From here I can see the port side of Emma's houseboat. The fairy lights. The hull that needs painting. The railing where Aidan conducts his crab research.
And the running light. Red. Steady. Reflecting off the water the way it has every night since I replaced the bulb and walked back to my boat without a word.
I fixed it because it was a safety issue. That's what I told Grandma Hensley.
But standing here in my quiet boat, watching that red glow pulse against the water, I can still hear my father's voice.
I waited too long with Dottie. Thought I had time.
I think about Harold sitting down uninvited. Ordering a refill without being asked. Saying her name like it was precious cargo he'd been carrying in his pocket, waiting for the right moment to set it down.
I think about Holly. How she waited. How she was patient. How she knew I'd come to her eventually.
She was right. I always came.
But Holly had time. And then she didn't, and I've spent the last ten years building silence out of grief and calling it a life.
The fairy lights on Emma's boat flicker once and steady. Aidan's voice carries across the water. A door opens and closes, there are footsteps on the deck.
I don't move from the window.
The running light glows red, steady, patient.
Like it's waiting for me to come to her eventually.
NINE
EMMA
Lottie found a place.
She told me last night, sitting on the deck with wine and the fairy lights making everything soft. Three bedrooms, fenced yard, and a spare room off the hallway she's already calling “the studio.” Newborn photography is all about controlled lighting—softboxes, strobes, everything positioned exactly right. This room has one small window with blackout curtains already installed and enough floor space for her backdrops and props. Osprey Lane, four blocks from the beach, school bus stop at the corner. The landlord is a retired teacher named Mrs. Harding who told Lottie the boys could be as loud as they wanted because she wears hearing aids and considers them optional.
The rent is manageable. Not cheap, but manageable. If she books even two newborn sessions a month to start, she can cover it without draining the cushion too fast.
She's signing the lease this morning, which is why I'm currently standing on the beach with three eight-year-old boys, a bag full of snacks, and the increasingly familiar sensation that I am outnumbered and outmatched.
“Mom, can I dig to China?”
“No.”
“What about Australia? Australia is closer if you go through the middle.”
“Aidan, that is not how geography works.”
“How do you know? Have you ever dug through the middle?”
Jenna went with Dawson, Piper, and Finch to the inlet. Millie is at Harold's, helping him organize his tackle box, which is her idea of a perfect morning because my middle child finds joy in sorting small objects into categories. That leaves me with the chaos trio on a wide open beach with shovels and limitless energy.
Paul's truck was gone from the marina lot when we left. I noticed. I'm not proud of noticing, but Inoticed.
I have not been thinking about the running light or the way his hands looked when I saw him replacing a dock cleat last week—capable, unhurried, like everything he touches is worth doing right.
I have not been thinking about his hands.
The boys are digging. I set up my towel and sit down. The sun is already pressing down hard—Carolina heat that turns the sand into a griddle and makes the air above the dunes shimmer. I can taste the salt on my lips. The waves are steady, rhythmic, the hiss of foam retreating over shells. The boys are occupied. This is what peace feels like.
“Dig faster, he's coming back!”
