Mamaw turned on her bench and smiled at her. “Would you like to try a little?”

“Who? Me?” Dora asked, sitting bolt upright. Her mother had never offered to put makeup on her face. The one time she’d asked to try her lipstick, Winnie’s eyes widened with shock and she exclaimed, “You’re much too young for makeup!”

“Yes, of course you,” Mamaw replied, rising from the bench. She reached out to take Dora’s hand and led her to the bench. Dora stared in awe at her reflection in the magnificent three mirrors.

Mamaw picked up a boar bristle brush and began brushing Dora’s hair in long, smooth strokes. It felt dreamy.

“Your hair is the same color as mine,” Mamaw said in a tone that indicated she was pleased with that fact. “You must brush it one hundred times each evening so it will shine.”

Mamaw set the hairbrush on the vanity and reached for her makeup brush. She dabbed it in some pink powder, then gently applied a few strokes to Dora’s cheeks. Dora held her breath when Mamaw applied a hint of blue to her eyelids.

“Just a light touch when you apply makeup,” Mamaw instructed. “You want to enhance your beauty, tastefully. Too much, and you look like a common floozy.”

Dora wasn’t sure what a floozy was, but she caught the gist of Mamaw’s meaning. When she saw her reflection in the mirror, Dora had felt so grown-up—even beautiful! In that moment, Dora loved no one in the world more than her grandmother.

Now, all these years later, Mamaw was once again setting her in front of these same triple mirrors. Dora slumped her shoulders and averted her gaze, still feeling like the gawky girl. Without looking at her reflection, Dora felt more the jester than the queen.

“Now, dear girl, drink this,” Mamaw told her, handing her a glass.

Dora looked at it with suspicion.

“It’s only water,” Mamaw said with a light laugh. “After a hot bath you must replenish your moisture. Your skin must never be dehydrated.”

Dora obediently took the glass and sipped.

Mamaw pulled open a mirrored drawer and took out a jar of cream. Dipping in, she applied moisturizer to Dora’s skin with gentle strokes, taking time to make small circles at her temples. Dora kept her eyes closed as once again Mamaw brushed her hair, one smooth stroke after another.

“You are a beautiful woman,” Mamaw told Dora when she had finished. “Open your eyes and see how your skin glows!”

Reluctantly, Dora opened her eyes. In the reflection she saw a pair of luminous blue eyes staring back at her. Around them, her skin was pink from the steam bath. She stared back at her reflection, surprised that the woman there was actually rather pretty.

“You’ve always had the best complexion,” Mamaw went on speaking as she brushed. “So soft. Look, not a wrinkle. You get that from me, of course. When you take your walks, be sure to wear sunscreen and a hat. The sun is not your friend.”

“My walks?” Dora asked.

“Of course. You must take long walks every day, like the doctor said. Early in the morning or late afternoon, when the sun isn’t too harsh. It’s the best exercise for your heart—and your figure will thank you, too,” she added. “You can begin this afternoon.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Of course you do. We’ve already been through this at the hospital, dear. You know full well it’s time to begin anew.”

“I don’t know if I can. I want to hide. I feel so hurt. So disappointed—in life, in Cal. In people.”

Mamaw stopped brushing and met Dora’s gaze in the mirror. “ ‘People give pain, are callous and insensitive, empty and cruel . . . but place heals the hurt, soothes the outrage, fills the terrible vacuum that these human beings make.’ ” She put her hands on Dora’s shoulders. “Do you know who said that?”

“No.”

“Your namesake. Eudora Welty.”

“Her,” Dora said with a frown. “Not very lucky in love either, was she?”

“How do we really know? Besides, whether or not she was married or lucky in love is immaterial. She knew herself and lived her life fully.”

“She spent her whole life alone, in the small town she was born in,” Dora argued.

“You keep missing the point,” Mamaw said, tapping Dora’s shoulder. “The life Eudora created for herself was of her own making. No matter where she may have spent her life, she was at home within herself. Yes, she spent most of her life in a small town in Mississippi, but what Eudora understood, and wrote about so beautifully, was how love of place can fill the soul.

“I sympathize with that sentiment. I take that to mean a deep-rooted attachment to the place where we find ourselves at peace. Content. Where we have roots.”

Mamaw shook the brush for emphasis. “Dora, I’ve seen many sunsets all over the world, but to me, nothing matches a lowcountry sunset when the entire sky is alive with hues of sienna, purple, and gold. Or the thousand and one different ways one stretch of beach can appear on any given day. I resonate to this place because this is my home. This is where I’m from. It’s where I can be me.”

Dora’s eyes moistened, making the blue shine like a torch. “I don’t know where my home is anymore.”

Mamaw lowered to slip her arms around Dora and place a kiss on her head, moist and sweet-smelling from the bath.

“Feel our love around you. We are holding you up. You’re safe. So go out, Dora. Walk the beach. Feel the sand in your toes. Prowl the streets, haunt the vistas. Walk, walk, walk. And I believe, in all your wandering, you will discover a place of stillness and peace. Find yourself, and you will find your way home.”

Chapter Seven

Immediately after the family meeting, Carson hopped into the golf cart and made a beeline to Blake’s apartment. It had been less than a week since she’d seen him, and she was surprised how much she missed him. She had the pedal to the metal, but the cart couldn’t go beyond fifteen miles per hour.

“Come on, come on,” she murmured, leaning forward with a sense of urgency.

At last she arrived at the long stretch of white wood apartments that once had been quarters for the military when they had a presence on Sullivan’s Island. She parked the cart and hurried up the stairs to knock sharply on the door. She heard a warning bark—Hobbs—then a moment later the door swung open and Blake was standing there in tan shorts, a brown T-shirt, sandals, and an expression of delight on his attractive features.