Julia Harper faced the building where she’d be living soon, the pit in her stomach the kind that could swallow a person whole. She’d tried filling it with chocolate-covered raisins, but that had only left her five pounds heavier and somewhat sick to her stomach.
Outside the car she’d ferried over from the mainland, the wind tugged at the American flag flying high from the deck of the front part of the building.
The Lighthouse Inn.
Julia had spent years living in Nantucket with her family, both as a single woman, a married one, and a teenager. Sometimes she swore she had the white sand from the beaches out here on Nantucket Point in her blood, and something about this patch of land in the middle of so much water called to her soul.
She’d been planning to leave Manhattan anyway—at least
