She parked her bike and took off her helmet, then picked up the basket and went to the front door. A scruffy brown dog scampered over, barking his head off. His feathery tail waved, indicating he was friendly.

“Hey there,” she said, stooping down to give him a pet. He wore a red collar with a tag. “Duffy,” she said, reading the tag. “Is that your name, boy?” He wriggled and bowed, then feinted away, picking up a dry stick.

She looked around, not seeing anyone else. The porch was furnished with white wicker chairs and a two-seater swing. There was a wrought iron table with a big aspidistra plant, and a boot scraper in the shape of a wiener dog. The chair cushions were covered in vile cabbage rose damask. Caroline had never understood why people liked damask. It always seemed so heavy and dull.

A historical society plaque was posted by the door: the arne jensen house. 1881. In 1881, girls wore petticoats and boots that fastened at the ankle with a buttonhook. And corsets that looked brutal to wear but were also kind of awesome.

Caroline went up the steps, knocked on the door, and waited. Nothing. Cupping her hands around her eyes, she peered through the wavy old-fashioned glass into a foyer. She could see a hall tree and mirror, and a wooden staircase. Nobody home.

She knocked again, then turned and shaded her eyes, scanning the area. There was a giant barn with walls made of weather-beaten wood, its roof sagging like a sow’s belly. In the distance were the docks and oystering sheds. Still nobody around, though.

Oh well. She left the basket by the door and propped Mom’s thank-you note beside it.

“Hey.”

Startled, Caroline swiftly turned. A boy stood on the gravel path leading in from the dock. Tall and skinny, he was dripping wet from head to toe, holding a mask, flippers, and a snorkel. He had blond hair slicked to his head like a seal’s fur, freckles, and blue eyes that were framed by the imprint of the snorkel mask.

Her heart skipped a beat. Even dripping wet, he was totally cute. Lately she noticed boys in a new way. A way that made her chest feel warm and squishy.

“Hey,” she said, wondering who this kid could be. She’d never seen him before.

“You looking for somebody?” the boy asked.

“Old Mrs. Jensen.” She gestured at the basket. “I have a delivery for her.”

“You mean my grandmother. She’s not that old. Jeez.”

She looked around at the fields and tidal flats, the big coastal cedars permanently bent like old men by the wind. “This is your grandparents’ place?”

“Yep.”

“Are you visiting, or . . . ?”

“For the summer.”

One of the summer people, then. He didn’t look so fancy in his swim trunks, his bare chest pale as a fish’s belly.

He set down the snorkeling gear. “I’m Will Jensen.”

“Caroline Shelby,” she said. “I live in town. Year-round.”

Like everyone on the peninsula, she had mixed feelings about summer people. They descended each season to soak up the sun and play in the surf, filling the campgrounds and beach motels, racing their bikes up and down the boardwalks, flying kites and shooting off illegal firecrackers almost every night. Her older sisters and their friends were obsessed with having summer boyfriends, which as far as Caroline could tell were boys they made out with and then never saw after Labor Day.

She glanced again at his snorkel gear. His legs were long and pale, and seemed made of equal parts muscle and goose bumps. “You like swimming?”

He nodded, and his bluish lips quirked up in a smile. “My granddad says I’m part fish. I didn’t see much around the dock, though.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Anemones and crabs, mostly. I wanted to watch the birds diving, but I got too cold.”

“Ever try a wet suit?”

“Nope.”

“You can stay in a lot longer if you wear a wet suit. They have ’em for sale at Swain’s store.” Being a local made her feel slightly superior, knowing her way around.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He moved out of the shade and into a patch of sunlight. His eyes were as blue as her favorite color of gumball.

The squishy-warm feeling came back. “Do you have a bike?” she asked in sudden inspiration.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I think there’s an old beach cruiser in the barn.”

“Want to go for a ride?”

“Sure. I’ll go change.” He patted his thigh and Duffy followed him to the house.

While she waited, Caroline filled her lungs to the brim with the heady air of adventure. It seemed as palpable as the tang of brine on her tongue. As a general rule, she didn’t like boys. With two younger brothers, she was well aware of their shortcomings. Boys were noisy, and they smelled like hamsters, and they had an incomprehensible habit of wearing the same dirty shirt day in and day out until someone made them change.

This boy, though. Will Jensen. There was something interesting about him, and it wasn’t just the freckles and blue eyes. For some reason, he didn’t seem annoying like her brothers or the boys in her class. Not yet, anyway.

After a few minutes, he came clumping down the porch steps. His Go Navy T-shirt looked clean enough. His blond hair had a shampoo-ad shine now that it was dry. That hair was way too pretty, she thought. For a boy.

“The bike probably needs air in the tires,” he said, leading the way to the barn.

She fell in step with him. “You like the navy?”

“My dad’s in the navy, so I’d better like it. We’ve been stationed in Guam the past two years. Know where Guam is?”

“I’d be lying if I said I did. Sorry.” She glanced away, feeling ignorant.

“That’s okay. I probably wouldn’t know either, except I live there. It’s an island in Micronesia—in the South Pacific.”

“Guam,” she said, enjoying the shape of the word in her mouth. “What’s it like?”

“Tropical. Like Hawaii, only with snakes.”

“Sounds amazing. I’d put up with the snakes if it was like Hawaii, which I’ve never been to, but I bet it’s beautiful. I’ve only ever lived here.”

“I think right here is pretty awesome.”

“In the summer,” she agreed. “Ever visited in the winter?”

He shook his head. “Let me guess. Cold, dark, and wet.”

“The worst.” Every year her parents talked about closing the restaurant for a whole month in winter and taking the family someplace warm. All they did was talk, though. Then they’d start worrying about what to do about the dog. And the house. And the restaurant. And they’d worry about being able to afford a big trip with five kids, and the older girls missing school, and eventually they’d talk themselves out of leaving.

Will lifted the rusty latch of the barn door. The hinges creaked as he opened it. Sunshine poured through the cracks in the walls, creating long bars of light and shadow and illuminating ancient swags of spider webs. Dust motes swirled with movement. The tall, arched ceiling made the space feel huge, bigger than a church sanctuary.

“My granddad keeps saying we’re going to clean this place out,” Will said, “but we never get around to it. I bet some of this stuff goes back to his grandfather, who built the place.” He pointed out a carved wooden plaque that read justine. “That’s from a ship that took the oysters down to San Francisco.”