Chapter Four

      On Mondays, the shop was closed. A well-earned rest for employees who spent the weekend guiding kayaking tours. Usually Darcy slept in on her day off. Mondays—not Sundays, though she’d never tell her minister father—were her favorite day of the week.

      She hadn’t seen Jax since Saturday night, nor did he appear at church. But Monday morning, despite sleeping fitfully, she came fully awake at 6:00 a.m. Wired, restless, vaguely uneasy.

      Darcy lay in bed, watching the first beams of light filter through the dormer window. She’d lived in this house as long as she’d been alive.

      Mondays were also her father’s well-earned day off. The day he chose her and her mom over the rest of his congregation. In the summers when she was out of school, they’d spent the day as a family doing fun stuff.

      During the school year, she still remembered the special thrill of getting off the bus at the square and walking the last few blocks home with the Pruitt clan.

      Her steps quick with anticipation, she knew her father would be waiting for her at the base of the tree house. He’d push her on the swing, and they’d spend a blissful hour together. She loved to swing, trying to touch the sky.

      “I’m a swing kind of girl!” she’d call, pumping her legs as hard as she could go.

      “And I’m a swing kind of dad,” her father would say back.

      On the swing, she could fly. Feeling free and light, she broke the bonds of gravity and soared into the wild blue yonder.

      Being so energetic, she must’ve wearied her more sedentary parents. No wonder they were content for her to play with the Pruitt pack next door.

      A Kiptohanock native, her father had become pastor of the church with a wife and a young son in tow. The wife and son Darcy never knew. Because if they’d lived, Harold Parks would never have married her mother, and Darcy Parks wouldn’t exist.

      She gazed at the ceiling. It was strange to think of herself as not existing. And equally strange to contemplate why she lived and yet her father’s other child had not.

      Over the years, she’d thought a lot about her brother. Would she and Colin have been friends, like the Pruitt siblings? Perhaps the two of them would’ve gone fishing. Hunted for seashells on one of the barrier islands.

      Would he have been bookish like their father? Or athletic like her, who took after nobody on either side of the family? Truth was, dead little Colin Parks had fit in better with her father than she ever would.

      She flung back the thin sheet and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Enough of that. Not given to melancholy, her perennially cheerful mother had raised her to be the same. Darcy was far more comfortable with doing something rather than just being.

      Careful to avoid the pine floorboard that creaked, she quietly dressed lest she awaken her parents. Sunday was her dad’s busiest day, and on Mondays he needed his rest. He continued to maintain the pastoral duties of a much younger man.

      Standing at the kitchen sink eating a banana, she watched the sun rise over the treetops. No lights shone from the Pruitt house, but Everett Pruitt’s charcoal-gray SUV sat in the driveway. Jax’s parents must’ve arrived home last night.

      Brody was too little for kayaking. Jax would need his parents’ help with Brody when he was working.

      The Pruitts had always been great neighbors. Darcy loved Jax’s mother. Gail Pruitt, a busy RN with five rambunctious children of her own, always made room at the table for one more—the lonely only PK.

      Darcy drifted onto the screened porch, stuffing her bare feet into the flip-flops she’d left there last night. Easing the screen door shut behind her, she plodded toward the tree house.

      Underneath the massive oak, the swing moved idly in the desultory breeze blowing in from the harbor. Hand on the railing, she climbed past the lower platform. The wooden steps wound around the tree trunk, and she ascended to her favorite spot on the higher second level. Rising out of the tree canopy, the perch provided a bird’s-eye view of the entire village.

      She settled into one of the lawn chairs she kept there. Not that anyone but her had been here for a long time. The Pruitts had outgrown the tree house. Just as, one by one, they’d each outgrown the need for home. And her.

      How pathetic was it that she still came up here? Almost thirty, she still lived at home. No boyfriend—or prospects for one—and no real life of her own. What did she have to show for the last fourteen years of her life?

      Yet every morning she climbed the tree house stairs. Here, God felt very near. Almost near enough to touch. Almost as close as the clouds overhead. And at night, this was the perfect spot to view God’s starry handiwork.

      She’d spent hours here as a child. Vicariously enjoying the noise, laughter and life emanating from the house next door. But she’d been too shy to venture over, until the day Jax stood at the bottom of the tree and invited her to come play with his little sister.

      “Anna’s always bothering me and Ben,” Jax had called up. “You’d be doing us a favor.”

      Coaxed out, she’d kept a wary eye on the oldest Pruitt boy as she climbed down from the branches. Even from a distance, she knew him to be a charming handful to his mother and his Sunday-school teachers.

      On that sultry summer day she never forgot, the Pruitt kids had smiled at her, their mouths stained purple, red, orange and blue.

      Jax had handed her a slushy freezer pop. “You look like lime-green would be your favorite.”

      Oh so grateful to be included, she took it from him. Thereafter,