Sanctuary

the work stretched out before her that afternoon. “Lexy’s been lending a hand,” she continued, “but she’s no more dependable than she ever was. Just as likely to run off for the day as to do what chores need doing. She’s dealing with some disappointments herself, and some growing-up pains.”
    “Lex is twenty-four, Kate. She should be grown up by now.”
    “Some take longer than others. It’s not a fault, it’s a fact.” Kate rose, always ready to defend one of her chicks, even if it was against the pecks of another.
    “And some never learn to face reality,” Jo put in. “And spend their lives blaming everyone else for their failures and disappointments.”
    “Alexa is not a failure. You were never patient enough with her—any more than she was with you. That’s a fact as well.”
    “I never asked her to be patient with me.” Old resentments surfaced like hot grease on tainted water. “I never asked her, or any of them, for anything.”
    “No, you never asked, Jo,” Kate said evenly. “You might have to give something back if you ask. You might have to admit you need them if you let them need you. Well, it’s time you all faced up to a few things. It’s been two years since the three of you have been in this house together.”
    “I know how long it’s been,” Jo said bitterly. “And I didn’t get any more of a welcome from Brian and Lexy than I’d expected.”
    “Maybe you’d have gotten more if you’d expected more.” Kate set her jaw. “You haven’t even asked about your father.”
    Annoyed, Jo stabbed out her cigarette. “What would you like me to ask?”
    “Don’t take that snippy tone with me, young lady. If you’re going to be under this roof, you’ll show some respect for those who provide it. And you’ll do your part while you’re here. Your brother’s had too much of the running of this place on his shoulders these last few years. It’s time the family pitched in. It’s time you were a family.”
    “I’m not an innkeeper, Kate, and I can’t imagine that Brian wants me poking my fingers into his business.”
    “You don’t have to be an innkeeper to do laundry or polish furniture or sweep the sand off the veranda.”
    At the ice in her tone, Jo responded in defense and defiance. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do my part, I just meant—”
    “I know exactly what you meant, and I’m telling you, young lady, I’m sick to death of that kind of attitude. Every one of you children would rather sink over your heads in the marsh than ask one of your siblings for a helping hand. And you’d strangle on your tongue before you asked your daddy. I don’t know whether you’re competing or just being ornery, but I want you to put it aside while you’re here. This is home. By God, it’s time it felt like one.”
    “Kate,” Jo began as Kate headed for the door.
    “No, I’m too mad to talk to you now.”
    “I only meant ...” When the door shut smartly, Jo let the air out of her lungs on a long sigh.
    Her head was achy, her stomach knotted, and guilt was smothering her like a soaked blanket.
    Kate was wrong, she decided. It felt exactly like home.
     
     
    FROM the fringes of the marsh, Sam Hathaway watched a hawk soar over its hunting ground. Sam had hiked over to the landward side of the island that morning, leaving the house just before dawn. He knew Brian had gone out at nearly the same hour, but they hadn’t spoken. Each had his own way, and his own route.
    Sometimes Sam took a Jeep, but more often he walked. Some days he would head to the dunes and watch the sun rise over the water, turning it bloody red, then golden, then blue. When the beach was all space and light and brilliance, he might walk for miles, his eyes keenly judging erosion, looking for any fresh buildup of sand.
    He left shells where the water had tossed them.
    He rarely ventured onto the interdune meadows. They were fragile, and every footfall caused damage and change. Sam fought bitterly against change.
    There were days he preferred to wander to the edge of the forest, behind the dunes, where the lakes and sloughs were full of life and music. There were mornings he needed the stillness and dim light there rather than the thunder of waves and the rising sun. He could, like the patient heron waiting for a careless fish, stand motionless as minutes ticked by.
    There were times among the ponds and stands of willow and thick film of duckweed that he could forget that any world existed