Read the book: «Summer's Child»

Praise for
DIANE CHAMBERLAIN

‘Emotional, complex and laced with suspense, this fascinating story is a brilliant read.’

—Closer

‘An excellent read’

—The Sun

‘This complex tale will stick with you forever.’

—Now

‘A hugely addictive twist in the tale makes this a sizzling sofa read … a deeply compelling and moving new novel.’

—Heat

‘This exquisite novel about love and friendship is written like a thriller … you won’t want to put it down.’

—Bella

‘A bittersweet story about regret and hope’

—Publishers Weekly

‘A brilliantly told thriller’

—Woman

‘An engaging and absorbing story that’ll have you racing through pages to finish’

—People’s Friend

‘This compelling mystery will have you on the edge of your seat.’

—Inside Soap

‘A fabulous thriller with plenty of surprises’

—Star

‘Essential reading for Jodi Picoult fans’

—Daily Mail

‘Chamberlain skilfully … plumbs the nature of crimes of the heart.’

—Publishers Weekly

‘So full of unexpected twists you’ll find yourself wanting to finish it in one sitting. Fans of Jodi Picoult’s style will love how Diane Chamberlain writes.’

—Candis

‘The plot is intriguing and haunting revelations will have you glued to the very end.’

—Peterborough Evening Telegraph

‘I was drawn in from the first page and simply could not put it down until the last. I think I have found a new favourite author.’

—Daily Echo

‘[A] gripping summer read that’s full of twists and turns —5 stars’

—Woman’s Own

‘The compelling story of three friends who are forced to question what it is to be a friend, mother and a sister.’

—Sunday World

‘A gripping novel’

—The Lady (online)

‘Diane Chamberlain is a marvellously gifted author. Every book she writes is a gem.’

—Literary Times

‘A strong tale that deserves a comparison with Jodi Picoult for, as this builds, one does indeed wonder if all will come right in the end.’

—lovereading.co.uk

‘I couldn’t put it down.’

—Bookseller

Also by DIANE CHAMBERLAIN

The Courage Tree

Her Mother’s Shadow

Kiss River

Keeper of the Light

The Lost Daughter

The Bay at Midnight

Before the Storm

Secrets She Left Behind

The Lies We Told

Breaking the Silence

The Midwife’s Confession

The Shadow Wife

The Good Father

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This story is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Susan Chamberlain, my inspiration and comfort.

Summer’s Child

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

End Page

Prologue

ON HER ELEVENTH BIRTHDAY, DARIA CATO BECAME A HERO.

A deep hush had fallen over the Sea Shanty after the savage weather of the night before, and Daria woke very early, as usual, when the sky outside her bedroom windows held only a hint of dawn. She opened the window above her dresser to let the breeze slip into the room. The sound of the ocean was rhythmic and calm, not like the angry pounding of the night before, and she breathed in the smell of salt and seaweed. The sunrise would be spectacular this morning.

Quickly, she slipped out of her pajamas and into her shorts and tank top, then quietly opened her bedroom door and walked into the hallway. She tiptoed past her sister Chloe’s room, and past the room where her cousin, Ellen, slept. Ellen’s mother was asleep in the downstairs bedroom, and Daria’s parents were in their room on the third story. Her father would be getting up soon for early mass, but her mother, Aunt Josie, Ellen and Chloe wouldn’t be up for at least another hour. They didn’t understand the early-morning allure of the beach, but that was fine with her. She preferred solitude as she watched the sand and sea change color and texture each morning. This morning would be special, not just because of the storm, but because it was her birthday. Eleven. Kind of a dull number, and still two years away from being able to call herself a teenager, but definitely better than ten.

Daria padded quietly on bare feet down the stairs, trying to avoid the step that always squeaked. Would anyone remember her birthday this year? She was certain it would be nothing like the year before, when her mother had arranged a party for her with all the other kids on the cul-de-sac. No, this year was destined to be different, because her mother was different. She’d changed over this last year, and this first gloomy, overcast week of summer in Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina, had done nothing to lift her dour mood. Daria’s mother slept late almost every day and moped around the cottage once she did get up. She barely seemed to remember her daughters’ names, much less their birthdays. Chloe wouldn’t care, of course. She was seventeen this summer, the brainy one in the family, already finished with her freshman year at college and interested only in boys and what color nail polish she should use to paint her toes. That’s when their mother started changing, Daria thought, when Chloe went off to college. “I’m losing my little ones,” Daria had overheard her mother say to her aunt just yesterday.

And, of course, the kids on the cul-de-sac would balk at coming to the birthday party of an eleven-year-old this year, now that they were all teenagers. Every single one of them except her! It was a good thing she didn’t mind being alone all that much, she thought as she opened the front door and walked onto the Sea Shanty’s broad screened porch, because that was obviously the way it was going to be this summer.

From the porch, Daria could look directly across the cul-de-sac and see Poll-Rory, Rory Taylor’s cottage. Even Rory, who had been her summertime buddy for most of her life, was now fourteen and pretty much ignoring her. He seemed to have forgotten all the hours they’d fished together, crabbed together and raced against each other while swimming in the sound.

There were no lights on inside Poll-Rory. She looked at the upstairs window she knew to be Rory’s bedroom and felt a prickly pain in her heart.

“Who needs you, anyhow,” she muttered, pushing open the screen door and descending the steps to the cool sand. She began walking toward the beach, where she could see the sky just beginning its silent, peach-colored glide toward sunrise.

All six cottages on the cul-de-sac were built on stilts, like most of the oceanside structures in the Outer Banks. The Sea Shanty, built by her father and uncle the year Daria was born, was only the second cottage from the water, so Daria quickly reached the low, grass-covered dune overlooking the beach. She glanced at the cottage where Cindy Trump lived, the only home on the cul-de-sac directly fronting the ocean, to make sure it had not been damaged by the storm. It was perfectly fine. She envied Cindy and her brother for living right on the water, but her father said the beach was narrowing in Kill Devil Hills and Cindy’s cottage would one day plunge into the sea. Still, Daria thought it would be neat to be able to look out your bedroom window and see nothing but water below you.

The beach was beautiful! The storm had washed the sand clean, and the tide had left behind a deep, wide row of shells, waiting for her to sift through them. The sun was already a thin sliver of copper on the horizon above the water, which was so calm it looked more like the sound than the ocean. Nothing like last night’s turbulent, frothy waves. She sat down on the dune to watch the sun’s rapid ascent into the iridescent sky. The sand was cool and damp, and she dug her bare feet into it.

Large, brown, orb-shaped horseshoe-crab shells dotted the beach, an eerie spectacle in the coppery light. They looked like something from another planet. She had never seen so many of them at one time, but they only held her interest for a moment or two before she began thinking again about the social dilemma facing her this summer. Although the Catos had been at the Sea Shanty for less than a week, Daria could already see how this summer was going to shape up, and the picture wasn’t pleasant. She went over the cul-de-sac kids in her mind, wishing she’d made a mistake in figuring out their ages. Chloe was seventeen and Ellen, who’d be with them for most of the summer, was fifteen. Cindy Trump was sixteen, her brother, Todd, thirteen. There were seventeen-year-old twins, Jill and Brian Fletcher, in the cottage next to Poll-Rory. Next door to them was that really quiet girl, Linda, who was fourteen and always had her nose stuck in a book. An old couple, the Wheelers, lived next door to Daria, and their three children were so grown-up, they were married. Last year, Daria had occasionally played with Rory’s sister, Polly. Polly was fifteen, but she had Down’s syndrome, so it was like playing with someone much younger. But even Polly seemed to have moved far beyond Daria this summer, at least in terms of physical development, if not interests. She had breasts that Ellen and Chloe were talking about with envy.

Once the sun was fully above the horizon, Daria set out for the inviting line of shells. Her shorts had deep pockets, so she would be able to carry whatever treasures she found. Her bounty would annoy her mother, who now complained about her collecting buckets of “useless” shells each summer, even though she’d never said a word about it before.

The sand was deliciously cool beneath her feet as she walked along the line of shells. She had progressed only as far as the Trumps’ cottage when she spotted the largest horseshoe-crab shell she had ever seen smack in the middle of the broad strip of shells. The shell looked odd to her, raised up a bit, as though perhaps the crab might still be inside. Curious, she extended her leg, and with her sandcovered toe, kicked the brown globe onto its back. Daria blinked in disbelief. A bloody baby! She shrieked before she could stop herself, then took off across the sand, screaming and waving her arms, wishing now that she were not all alone on the beach.

She’d run the distance of several cottages when she stopped short. Had it really been a baby? Could it have been a doll, perhaps? She looked back over shoulder. Yes, she was certain it had been a real, human baby. And in her memory, she imagined the small, almost imperceptible movement of a tiny, blood-covered foot. Surely that had not actually happened. She stood rigidly on the beach, staring back at the shell. Okay, maybe it really was a baby, but it couldn’t possibly be alive. Very slowly, she walked back to the overturned shell. The ocean was so quiet that she could hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Standing above the shell, she forced herself to look down.

It was a baby, a naked baby, and not only was it stained with blood, it was lying next to what looked like a pulpy mountain of blood. And the baby was alive. There was no mistaking the tiny movement of its head toward the sea, no mistaking the weak, mewling sound escaping from its doll-like lips.

Fighting nausea, Daria took off her tank top and knelt in the sand. Carefully, she began to wrap the shirt around the baby, only to pull away in horror. The bloody mountain was attached to the baby! There was no way to leave it behind. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped the shirt around everything—baby, mountain and half a dozen shells—and stood up, cradling the bundle in her arms. She walked as quickly as she could up the beach toward the Sea Shanty. She stopped once, expecting to be sick, but she felt the trembling of the small life in her arms and forced her feet to continue walking.

Once in the Sea Shanty, she laid the bundle down on the kitchen table. Blood had soaked clear through the tank top, and she realized there was blood on her bare chest as she ran up the stairs to her parents’ third-story bedroom.

“Mom!” She pounded on their bedroom door. “Daddy!”

She heard her father’s heavy footsteps inside the room. In a moment, he opened the door. He was tying his tie, and his thick, usually unruly, black hair was combed into place for church. Behind him, Daria could see her mother, still asleep in their double bed.

“Shh.” Her father held a finger to his lips. “What’s the matter?” His eyes widened as he saw the red stain on her chest, and he stepped quickly into the hall, grabbing her by the shoulder. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you get hurt?”

“I found a baby on the beach!” she said. “It’s alive but it’s all—”

“What did you say?” Her mother sat up in bed, her brown hair jutting from her head on one side. She looked suddenly wide-awake.

“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said, pushing past her father to reach the bed. She tugged her mother’s hand. “I put it on the table in the kitchen. I’m afraid it might die. It’s really tiny, and it’s got a lot of blood on it.”

Her mother was out of the bed more quickly than Daria had seen her move in months. She pulled on her robe and slippers and raced down the stairs ahead of both Daria and her father.

In the kitchen, the baby was just where Daria had left it, and the bundle was so still that she feared the baby might now truly be dead. Daria’s mother did not balk for an instant at the bloody sight, and Daria was impressed and proud as her mother lifted the crimson tank top away from the infant.

“Dear God in heaven!” Daria’s father said, taking a step backward. But her mother was not repelled. With the practiced hands of the nurse she had once been, she began moving efficiently around the kitchen. She filled a pan with water and put it on the stove, then wet a dish towel and began cleaning the baby with it.

Daria leaned close, made less afraid by her mother’s matter-of-fact handling of the situation. “Why is it so bloody?” she asked.

“Because it’s a newborn,” her mother said. “She’s a newborn.”

Daria looked closer and could see that the baby was indeed a girl.

“Where exactly did you find her?” her mother asked.

“She was under a horseshoe-crab shell,” Daria said.

“Under a horseshoe-crab shell!” her mother exclaimed.

“She was with all the shells washed in from the tide,” Daria said. “Do you think the storm last night washed her up on the beach?”

Her mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “She would have been washed clean then. And she would have been dead.” Her lower lip trembled and her nostrils flared with quiet rage. “No, someone just left her there.”

“I’m calling the police.” Daria’s father headed for the living room and the phone. His face had gone gray. Aunt Josie passed him on her way into the room.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Oh my God!” Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw the baby lying on the kitchen table.

“I found her on the beach,” Daria explained.

“All by herself?” Aunt Josie asked. “Where on the beach?”

“Right in front of Cindy Trump’s cottage,” Daria said. She saw her mother and aunt exchange glances. People always did that when they talked about Cindy Trump, but Daria didn’t have a clue why.

“The placenta is attached,” Aunt Josie said, peering closer, and Daria knew she must mean the bloody mountain still lying next to the baby.

“I know.” Daria’s mother shook her head as she rinsed out the wet cloth under the faucet. “Isn’t this just unbelievable?”

Daria thought of Chloe and Ellen still asleep upstairs. They shouldn’t miss this. She started toward the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” her mother asked.

“To get Chloe and Ellen,” Daria said.

“It’s not even eight o’clock,” her mother said. “Don’t wake them yet.”

“Teenagers sleep the sleep of the dead, I swear,” Aunt Josie said.

Chloe and Ellen would probably blame her for not waking them, but Daria thought it best to be obedient just then. She stepped close to the table again and watched as her mother slipped the blades of the kitchen scissors into the boiling water for a moment, then snipped the cord coming from the baby’s belly button. Finally, the baby was free of the horrible, pulpy mass. Aunt Josie brought a towel from the downstairs bathroom and Daria’s mother wrapped it around the newly bathed baby and lifted the bundle to her chest. She rocked the baby back and forth. “Poor darling little thing,” she said softly. “Poor little castaway.” Daria thought it had been years since she’d seen so much life in her mother’s eyes.

The policemen and rescue squad arrived within minutes. One of the rescue-squad workers, a young man with long hair, nearly had to pry the infant from Daria’s mother’s arms. Still wearing her robe and slippers, she followed the baby to the ambulance. She stood watching the vehicle as it drove away, and she stayed there for several minutes after the ambulance had turned onto the beach road from the cul-de-sac.

Meanwhile, the policemen were full of questions, mainly for Daria. They sat with her on the screened porch of the Sea Shanty and went over and over the details of her discovery until she herself began to feel guilty, as though she had done something terribly wrong and would be hauled off to jail any moment. After questioning her for nearly half an hour, they sent her inside while they spoke with her parents and Aunt Josie. Daria sat on the wicker chair in the living room, the one right next to the window that opened onto the porch, so she could listen to whatever the grown-ups had to say.

“Can you tell us what teenage girls live on this cul-de-sac?” one of the policemen asked.

Aunt Josie began ticking them off. “That cottage there on the beach,” she said, “There’s a fast girl lives there. Cindy Trump. I’ve heard the boys call her Cindy Tramp, because she’s easy, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t say that, Josie,” Daria’s mother scolded.

“But I saw her yesterday,” Daria’s father said. “She didn’t look pregnant to me.”

Daria leaned her cheek against the wicker back of the chair, positioning herself to hear better. This was fascinating talk.

“I saw her, too,” Aunt Josie said. “She had on a big white shirt, like a man’s shirt. She could have been hiding anything under there.”

Daria could almost hear her father’s shrug of defeat. Aunt Josie had been married to his brother, who had died five years ago, and she always seemed to get her way with Daria’s dad.

Aunt Josie began speaking again. “There’s that girl Linda, who—”

“She’s only fourteen,” Daria’s mother protested. “And she’s so shy. Why, she can’t even talk to the boys, much less…” Her voice trailed off.

“We’d still like to know what girls are on the cul-de-sac,” one of the policemen said. “Whether you think they could be the mother of that baby or not. How about in this cottage? Any girls besides Supergirl? Daria?”

Supergirl? Daria grinned to herself.

“Yes,” Daria’s father said, “but they’re good Catholic girls.”

“My daughter, Ellen, is fifteen,” Aunt Josie said. “And I can assure you she was not pregnant.”

“Same for our daughter, Chloe.” Daria’s father sounded insulted that Chloe might be considered a suspect. “She goes to Catholic University. Got in when she was only sixteen, so you can guess she spends most of her time hitting the books.”

Daria wasn’t so sure about that. Chloe was smart enough to get good grades without doing much studying.

“Anyone else?” one of the officers asked.

“In this cottage?” Aunt Josie asked. “No, but there’s a couple more girls on this block. There’s Polly across the street.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Josie,” Daria’s mother said. “She’s mentally retarded. Do you really think—”

“She’s right to tell us,” one of the policemen said. “Who else?” He and Aunt Josie sounded like old buddies.

“I think the only other one is that Jill girl,” Aunt Josie said.

“She’s the Fletcher girl.” Daria’s mother’s sounded resigned. Every girl on the cul-de-sac was going to be on that list, whether she wanted them to be or not.

Daria saw Chloe descending the stairs from the second story and put her finger to her lips. Chloe frowned as she reached the living room. She walked over to her sister on bare feet.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, trying to peer out the window onto the porch.

“Don’t let them see you!” Daria grabbed a fistful of her sister’s wild black hair to pull her head down.

“Ouch.” Chloe extricated herself from Daria’s grasp. “Why are the cops here?”

“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said.

“You found what?”

“Shh,” Daria said. But before she could explain further, their father stepped into the room.

“Chloe, good, you’re here,” he said. His hair was mussed now. He could never keep it looking neat for long. “I was just coming in to get you. You and Ellen need to answer a few questions for the police.”

“Why?” Chloe looked surprised. Her usual olive complexion had a waxy cast to it in the pale morning light, and Daria guessed she was nervous about having to talk to policemen.

“It’s all right,” Daria said. “I talked to them for a long time. They’re pretty nice.” Of course, though, I’m Supergirl.

“Get Ellen,” her father said to Chloe, who rolled her eyes and offered him a look of disdain before stomping up the stairs. That defiant attitude was brand-new. Chloe had been away at college all this year, only joining the family at the Sea Shanty a few days ago, and Daria had not yet adjusted to the change in her sister. Chloe had always been her parents’ pride and joy, with her straight-A report card and adherence to their rules. Suddenly, she was acting as though she didn’t need parents at all.

“And you.” Daria’s father looked straight at her, and she knew she’d been caught eavesdropping at the window. “You go on upstairs now. You must be tired. It’s already been a long morning for you.”

Daria did not want to go upstairs; she wanted to hear what the police would say to Chloe and Ellen, and she should be able to. She was eleven now, not that anyone seemed to have remembered. And if it hadn’t been for her, this whole commotion wouldn’t be happening at all. But her dad had that stern look on his face that told her she’d better not argue.

She passed Ellen and Chloe on her way up the stairs. Ellen wore the same pale-faced look as Chloe, and they said nothing to her as she passed them. But when she was nearly to the second story, she heard Chloe call out to her.

“Hey, Daria,” she said. “Happy birthday, sis.”

When she reached the upstairs hallway, Daria sat down on the top step, trying to remain within hearing range of the voices downstairs. She could tell who was talking, but little of what was said, and her mind began to wander. She thought about what she’d told the police, playing the interview over and over in her mind. If you lied to the police, could you be arrested? Would they arrest an eleven-year-old girl? She had not actually lied, she reassured herself. She had simply left out one fact—one small, probably insignificant piece of the story: the baby was not all she had found on the beach that morning.

1

Twenty-two years later

DARIA’S THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY WAS NOT MUCH DIFFERENT from any other early June day. Life was slowly returning to the Outer Banks as vacationers trickled into the coastal communities, and it seemed the air and sea grew warmer by the hour. Daria spent the day with her co-worker and fellow carpenter, Andy Kramer, remodeling the kitchen of a house in Nag’s Head. She installed cabinets and countertops, all the while battling the melancholia that had been her companion for the past month and a half.

Andy had insisted on buying her lunch—a chicken sandwich and fries at Wendy’s—as his birthday gift to her. She sat across the table from him, nibbling her sandwich while he devoured his three hamburgers and two orders of fries, as they planned their work agenda for the afternoon. Despite Andy’s appetite, he was reed slender. His blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached the middle of his back, and a gold hoop pierced his left earlobe. He was only in his mid-twenties, and Daria figured that was the reason he could still eat as he did and never gain an ounce.

“So,” he said to her as he polished off the last of his burgers, “are you going to party tonight?”

“No,” Daria said. “I’m just going to have some cake with Chloe and Shelly.”

“Oh, right,” Andy said. “It’s Shelly’s birthday, too, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh. She’s twenty-two.” Hard to believe. Shelly still seemed like a child to her.

Andy drank the last swallow of his soda and set the empty cup on the tray. “Well, I think you and Shelly should go out on the town tonight and do it right.”

“I have to teach a class at the fire station,” Daria said, as if that was the only thing keeping her from “going out on the town.”

“You do?” Andy looked surprised. “I thought you weren’t—”

“I’m not working as an EMT,” Daria finished his sentence for him. “I still want to be an instructor, though. This will be the first class I’ve taught since…in a while.”

He had to know she meant it was her first class since April, when the seaplane went down in the ocean and changed everything in her life, but he wisely said nothing. Daria was anxious about teaching again. Tonight would be the first time she’d faced the other emergency medical technicians since turning in her resignation from the volunteer force, and she knew she had left them confused—and short-handed—by her sudden departure. She feared she had lost credibility with them, as well.

She left the restaurant with Andy, wondering how he felt about her quitting. Andy longed to be an EMT. He’d failed the exam twice, and Daria knew it was unlikely he would ever pass it, although he seemed determined to keep trying. He had been at the plane crash back in April, though, and he surely understood how horrendous that situation had been for her. But even Andy didn’t know the entire story.

The class at the fire station that evening proved that Daria had been right to be nervous about teaching again. No one seemed to know what to say to her. Were they angry with her for leaving so abruptly, or just disappointed in her? Most of them probably thought she had left because her fiancé, Pete, had resigned, and she allowed them that misperception. It was easier than telling them the truth. A few of them, those who had known her for many years, were aware that her leaving had something to do with the crash of the seaplane, but even those people did not understand. After ten years as a volunteer EMT, with a reputation as the “local hero” who possessed exceptional skills and steely nerves, it was unthinkable that one failed rescue attempt could flatten Daria to that extent. As she stood in front of the class that evening, she couldn’t blame any of them for their confusion or sudden distrust of her. After all, she was teaching them to perform tasks she was no longer willing to perform herself. She wondered if she truly had the right to be teaching at all. Walking out to her car after the class, she was painfully aware that no one was following her to ask questions or even to chat. They all hung back in the classroom, probably waiting until she’d left the building to begin talking about her.

It was a bit after eight o’clock as she drove home from the station. Although it was only Thursday night and still early in the season, the traffic on the main road was already growing thick with tourists. She knew what that meant: accidents, heart attacks, near drownings. Shuddering, she was glad she was no longer an EMT.

She pulled into the driveway of the Sea Shanty, parking behind Chloe’s car. As of this week, all the driveways in the cul-de-sac were full. Seeing the cars, Daria suddenly missed the isolation of the winter months, when she and Shelly had the cul-de-sac entirely to themselves. They’d lived in Kill Devil Hills year-round for ten years, and usually she looked forward to the cul-de-sac’s coming to life in the summer. But there was too much explaining to do this year. “Where’s Pete?” everyone would want to know. And “Why did you quit being an EMT?” She was tired of answering those questions.

Chloe was sitting in one of the rockers on the porch, reading a book by the porch light. “I’ve got an ice-cream cake in the freezer,” she said. “Now all we need is Shelly.”

“Where is she?”

“Out on the beach, where else?” Chloe said. “She’s been out there for a couple of hours.”

Daria sat down on another of the rockers. “I don’t like her to walk on the beach at night,” she said.

“She’s twenty-two years old, sis,” Chloe said.

Chloe didn’t get it. She was only with them during the summer months, when she directed the day-camp program for kids at St. Esther’s Church. She wasn’t with Shelly enough to know how poor the young woman’s judgment could be. Shelly could pick up some stranger on the beach, or some stranger could pick her up. It had happened before.

Daria brushed her hand over a spot on her khaki shorts, where glue from the installation of the countertops had found a permanent home. One more ruined pair of shorts. She must have sighed, because when she looked up, Chloe was staring at her. The extremely short haircut Chloe was sporting this summer made her huge brown eyes seem even larger, the dark velvety lashes longer. For a second, Daria was mesmerized by her sister’s beauty.

“I’m a little worried about you, Daria,” Chloe said.

“Why?”

“You seem so down,” Chloe said. “I don’t think I’ve seen a smile on your face since I arrived.”

She hadn’t known her unhappiness was that obvious. “Sorry,” she said.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Chloe said. “I just wish there was something I could do to help. I don’t understand Pete, frankly. Does he ever call you?”

Daria stretched her arms out in front of her. “He’s called a couple of times, but it’s definitely over,” she said. On the phone, Pete sounded relieved to be away from her, and the few times they’d spoken, he’d lectured her about putting herself first for once. It was painful to hear from him, and while part of her wished he would call again, she knew prolonging that relationship would only hurt her in the long run.

“Can you tell me why he broke off the engagement?” Chloe asked gently. She had avoided that question so far, probably hoping Daria would provide the answer on her own.

“Oh, a bunch of reasons,” Daria said evasively. “Shelly was part of it.” Shelly was all of it, actually.

“Shelly! What did she have to do with it?”

Daria drew her feet up onto the seat of the rocker and wrapped her arms around her legs. “He thought she needed more supervision than I was giving her,” she said. “He thought I should put her in some sort of home or something.”

Chloe’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “That’s crazy,” she said. She leaned toward Daria, covering her hand with her own. “I’m so sorry, honey. I had no idea Shelly had been that taxing on your relationship with Pete.”

Shelly had always been an issue between her and Pete, but after the plane crash it had come to a head. Daria didn’t want to discuss that with Chloe. There was no one she could discuss it with.

“It’s Pete’s problem, not mine.” Daria got to her feet. “I’m really tired,” she said. “I’m going to lie down for a while. Call me when Shelly gets here and we can do the cake, okay?”

Upstairs, she lay on her bed, but didn’t sleep. She stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the night sounds of the ocean and the shouts of the Wheelers’ grandkids from the yard next door. Since the summer she turned eleven, every one of her birthdays brought back memories of the day she’d found the infant abandoned on the beach. She closed her eyes, saying a quick prayer that Shelly was safe out on the beach, then let herself remember the day twenty-two years ago—the day that had shaped the rest of her life.

The baby had been the talk of the neighborhood all that day, and for many days to come. The police had questioned everyone on the cul-de-sac, as well as people on neighboring streets and the other side of the beach road, but Daria had been aware only of the little world on her street. As the police made their rounds that afternoon, Daria had sat on the porch with Chloe and their cousin, Ellen, pretending to play with her bug-catching kit while listening to them talk about all the girls in the cul-de-sac. Ellen and Chloe sat in the rocking chairs, their long, bare legs stretched in front of them, their bare feet on the molding beneath the screens of the porch. Daria sat at the picnic table, hunched over her microscope, pretending to be absorbed in studying the wing of a dragonfly. She understood only bits and pieces of the conversation between her sister and cousin. They were talking about sex, of course. She knew that if she asked questions, they would stop talking completely, so she kept her mouth shut and feigned great interest in the dragonfly.

“The cops are in the Taylors’ cottage now,” Ellen said.

Daria braved a glance across the cul-de-sac at Poll-Rory, the Taylors’ cottage.

“I am so white,” Chloe said, examining her legs. Her legs were hardly white; like Daria and Ellen, Chloe was of Greek descent and had inherited the trademark thick black hair and olive skin of the Cato side of the family. Nevertheless, Chloe would complain all summer long about her inability to tan, even as she grew darker week by week.

“I don’t know why they’re bothering to talk to Polly,” Ellen said. “I mean, who’s going to get a mongoloid pregnant?”

“Well, she is fifteen now,” Chloe said. “But I really don’t see how she could hide being pregnant from Mrs. Taylor. Polly’s always with her.”

“Well, I’m fifteen, too,” Ellen said. “And I’m a whole lot better-looking than Polly, but I’m still a virgin.”

Chloe laughed. “Right,” she said, “and I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

Daria knew what a virgin was. The Virgin Mary had gotten pregnant with baby Jesus without ever having had sex. It had never occurred to her that Ellen or her sister or Polly or any of the other teenage girls on the cul-de-sac could be anything other than a virgin. She lowered her eye to the microscope again to keep the shock from showing on her face.

“What makes the cops so sure it was a teenager, anyhow?” Ellen asked.

“They’re probably pretty certain it’s Cindy Tramp’s baby,” Chloe said, “but they don’t have enough evidence to force her to have an examination. I bet they’re hearing all about her at every cottage they go to. She’s been doing it since she was twelve.”

“Twelve?” Ellen looked astonished.

“Twelve,” Chloe said with certainty. “Just one year older than Daria.” Both of them looked at Daria, and she raised her head from the microscope, feeling color blossom on her cheeks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Daria said, although she did. She could not imagine having sex one year from then. She looked across the street at Poll-Rory, thinking of Rory inside that cottage. He was the only boy she could imagine kissing, but even with Rory, she couldn’t picture doing anything more than that. She wasn’t certain exactly how it was done, anyway.

“I know who it was!” Ellen said excitedly. “I bet it was that girl, Linda.” She laughed, as though she’d said something wildly amusing. Chloe laughed, too, and Daria laughed along with them, pretending to understand.

The police suddenly walked out Poll-Rory’s front door, with Rory close on their heels. Rory was yelling at them, and Daria leaned closer to the screen, as did Chloe and Ellen, trying to hear.

“…just confused her!” Rory shouted. “What was the point?”

The policemen kept walking toward the street, ignoring him.

“Don’t come back again!” Rory yelled after them, a threat in his voice. The sun shimmered on his blond hair, and after only one rainy week at the beach, he was already tan. His voice was deeper than it had been a year before. Yelling at the policemen, Rory suddenly seemed more like a man than a boy, and Daria was both enticed and humiliated, seeing at once how ridiculous she was for hoping he might still want to hang out with her this summer.

“Rory!” Mrs. Taylor opened the screen door of Poll-Rory and called to her son.

Rory did not turn around. He stared after the policemen as they walked down the street, and even from across the cul-de-sac, Daria thought she could see the daggers in his eyes.

Mrs. Taylor came out of the cottage and into the sandy yard, where she spoke with him softly, putting her arm around his shoulders. Finally he turned and walked with her back into the cottage.

“Rory is looking hot this summer,” Ellen said, fanning herself with her hand.

“He’s only fourteen,” Chloe scoffed. “Though I guess that’s about right for you.”

Daria’s mother came out onto the porch. She had on a dress, unusual attire for Kill Devil Hills. “We’ll go out for pizza tonight,” she said, stroking her hand over Daria’s hair. The touch felt nearly alien. It had been a while since her mother had touched her that way. “For your birthday, Daria,” she added. “And then to the miniature-golf course. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Daria said, pleased that her mother had not forgotten her birthday after all. Chloe and Ellen looked at Sue Cato as if she’d grown two heads.

“And right now—” Daria’s mother smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress “—I’m going to the hospital in Elizabeth City to visit the baby.”

“Why?” Chloe asked. “It’s not yours.”

“That’s true, but right now she doesn’t have anyone,” Sue said. “No one to hold her and rock her. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Can I go, Mom?” Daria stood up, the dragonfly forgotten. “I found her.”

Her mother tilted her head, as if considering. “Sure,” she said. “I think you should.”

The nurse instructed them to wash their hands with a special soap and put on blue gowns before they could walk into the nursery where the baby was lying in a plastic bassinet. They were not allowed to pick her up, however. They were just allowed to stare. And stare they did. Daria barely recognized the tiny infant lying in front of her. The baby was so small. Had she really been that small when Daria found her on the beach? Her skin was very pale, almost translucent, and her hair was little more than a dusting of fine blond glitter on the top of her head. She was attached to several monitors by long wires taped to her chest.

Daria was surprised to feel tears fill her eyes as she looked at the baby. This baby was alive because of her. She moved, she breathed, because of her. It seemed unbelievable.

Daria’s mother took her hand, and Daria held on tightly, something she had not done in years. She glanced up at her mother’s face to see tears streaming slowly and silently down her cheeks, and Daria knew that for each of them, this baby was more than a small bundle of flesh and bone. This baby was already changing their lives.

“We’re going to stop at St. Esther’s,” her mother said once they were back in the car and driving across Currituck Sound toward Kill Devil Hills.

“To light a candle,” Daria said with conviction, proud she was able to read her mother’s mind.

“Yes,” her mother said. “But also, we’re going to pay a visit to Father Macy.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Daria’s mother stared at the road and clutched the steering wheel firmly in her hands. “Because if the mother doesn’t come forward, I believe that baby should be ours.” She turned to face Daria. “Don’t you? After all, she’s alive because of you, my sweet Daria.”

It had not occurred to her that they might be able to keep the baby, but instantly, Daria could imagine no other outcome. A little sister! She was going to do something a bit evil when she lit her candle: She was going to pray that the identity of the person who left the baby on the beach was never discovered.

St. Esther’s was nothing like the church Daria’s family attended during the rest of the year in Norfolk, Virginia. The church in Norfolk was dark and cold and musty-smelling, and always made her shiver with a strange mixture of fear and awe. But St. Esther’s stood near the sound in Nag’s Head, a large wooden rectangular building that felt clean and new inside. It was open and airy, with huge windows near the high ceiling and pews made from light-colored wood. There was stained glass in some of the windows, a kaleidoscope of translucent glass cut into abstract shapes that sent beams of bright colored light through the air of the church.

St. Esther’s was empty that afternoon, and Daria thought their footsteps were entirely too loud as she and her mother walked across the hardwood floor to the tiers of candles in the corner. Daria’s mother took a long wooden taper from the holder, slipped it into the flame of one of the candles and used the lit taper to light a candle of her own. She handed the taper to Daria.

It did not seem quite as magical and mysterious to light a candle in here as it would have in their dark, cavelike church in Norfolk, but nevertheless Daria lit a candle in the bottom tier and knelt next to her mother to say a prayer for the baby.

Dear God, let that little baby live and be healthy, she prayed. And let her be ours.

When they had finished praying, Daria and her mother walked out the side door of the church to the small attached building that housed the offices of the priests, as well as some classrooms where children attended day camp. They entered the building and began walking through the wide, cool hallway, its hardwood floor gleaming in the light from the skylights. Father Macy was just walking out of his office as they approached.

“Why Mrs. Cato. Daria,” he said with a smile. “What brings the two of you here?” He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and his hair was the color of the sea oats on the Kill Devil Hills beach. He was a good match for St. Esther’s, as approachable and cheerful as the church itself.

Daria felt her mother put an arm around her shoulders. “Go ahead and tell him, honey,” she said.

“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said.

Father Macy’s brown eyes grew wide. “A baby?” he repeated.

“Yes,” her mother said. “Daria had the courage to pick her up and bring her home to us, even though she was a newborn with the, uh…afterbirth still attached.” She squeezed Daria’s shoulder. “We would like to talk with you about her, if you have a minute.”

“Of course,” Father Macy said. He stepped back into his office. “Come right in.”

They followed him into the small room. A massive desk stood in front of the one large window. It looked out toward the sound, and in the distance, the grand, golden dunes at Nag’s Head. The priest sat casually on the edge of his desk, and Daria and her mother sat in two armchairs on the opposite side of the room. Father Macy’s easygoing demeanor irritated her father, Daria knew. “He’s too informal,” he had said, and she doubted that the Norfolk priests ever sat on the edge of their desks. But Father Macy was very young; it was his third year being a priest and his second year at St. Esther’s. Even Daria thought he was handsome, with those large, brown eyes and long eyelashes. He had an easy laugh that made her feel relaxed around him.

“So tell me more about this baby you found, Daria,” he said.

“I was on the beach very early this morning to watch the sunrise and to beach-comb,” Daria said. “And I kicked over a horseshoe-crab shell, and underneath was the baby.” She didn’t want to tell him about the blood.

“And obviously, it had been born quite recently?” He looked at Daria’s mother for confirmation, and she nodded.

“Someone had simply given birth to her right there or very nearby, and left her to die,” Daria’s mother said.

“My, my.” Father Macy looked gravely concerned. “Is the baby…alive?”

“Yes, by the grace of God, she is,” she said. “She’s at the hospital in Elizabeth City. We just visited her and she’s doing well, and in a few days she should be able to go home. But she has no home, and that’s why I’m here.” Daria’s mother looked uncomfortable for the first time since they’d entered the priest’s office. She looked into her lap and played with the clasp of her purse, and Daria wished she would just get to the point.

“My husband and I would like to adopt her,” she said finally. “That is, if no one claims her. And I was wondering if you could help with that. If you could intercede on our behalf.”

Father Macy looked thoughtful. “Do you realize what a miracle this is?” he asked. “That Daria found this baby in time to save her? That the baby was found by someone who belongs to a family as devout, as holy and blessed as the Cato family?”

For the second time that afternoon, Daria felt close to tears.

“Yes,” her mother said softly. “Yes, we’re very aware that the Lord selected us.”

“I’ll be in touch with the hospital,” Father Macy said, standing up. “And I’ll be in touch with the state adoption agency. I’ll do whatever I can to plead your case. I can think of no better home for that little one.”

One week later, the baby arrived at the Sea Shanty, and became the instant celebrity of the neighborhood. Everyone from the cul-de-sac stopped by to stare at the little blond-haired infant and to shake their heads over her rude beginning in life. Daria’s mother named the infant Michelle, calling her Shelly for short. The irony of that name had seemed lost on everyone except Daria, who had delighted in how fitting a name it was. People often commented, though, on the other irony: that this tiny, blond, brown-eyed child was now part of the dark-haired, Greek Cato clan.

All that summer, Daria’s mother would sit on the porch, rocking the tiny baby in her arms and telling all who approached that Shelly was her gift from the sea.

“Daria?”

Daria started at the sound of Chloe’s voice. She sat up on the bed, freeing herself from the memories.

“Shelly’s back,” Chloe called from downstairs. “Come have some cake.”

“Coming!” Daria called, relieved that Shelly had returned safe and sound. She ran her fingers through her hair and headed downstairs to hug the young woman who was both her joy and her heartache, her blessing and her burden.