The girls laughed at the joke as Carson moved to kiss Lucille’s cheek.

Lucille grunted. “I ain’t never been called Lucy in my life and never will. I’ve always been Lucille.”

Mamaw didn’t laugh. “These midsummer storms can be surprisingly strong. They can pack a punch. I’ve lived through too many of them not to take each one seriously. Last summer Tropical Storm Debby wiped out our dunes. Cut them clean away.” She clapped her hands together, rousing the group to action. “Girls, plans or no plans, today we have to prepare for this storm. We must take all the cushions inside, put anything light or loose that can be picked up by the wind into the garage. Harper, all your garden tools have to be put away. We don’t want anything to become a missile in the wind and break a window. We can’t be too careful.”

“Mamaw, you always panic with every storm,” Dora said. “This house has weathered storms for over a century.”

“That’s because I prepare! And I’ll have you know, young lady, that this house might still be standing, but I’ve done many repairs over those years. Hugo almost took the whole house away. Once you live through that, you never turn your back on the ocean.”

“Amen,” Lucille muttered.

“Lucy’s gonna be a real storm,” Carson said, looking up at the sky. “I can always feel it in my bones. It’s the shift in the barometric pressure.”

Dora looked at the sky again, feeling the foreboding every person in the lowcountry experiences at the approach of a named summer storm. “At least it’s not a hurricane.”

“But the forecast calls for high winds,” Harper said, looking warily at the sky. “I’m worried about my plants.” She took a deep breath. “I’m off. Got to get them in before the storm hits.” Harper marched off to retrieve a flat of herbs and hoisted them in her thin arms with the ease of a common laborer.

“Who is that girl?” Carson asked, resting her chin in her palm. “And where does she get all that energy?”

“It’s the enthusiasm of a convert, my dear,” Mamaw replied. “It’s irrepressible.”

“Speaking of energy,” Dora said to Carson, “I noticed you slept in again this morning. You haven’t been out surfing or kiting since you got back. With those waves building in the storm, I thought for sure you’d be with those other crazy risk takers out there.”

“I’m still just tired from the trip. Not feeling that good, that’s all.” She looked to Lucille. “I think I’ve got what you’ve got.”

Lucille snorted. “Honey, you ain’t got what I got.”

Carson leaned against Lucille’s shoulder and declared with humor, “Well, you sure ain’t got what I got.”

The way Carson said it had Mamaw looking up quickly to catch Dora’s eye, then Lucille’s. In that moment the three women shared a knowing look. In a synchronized movement, all heads turned toward Carson with narrowed eyes.

Dora bent closer to her sister. “Carson, are you pregnant?”

“The air’s so wet I could drink it,” Mamaw said. Pearls of sweat formed on her brow, and her hair was frizzing.

Tropical Storm Lucy was gathering strength as it moved north along the coast. The sea was roaring in anticipation, echoing throughout the island. A heavy humidity hovered over the lowcountry like a pall. They’d all pitched in to prepare for the storm’s predicted arrival that evening.

Mamaw took a final look-see around the property to make certain all the flowerpots, garden supplies, cushions, and knickknacks were safely stored indoors.

“We’re done here. And we’re hot and sweaty,” Carson said, her arms above her head to redo her ponytail. “We’re going to the beach.”

Mamaw was glad to see a little more color in her face this morning. She was wearing a bikini top and yoga pants that hung low off her hips. Looking at her flat belly, Mamaw found it hard to believe a new life was growing in there. Carson refused to discuss her pregnancy, not even with her. After she’d admitted to the truth, she’d stormed off to her room and shut the door. Mamaw had thought she might hear a rap on her bedroom door and that Carson would slip in, like she usually did for a chat. Carson was resolutely silent.

Harper approached in a black Speedo suit and sarong, and on her head she wore a large floppy hat. She carried beach towels under her arm.

“Want to come?” she asked Mamaw.

“Oh, I don’t think so, dear. Not today.”

Behind her, Dora carried a large canvas bag. Nate’s face bore streaks of white suntan lotion.

“Why don’t you come, Mamaw?” Dora asked. “You haven’t been to the beach much this summer. It’ll be like old times.”

“I don’t want to leave Lucille alone,” Mamaw replied. “Besides, I have a few things I want to get done before the storm. You children go on and have a good time. But Carson”—she pinned her granddaughter with a no-nonsense look—“no going in that ocean, hear? Listen to it roar. That undercurrent is deadly.”

Carson only smirked and did not reply. Mamaw knew that good waves in Charleston waters were powerful bait for local surfers. She also knew that as with everything else, Carson would do what Carson wanted to do.

“You, too, Nate,” she said, turning to Dora. “Don’t you let him in the water.”

“Don’t worry, Mamaw. We won’t.”

Mamaw watched the group saunter off, her fingers tapping her thigh. As soon as they disappeared around the hedge, Mamaw checked her watch and hurried back up the stairs into the house. She went directly to the kitchen phone and dialed a number she’d written on a Post-it note. After two rings, a man answered the phone.

“Devlin Cassell.”

“Devlin, it’s Marietta Muir.”

“Mamaw!” The reply rang with warmth.

Mamaw couldn’t respond for a moment, taken aback at the shock of Devlin calling her Mamaw.

“Forgive me for being so familiar, Mrs. Muir. Old habits die hard.”

“That’s quite all right. But perhaps Mrs. Muir is better, given the nature of our business.”

“Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Muir.”

“The girls have gone to the beach. Do you have time now?”

“For you? Of course I do. I’ll be right over.” He chuckled low in that easy manner she remembered from long ago. “I know the way.”