by Lynne Hugo
She smiled at him and pointed at his face, meaning put that damn sunscreen on.
“I put it on this morning.”
“You need to reapply, my love,” she said lightly. “Always reapply. There’s enough here to fill the orders I think—you need to get raking. Look, it’s the back of the tide already, and we’ve got to get the babies planted. We really got lucky. Have you seen what beautiful seed came in?”
Rid saw how Caroline looked at the sunset over the shallows when the tide was late, how rain didn’t keep her away, the satisfaction she took in planting, how she could pull an oyster and judge it by its heft in her hand. Used to laboring alone, he hadn’t expected this, that she would go to the tides with him. Weeks ago, he'd gone to the town clerk’s office and signed to have her name legally added to his grant without telling her, to seal them in the way that meant most to him. Soon Rid would add another name, as his father had added his, knowing the child’s blood was his and Caroline’s, and the tide always returns.
~ the end ~
Acknowledgements
Special thanks for support and invaluable help along the way to Nancy Pinard. I’m especially grateful to Kristina Blank Makansi, Amira Makansi, Janice Rockwell, Ciera deCourcy, Alan deCourcy, Audra Shields, Brad Cook, and to Barbara Austin and other aquaculturists of Wellfleet, MA, who so generously shared their lives and work.
About the Author
Lynne Hugo is a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship recipient who has also received grants from the Ohio Arts Council and the Kentucky Foundation for Women. She has published five previous novels, one of which became a Lifetime Original Movie of the Month, two books of poetry, and a children’s book. Her memoir, Where The Trail Grows Faint, won the Riverteeth Literary Nonfiction Book Prize. Born and educated in New England, she and her husband currently live in Ohio with a yellow Lab feared by squirrels in a three state area.
Connect online with Lynne or find resources for readers and book clubs at www.lynnehugo.com.
