Christmas in Hawthorn Bay. Kathleen O'Brien

and had the class rolling out of their seats with laughter while his poor teacher tried to figure out what the joke was. Or the time he and a few friends had fiddled with the school’s front marquee and changed the phrase We Love Our Students to We Love Our Stud Nest.

      Both times, Colin had apologized so humbly—even, in a nice touch, using the sign for ashamed—that the principal had ended up praising his honesty instead of kicking him out of class.

      “I know, but this time it’s different,” Nora said. The jam was ready, and she began to pour it into the sterilized jars she had lined up on the central island. This little house, which she’d bought after selling Heron Hill, wasn’t much to look at, but it had a fantastic kitchen.

      “Different how?”

      Nora sighed. “They say he and Mickey Dickson cheated on their math test.”

      Stacy raised her brows. “What? He hates Mickey Dickson. Heck, I hate Mickey Dickson. Sorry, I know he’s some kind of cousin of yours, but the kid is a brat. And an idiot. I take it Mickey cheated off Colin’s paper, not vice versa?”

      “Yes, but Colin let him. He said he knew Mickey had been doing it for months, so this time he made it easy…and he deliberately answered all the questions wrong, so that Mickey would get caught. He said he didn’t mind going down, as long as he brought Mickey down with him.”

      “Yikes.” Stacy shook her head. “That’s gutsy. Dumb, but gutsy.”

      “Yeah, and that’s not all. After school he and Mickey had a fistfight on the softball field. Tom called about an hour ago. He and Mickey just got back from the emergency room. They thought his nose might be broken, but apparently not, thank God.”

      Stacy twirled her glasses thoughtfully and let out a low whistle. “Wow. It does sound as if Colin has slipped off the leash. What are you going to do?”

      “I have no idea. He starts his Christmas break soon, which is both good and bad. Good, because he won’t have to see Mickey, but bad because he’ll have way too much spare time. Colin and ‘free time’ are a recipe for disaster.”

      “Maybe you can get him to help you with the jams.”

      Nora laughed as she screwed the lid onto the first of the filled jars. “No way. He’s a bull in a china shop. Last time he helped, he broke a gross of jars and ate more berries than he canned. We’d be out of business by New Year’s.”

      Stacy laughed, too, but she kept twirling her glasses, which meant she took the problem seriously.

      “Besides,” Nora went on. “Hanging out here with me is too easy. We’d have fun. I want to give him some chore that really hurts. Something he’ll hate so much he won’t even think about getting in trouble again.”

      Stacy scrunched up her brow, thinking hard. “Man, I don’t know. What did your parents do when you got in trouble?”

      Nora tilted her head and cocked one side of her mouth up wryly.

      “Oh, that’s right,” Stacy said, laughing. “I forgot you were the reigning Miss Perfect for a couple of decades there.”

      “Miss Boring is more like it.” Nora began wiping down the countertop, though she hadn’t spilled much. “My friend Maggie used to say that if she weren’t around to keep things stirred up I would probably turn to stone.”

      “I wish I could have met her,” Stacy said. “You always make her sound like a human stick of dynamite. I’ll bet she’d know how to handle Colin.”

      Nora’s eyes stung suddenly. She turned around so that Stacy couldn’t read her face too easily. “Yes,” she agreed. “She probably would.”

      “Well, okay, let’s think. I wasn’t exactly dynamite, but I wasn’t Miss Perfect, either. I remember one summer, when I was about sixteen, and I’d just met Zach. I stayed out until dawn. I thought my dad was going to kill Zach, but my mom held him back. They made me spend the rest of my summer volunteering every night at the local nursing home.”

      “Oh, yeah? How did that go?”

      “It was hell. I wanted to be wrapped in Zach’s manly arms, and instead I was reading the sports section to an old guy who hacked up phlegm into his plastic cup every few sentences and kept yelling, ‘Nothin’ but net!’ every time I mentioned the Gamecocks.”

      Nora laughed.

      “It’s not funny,” Stacy said, though there was a twinkle in her eye. “It could have scarred me for life. To this day, whenever I see a basketball, I twitch.”

      “Okay, then, I won’t send Colin to the nursing home just yet. I’ll reserve that for the day he comes home at dawn smelling of Chanel.”

      She looked toward the living room, which was suspiciously quiet. “Right now he’s in there stuffing candy canes into the goody bags for the Christmas party. Even that little punishment annoyed him. He seemed to think nearly breaking Mickey’s nose was a gift to mankind, something to be applauded.”

      “In there?” Stacy pointed with her tortoiseshell glasses. “Sorry, but I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I saw him climbing the tree when I came in.”

      Nora frowned, then, without stopping to say a word, reached for the latch. She yanked the door open and, pulling her sweater closed against the blast of December wind, took the steps down to ground level quickly.

      Oh, good grief. Stacy was right. Colin wasn’t indoors, working through his punishment. He was about six feet up the leafless maple tree, hanging by his knees from a large, spreading branch. His sweater nearly smothered his face, leaving his skinny rib cage exposed and probably freezing.

      Beneath him, his friend Brad Butterfield squatted in the middle of about two dozen scattered candy canes, some broken to bits inside their plastic wrappers. Both Brad and Colin were eating candy canes themselves, letting them dangle from their lips like red-striped cigarettes.

      “Come on, Colin, you’re only hitting like thirty percent. Let me try. It’ll take us all day to do these damn bags at this rate.”

      “Shut up, butt-head,” Colin said, his voice muffled under folds of wool. “You’re the boat, and I’m the bomber. That’s the deal. Now…target ready?”

      With a heavy sigh of irritation, Brad began moving the paper bag slowly across the winter-brown grass. When he was directly under Colin’s head, a candy cane came sailing down. It fell squarely into the bag, and both Colin and Brad made triumphant booming sounds.

      Stacy, who now stood at Nora’s shoulder, chuckled softly. “Well, what a coincidence,” she said. “Nothing but net.”

      MOST PEOPLE IN HAWTHORN BAY said the Killian men had an unhealthy obsession with gold. A Civil War Killian ancestor supposedly buried his fortune in small caches all over the Sweet Tides acreage, and no Killian since had been able to drag himself away from the house, no matter how hard the community tried to run them off.

      But Jack Killian, who hadn’t set foot in Hawthorn Bay for twelve years and therefore had a more objective perspective, didn’t think their problem was the gold.

      It was the water.

      Living in the South Carolina lowlands meant your feet weren’t ever quite dry. Thousands of acres of spartina marshland, endless blue miles of Atlantic coastline, haunted black swamps and twisting ribbons of tea-colored rivers—that was what Jack saw when he dreamed of home, not the antebellum columns and jasmine-scented porches of Sweet Tides.

      And certainly not the gold.

      Almost every major incident in his life was tied to the water. He’d been four the day they’d dragged his grandmother out of the river behind Sweet Tides, where she’d unsuccessfully tried to drown herself. He’d been nine the day he’d broken his fibula learning to water-ski behind their new boat—Killian luck never lasted long, and that boat had been sold, dime on the dollar, before the cast had come off Jack’s