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insignificant things.
    Yet they were different at the beach house. There, they lived their lives not by the dictates of a clock but by the whims of the sultry summer sun. They rose when the bright sun’s glare shone like a bugle’s call, and once awake, the children were free to explore wherever their hearts led them, needing only to show up at Mama’s table for dinner. They fell asleep when the sun lowered, exhausted after a day of swimming, surfing, bicycling, fishing, or boating.
    Lovie was a different mother at the beach house, too. She was more relaxed, more at peace without the constant stress of her busy schedule. She smiled more, found she could be more patient, and as the children didn’t argue as much, she rarely had to scold. Nor did she tell them to keep their feet off the furniture or to mind that they put a coaster under their glasses. At the beach house, there were no fussy antiques. Only the “not so good” antiques and dishes were at the beach, suitable for damp swimsuits, the ever-present sand, and impromptu visitors. The fridge alwaysheld a pitcher of sweet tea and the cookie jar was filled with sugar cookies.
    Lovie crossed over the narrow Grace Bridge from Charleston to Mount Pleasant and felt the tension ease from her chest with each mile past the Cooper River. Coleman Boulevard was a quiet road that led to the long, narrow Ben Sawyer Boulevard, which traversed a great, yawning expanse of green marsh. There was something magical about crossing this vast wetland that separated the mainland from Sullivan’s Island. She often felt like she was leaving all her problems behind where the earth was rooted and solid. Ahead was the ephemeral sun, sand, and water—so much water! The glistening current of the Intracoastal Waterway raced behind them and just beyond lay the mighty Atlantic Ocean.
    She turned off the car’s air-conditioning and they all rolled down the windows to breathe deep the salty air. The breeze was warm on her face and immediately she felt the familiar tug of the islands. The tide was low, exposing mudflats spiked with sharp oyster shells, and the cordgrass where white egrets hunted. She sniffed, smiling when she caught the unmistakable, pungent scent of pluff mud. Anyone who didn’t like that odor didn’t belong here, she thought. Pluff mud and salt air smelled like home to Lovie.
    Lovie crossed the Ben Sawyer Bridge to Sullivan’s Island and continued past several quaint cottages with hanging baskets of flowers on the porches. In the yards, laundry flapped in the breeze, and in one, a large black dog slept in the sunlight. Her fingers danced on the wheel in anticipation when she reached the third and final bridge she’d cross this morning. The narrow Isle of Palms Bridge stretched over Breach Inlet, where many British soldiers had drowned in the treacherous water during the Revolutionary War. They were trying to attack Fort Moultrie onSullivan’s Island, crossing the inlet by foot when the unsuspecting force fell victim to the powerful currents.
    In no time the station wagon was over the bridge and she was back on the Isle of Palms! Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw her smile reflected on Cara’s and Palmer’s faces. They were silent now, their eyes eagerly seeking out familiar touchstones. To their left was Hamlin Creek, lined with docks with boats at moor. The current was racing, and she felt her blood match the pace as she turned the car windward down the gently sloping road.
    In a breath, she saw Primrose Cottage. She guided the car off the pavement to where the gravel was so sparse the wheels dug into sand as she parked. She turned off the engine, the car rumbled, and she sighed in the resulting silence.
    “We’re here.”
    In an explosion of cheers and yelps, the car doors flung open as Palmer and Cara leaped out and ran like wild Indians across the dunes to the beach beyond. Lovie laughed and placed a hand to her heart as memories played in her mind. That was