The Ocean Between Us by Susan Wiggs Page B

better be going,” he said. “Practice.”
    So much for gallantry, thought Grace. She kept silent, though. Moving so frequently was hard on the kids, and she didn’t want to sabotage any potential friendships.
    He stuffed his hands in his pockets and wheeled backward, unable to take his eyes off Emma. “See you around.”
    “See you,” said Emma.
    “Bye, Cory,” Katie said, her eagerness adorable to Grace but unappreciated by the boy. “Good luck at practice.”
    He grinned again and took off, heading for a shiny Dodge Ram pickup truck. Navy blue, of course. An array of squadron insignia decorated the rear window and bumper.
    Katie sagged dramatically against the station wagon. “Good luck at practice,” she mimicked herself. “God, I’m a hopeless dork.”
    Emma ruffled her hair. “You’re not used to football gods yet.”
    “Don’t ever get used to football gods,” Grace said. “They’re nothing but trouble.”
    “Was Dad a football god?”
    “He didn’t play football,” Grace said. But he was a god.
    “What did he play?” Katie asked.
    “He didn’t. He was already an officer when we met.”
    Grace opened the back of the car, and the three of them loadedthe bags. She was tempted by a tube of Pringles sticking out of a sack, but quickly reminded herself of the nightmare in the mirror. She was going to have to take it easy on the Pringles.
    “I’ll drive,” said Emma, folding her lithe form behind the steering wheel.
    “You always drive,” Katie said, out of sorts over the Cory encounter.
    “It’ll be your turn before you know it,” said Emma. “Get in and buckle up. We’re taking the scenic route.”
    They drove through Oak Harbor, a town that took its beautiful setting for granted. A blight of strip centers and prefabricated housing flanked the main road through town. But at the foot of the clustered buildings, and above their rooftops, the view was crafted by the hand of God—an intensely blue seascape, alive with white-winged sailboats, cargo ships with containers stacked like Lego blocks, ferries shuttling tourists and commuters back and forth to the San Juan Islands or the mainland. A forest fringe of slender evergreens swept up to a white mountain range.
    When they’d first arrived here, Emma and Katie would occasionally burst into “The Sound of Music” when the mood struck them. Her silly, funny girls. Watching her two daughters together gave Grace an unexpected pang.
    They were nearly grown, whether she was ready or not. Looking at Emma’s face was like watching one of those time-lapse photographs of a flower opening. She could see her turn from a tender-faced baby into a young woman whose beauty seemed to be made equally of strength and fragility. Meanwhile, Katie grew tall and thin, and became smarter and more inquisitive every year. Grace couldn’t believe how quickly time had passed, how soon they would be leaving her.
    “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” she said.
    “I wish we lived closer to the water,” Katie said, never wanting to make the mistake of being in complete agreement with her mother. “The base isn’t pretty at all.”
    “Bases aren’t supposed to be pretty,” Grace said.
    “When I leave home, I’m going to live in one place and never, ever budge,” Katie declared.
    “Not me,” said Emma. “I’m going to live everywhere.”
    “Just don’t forget to write,” said Grace. She was tempted to broach the topic of college, but decided to wait. It was hard to resist pushing, though. Emma had barely touched the stack of glossy catalogs and brochures that flooded the mailbox all summer.
    “I want to live there,” Grace said, speaking out before she’d fully formed the thought. She gestured at a house on the water side of the road, with a fussed-over garden and painted gingerbread trim. Like a stately tall ship, it commanded a view of the shipping lanes and mountains. It was a restored Victorian, the kind built by fishermen from Maine