “I expect you all home for supper. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am,” they all said, and Bethie kissed her.
“Right,” Jo said when their mother went back to her goats and her chores. “Let’s go!”
Giddy with freedom, they loaded the car.
“Hey, March girls.”
Amy turned, clasping her sketchpad to her chest. It was Trey—Theodore James Laurence III, who lived in the big house a mile down the road from their farm. He sauntered up their drive, his dark, curly hair matted with sweat, his lean chest bare and faintly golden. His running shorts drooped from his hips, exposing his striped boxers.
“Hey, Laurence boy,” Jo said. “What are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d get my run in early.” He and Jo were on the cross-country team together. “Want to come?”
“Sorry. Can’t,” Jo said with brief regret.
“We’re packing,” Beth said.
“So I see. Got your sketchbook,” Trey said to Amy.
