Three
“He’s finally coming back.”
“Who is, baby girl?”
“Owen. He’s been out walking the beach a long time. What’s he doing?”
“Probably looking for glass and shells.”
“Ooooh, duh.”
Hope shook her head in amusement. She finished chopping the celery and tossed it in the salad and then wiped her hands on the dishtowel before joining her daughter at the dining room window overlooking the main beach. Sure enough, there was Owen, picking his way slowly toward the arch. He was cutting it close. The tide, which had just barely retreated far enough for the tunnel to be passable when he’d gone out was now nearly high enough to block it again. And it was a long walk home along the road—about half a mile—if he missed the window of opportunity.
Realizing she was staring at him again, she spun awa
