He gapes at Emmy for a few long seconds before, wordlessly, he turns away. At first, he does nothing. Doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even appear to breathe. Just continues to kneel, facing away from us, staring at the sandcastle. But then, after a bit, he returns to his mote. He digs into the sand fiercely, almost angrily, and I wonder that his fingers don’t bleed.

I don’t really know whether I should say something or not, so I opt with not. Already he doesn’t seem too thrilled with our presence. Another interruption might be even more poorly received.

Just as I’m rising to sweep Emmy into my arms and carry her back, the man pauses, his head turning as he catches a glimpse of the clump of daisies buried stem-deep in the sand in front of the castle. His shoulders slump visibly. I see his hand start to jut out and then stop, and then start again. He reaches for one flower, plucking it from the bunch and twirling it in his fingers. I know I should leave, leave him to whatever he was doing and thinking before we arrived, but I can’t. Not yet. I can’t, but I just don’t know why.

Finally, he glances back at us, at Emmy. His gaze isn’t too direct, almost as though he knows that too much attention is hard for my daughter. I watch as he extends the flower, his hand shaking the tiniest bit as he holds it out to her. I start to reach for it, but Emmy surprises me by grabbing it herself, her slim little hand easing out to carefully take the daisy from his grasp.

The stranger gives her a small smile and turns away again. He doesn’t get to see the way Emmy’s lips curve around the thumb still stuck in her mouth. He doesn’t get to see the way she watches him afterward.

“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

He pauses, turning only enough that I can see his strong profile–straight nose, carved mouth, square chin. He nods once and then returns to his excavating, as intent as he was before we interrupted.

Puzzled and flustered, I turn and carry my daughter back the way we came, the scent of fresh-cut daisies teasing my nose and the quiet hum of my child tickling my ear.

TWO

Cole

WHO THE HELL was that? I think, wondering why I feel like I just got sucker punched in the gut. I resist the urge to turn and watch her walk away. Or go after her.

Who the hell was that and what the hell did she just do to me?

THREE

Eden

A CLUSTER OF bells jingles overhead when I push through the door of Bailey’s Quick Stop, which is the address that the landlord gave me when he told me where to pick up the keys to our cottage. A quick glance around shows me the place is empty. I take a tentative step forward, practically dragging Emmy along. She’s hugging my left leg so tightly I can hardly walk.

“Hello?” I call quietly.

“Hiya!”

I jump when a woman with wildly teased brown hair pops up from behind the counter where the cash register sits. She’s smiling broadly and holding a frosted glass in one hand. I’d estimate her to be in her early thirties, maybe ten years older than my twenty-three. With her button nose and big brown eyes, she’s pretty despite the trouble she seems to be having remaining upright.

“Hi, I’m looking for Jason Bailey. Am I at the wrong place? This is the address–”

“No, sweetie, you’re at the right place. Come ooon in,” she says, laughing as she throws up an arm and enthusiastically urges me forward. I hobble toward her, Emmy clinging to my leg as I do. The woman notices her, brown eyes lighting up when she sees my daughter. “And who is this?” she asks in a gentle voice.

I reach down to smooth Emmy’s hair, not at all surprised when I see her sucking her thumb. She’s just staring at the woman like she’s a frightening alien.

“This is Emmy. She’s very shy,” I explain. That’s what I tell everyone. It’s much simpler than the truth.

“All the princesses are,” the woman says, unfazed. “I’m Jordan. What can I help you two lovely ladies with today? We’ve got everything from paint to wine and bait to bread. We’ve got a grill if you’re hungry and a bar if you’re thirsty.”

“Just Jason Bailey please,” I repeat, watching as she tries to collect herself, tugging at her disheveled shirt and smoothing her disheveled hair.

“Oh, right right.” She turns her face partly to the side and yells, “Jasonnn! Get out here,” the smile never leaving her face.

As is the case with most small towns, new people stick out like sore thumbs, and Miller’s Pond, Maine is no exception. It had a population explosion in 2001, bringing the town tally up to a whopping three thousand four hundred people. And, now, three thousand four hundred and two. I guess that’s why this store has a little bit of everything. No big chain supermarkets or stores have found their way here yet. From what I could see on the map, the closest super center is at least thirty miles away.

“So, what brings you to Miller’s Pond?” she asks.

I smile and clear my throat, uncomfortable with her questioning. But I have a carefully composed history rehearsed for just such an occasion. “Uh, I was born up in Bangor. Just getting back closer to home.”

“Close, but not too close, eh? Smart girl.”

I smile at her observation and add, “Plus we love lighthouses and Miller’s Pond has one of the oldest ones in the country, or so I hear.” It’s a pat enough answer, hopefully pat enough to stop her or anyone else from asking more questions. It’s all fiction, of course. 100% untrue, but that’s the way it has to be.