The sea was calling her. Carson lay in the dim light of her bedroom listening to the incessant roar of her old friend the ocean. It was rare for the waves to come in hard, as they were now. When they did, Carson had always grabbed her board and gone to the water. It was in her nature to do so. Salt water ran in her veins.

Carson didn’t jump from her bed this morning, however. She continued to lie still, her palms resting on her abdomen. She no longer was free to follow her whims. No longer the fearless surfer or world traveler, able to pick up and leave when she wished.

She let her fingers gently stroke her belly, still flat despite the life growing beneath the taut skin. So much for her womanly intuition. It had taken the echolocation of one very intuitive dolphin to tell her she was pregnant.

“Oh, baby,” she crooned. “What am I going to do with you? I’m not married, I don’t have a job, I don’t even have my own place to live. How am I going to take care of you?”

She brought to mind her last conversation with Lucille, the night she’d died. Carson had been struggling with what to do about the pregnancy and went to Lucille to sit at her knee, as she had so many times growing up, and once more ask for advice. Lucille hadn’t told her what to do. That wasn’t her style. Instead, the old woman guided Carson’s thoughts to find her own answer. Carson would never forget her words.

You’ve got good instincts. Listen to them. Trust them. You’ll know what to do.

Carson knew Lucille was right. When she was surfing, Carson had to trust her instincts on the wave, to know when to step left or right. It was all a matter of balance.

She had to listen to her instincts now. It didn’t make sense for her to have a baby now. All her rational arguments were against it. But over the rational thoughts her instincts spoke loud and clear. That and her raging hormones, she thought with a snort. Lying on the bed, listening to the echoing sound of the waves rolling to the shore, Carson knew she had to ride this wave home.

“Well, baby,” she said, patting her tummy, “it’s me and you now. I’m not running away.”

Dora’s arm shot out to silence the alarm clock. She groggily opened one eyelid: 7:00 a.m.

“Rise and shine,” she mumbled.

Dora moved in a stupor, accustomed to the routine. She dressed quickly in running clothes, splashed cool water on her face, applied SPF moisturizer, then did a few stretches. This past summer she’d learned that she had to get her exercise done first thing in the morning, because if she waited, she’d slip into a thousand lame excuses why she didn’t have time. She’d learned to make time for the things that mattered to her.

And nothing mattered more to her than her son.

Dora swiftly walked down the hall and gingerly pushed open the door to Nate’s room. She wrinkled her nose at the stuffy, closed-in smell. Nate, unlike the rest of the inhabitants of Sea Breeze, did not like to sleep with his windows open. He was adamant about his likes and dislikes, quick to let you know if something was right or, more often, wrong. She went to the side of his bed and stood for a moment, staring into her nine-year-old son’s face.

Her heart bloomed with love for him. Did a child ever look more angelic than when asleep? she wondered. Nate’s long, pale lashes fluttered against his cheeks. His lips were slightly parted as he breathed heavily. He was small for his age, but his thin frame had filled out this summer at Sea Breeze and his skin glowed with a tan. Sea Breeze had been so good for Nate, on many levels. He loved the water now. Dora smiled. She called him her little fish. As her eyes hungrily roamed his face, she noted that his shaggy blond hair needed a trim, and she made a mental note to take him to the barber. It would be a fight, she thought with a sigh. Nate hated to have his hair cut.

Poor little guy, she thought as she reached out to gently stroke hair from his forehead. She felt the perspiration at his brow. Cutting his hair was the least of the changes he’d be facing soon. Her obstinate, fretful son who hated any change would soon transition from homeschooling to a classroom. It was a big decision, long and hard in coming. She’d found a private school that specialized in bright children with special needs, like his Asperger’s. The school offered highly individualized instruction and schoolwide positive behavioral support. Dora had to face the reality that Nate was older and needed more than she could offer. He needed to learn to communicate and socialize with his peers.

Dora sighed. They both did. Isolation had not been good for either of them.

On the heels of this decision was her intention to move to Mt. Pleasant, closer to the school. A new school . . . a new home . . .

She bent to gently kiss Nate’s cheek, breathing in the scent of him. When he was awake, he didn’t like to be kissed.

“We’ll be fine,” she whispered close to his ear. “Mama’s here. I won’t let you down.”

As Harper pedaled back to Sea Breeze, her mind filled with words that could capture that glorious sunrise: iridescent, shimmering, glittering, ethereal, inspiring . . . Harper parked the bike in the garage and hurried toward the house, eager to slip quietly back into her bedroom and begin writing. She wanted to describe what she’d seen and her feelings that had swirled like brilliant colors. As she made her way across the back porch, a cough drew her attention. Harper turned her head to the back corner of the porch and was surprised to see her grandmother sitting tall and straight-backed in one of the large, black wicker chairs. In the dim light, wearing her long, white cotton nightgown, Mamaw appeared almost ghostly.

“Mamaw!” Harper exclaimed. “What are you doing out here?”

Mamaw smiled as Harper approached, but it was a tired smile. Her pale blue eyes were sunken and her arms were wrapped around her slender body as though she were chilled.

“I couldn’t sleep. I woke very early and my mind kept wandering.” Mamaw shook her head. “It’s so exhausting when that happens. A curse of old age. I just gave up and came out here to sit a spell. I thought the fresh air might help.”

On the glass-topped table Harper saw a line of playing cards. Her heart pinged. Mamaw was playing solitaire. The image of Mamaw and Lucille playing endless games of gin rummy together on the porch at all hours of the day and night flashed in Harper’s mind.

Harper hurried to put her arms around her grandmother’s shoulders. “How long have you been out here?” she asked, alarmed. “You’re chilled to the bone.” She rubbed Mamaw’s arms briskly with her hands, trying to warm her.