“Caroline’s a pretty good surfer,” said Dad.

“Yeah?” Will turned, looking at her in a new way. “I didn’t know that.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said. “I’m not that good. But I can get up.”

“Tell you what. I’ll load up some boards and wet suits for you guys, and we’ll give it a go.”

Will’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Cool,” he said. “Thanks, Mr. Shelby.”

Dad got the boards and suits. Will and Caroline piled into the club cab of the truck. At the last minute, her younger brothers tumbled out of the house, insisting on coming along. Caroline was annoyed, but Dad seemed delighted. “You all have to take turns,” he said. “I can’t take everyone into the surf at once.”

“We’ll take turns,” Jackson said. “We’ll be good, Dad. We will.”

“Promise,” Austin echoed.

Caroline caught Will’s eye and shrugged. He merely grinned. He seemed to like the novelty of her big family, and he had a lot more patience with the boys than she did.

Her sisters were both in high school, and they worked at the restaurant. Next summer, Caroline was expected to do the same, starting out in the steamy, horrible dishwashing area with the big hand squirts, working her way up the ladder, as Mom put it. Dad called it paying your dues. Each of the Shelbys would start at the lowest level, and they’d be bumped up if they did a good job. Georgia, aka Miss Perfect, had lasted only a week in dishwashing and did so well that she was already in the front of the house at the hostess stand. Virginia, aka Miss Gorgeous, wasn’t far behind.

Caroline wondered how long it would take to prove herself, bussing tables and washing dishes next year. She dreaded the prospect. Georgia and Virginia said they liked the energy, the noise, the ebb and flow of people coming and going. Caroline knew that the clatter and heat, the chef and foul-mouthed line cooks rushing around, and the constant demands of the customers would drive her nuts. She much preferred sketching or making things on her grandmother’s old sewing machine. Most of all, she loved running around in the great outdoors, preferably with Will.

Dad drove them to the beach and parked the truck. Surfers were already floating out beyond the break, bobbing like buoys as they watched for a wave to ride. Several of them got up, black stick figures against the blue-green waves. Caroline could see Will checking out the scene, every muscle tense. Caroline wasn’t very good at surfing, but sometimes she lucked out. Maybe today would be a lucky day.

“Wet suits are in the back of the pickup,” her dad said. Even though it was a hot summer day, the water was never warm enough to surf without a wet suit. They zipped themselves into the neoprene and brought their boards down to the water. Dad was already paddling out, expertly dipping under the incoming waves. Jackson and Austin grabbed their boogie boards, which were easier to ride.

Caroline lugged her board to the surf. The water chilled her to the bone, but in a few seconds, the wet suit warmed her up. A wave rose, smacking her in the face. She laughed at the feel of the water and sunshine and fastened her ankle strap. Will was way ahead of her, as usual. She wasn’t surprised when he took to surfing as if he was on a mission.

She knew he’d catch on pretty soon, because her dad was a really good surf instructor. He’d grown up in Southern California and he liked to say salt water ran in his blood. Thanks to him, all the Shelbys knew how to paddle out past the white water and find the gray-green curl of a wave. He used to stand in the surf for what seemed like hours, giving her board a shove at exactly the right moment and calling, “Attack position!”—her cue to pop up on the board and ride the wave to shore. His glee when she succeeded was almost as gratifying as the heady sensation of the ride itself.

Will kept struggling with the waves and the timing, long after the younger boys got tired and started building a fort out of driftwood. Dad said Will had a high center of gravity because he was tall, so it might take more practice to get his stance just right. He got knocked around by the rollers coming in, yet he never gave up.

“Timing is the hardest thing to get right,” Dad told him. “And it’s the one thing that makes all the difference. You want the wave underneath you just as it’s about to break. So you need to figure out if you have to wait or to paddle fast.”

Caroline was working on riding the curl, not just the white water. She watched the horizon for a swell to come to her, and got lucky a few times, finding that one glassy spot in the unbroken wave.

“Great work, C-Shell,” Dad called to her. “You too, Will. You’re doing all right.”

“I’m gonna get it,” he said.

And finally, in one sweet moment, he did. He spotted the right wave and paddled until Dad said, “Attack position!”

Will popped up, wobbled a bit, and rode the wave with a look of such glee that Caroline laughed aloud. He wiped out, then surfaced, punching the air in triumph. This was summer, she thought. She wished it could go on forever.

As the season waned toward its bittersweet end, Caroline felt a peculiar urgency to fill the days with everything she loved about summertime. Labor Day weekend reared up on the calendar, the last hurrah for so many on the peninsula—Will included. The Rotary picnic drew everyone to Sunset Beach. The moms showed up, toting wicker bags stuffed with egg salad sandwiches, bags of chips, trays of cookies, striped towels, and tubes of sunscreen. A local band was playing old dance songs from the eighties, and there was a volleyball game going on. Caroline and Will were lugging a picnic cooler from the boardwalk to the beach when a piercing whistle sounded. Will stopped walking and froze with a funny look on his face.

“My dad’s here,” he said, setting the cooler down.

She turned to see a tall man coming toward them. He wore a navy blazer and pleated flannels, his blond hair raked into gleaming comb furrows. His shoes shone in the sun. He had a clean-cut, square-jawed look and a perfect-posture stride that drew people’s attention as he passed.

“Oh!” she said. “Is he coming to the beach with us?”

“I doubt it.” Will wiped his hand on his shorts. “He’s not dressed for the beach.”

True, she observed. He looked out of place—but not uncomfortable—amid the people crossing from the parking lot to the beach.

“Howdy, son,” said Mr. Jensen. “Your grandparents said I’d find you here.”

“Hey, Dad.”

They didn’t touch or hug, but offered a mutual nod of greeting. “Are you coming to the picnic?” asked Will.

“Maybe later,” said his father.

“This is Caroline,” Will said.

“Caroline Shelby,” she added, sticking out her hand, even though it felt totally phony. His grip was quick and hard, like a bite. “My dad brought surfboards and wet suits. We’re going to go surfing, and you could come. That is, if you want.” She felt herself getting all talky again, which she did when she was nervous. Something about Mr. Jensen made her nervous.

“Or you could come and watch. I can get up on a board now, Dad,” said Will.

“Kind of pointless, if you ask me. The ocean is where I work, not play,” said Mr. Jensen. “You kids run along now. I’m going to drop into the pub for a pint and a half.”