She was also a devout Catholic, something of an oddity in Wilmington at the time. She went to services every day and prayed the rosary in the evenings, and though Steve appreciated the tradition and ceremony of mass on Sundays, the priest always struck him as a man who was both cold and arrogant, more interested in church rules than what might be best for his flock. Sometimes-many times, actually-Steve wondered how his life would have turned out had he not heard the music coming from the First Baptist Church when he was eight years old.

Forty years later, the details were fuzzy. He vaguely remembered walking in one afternoon and hearing Pastor Harris at the piano. He knew the pastor must have made him feel welcome, since he obviously went back again, and Pastor Harris eventually became his first piano teacher. In time, he began to attend-and then later ditch-the Bible study the church offered. In many ways, the Baptist church became his second home and Pastor Harris became his second father.

He remembered his mother wasn’t happy about it. When upset, she would mutter in Romanian, and for years, whenever he left for the church, he would hear unintelligible words and phrases while she made the sign of the cross and forced him to wear a scapular. In her mind, having a Baptist pastor teach him the piano was akin to playing hopscotch with the devil.

But she didn’t stop him, and that was enough. It didn’t matter to him that she didn’t attend meetings with his teachers, or that she never read to him, or that no one ever invited his family to neighborhood barbecues or parties. What mattered was that she allowed him not only to find his passion, but to pursue it, even if she distrusted the reason. And that somehow she kept his father, who ridiculed the idea of earning a living through music, from stopping it as well. And for this, he would always love her.

Jonah continued to jog back and forth, though the kite didn’t require it. Steve knew the breeze was strong enough to hold it aloft unaided. He could see the outline of a Batman symbol silhouetted between two dark cumulous clouds, the kind that suggested rain was coming. Although the summer storm wouldn’t last long-maybe an hour before the sky cleared again-Steve rose to tell Jonah that it might be a good time to call it a day. He took only a few steps before he noticed a series of faint lines in the sand that led to the dune behind his house, tracks he’d seen more than a dozen times when he was growing up. He smiled.

“Hey, Jonah!” he called out, following the tracks. “Come here! There’s something I think you should see!”

Jonah jogged toward him, the kite tugging at his arm. “What is it?”

Steve made his way down the dune to a spot where it merged with the beach itself. Only a few eggs were visible a couple of inches below the surface when Jonah reached his side.

“Whatcha got?” Jonah asked.

“It’s a loggerhead nest,” Steve answered. “But don’t get too close. And don’t touch. You don’t want to disturb it.”

Jonah leaned closer, still holding the kite.

“What’s a loggerhead?” he panted, struggling to control the kite.

Steve reached for a piece of driftwood and began etching a large circle around the nest. “It’s a sea turtle. An endangered one. They come ashore at night to lay their eggs.”

“Behind our house?”

“This is one of the places sea turtles lay their eggs. But the main thing you should know is that they’re endangered. Do you know what that means?”

“It means they’re dying,” Jonah answered. “I watch Animal Planet, you know.”

Steve completed the circle and tossed aside the piece of driftwood. As he stood, he felt a flash of pain but ignored it. “Not exactly. It means that if we don’t try to help them and we’re not careful, the species might become extinct.”

“Like the dinosaurs?”

Steve was about to answer when he heard the phone in the kitchen begin to ring. He’d left the back door open to catch any stray breezes, and he alternately walked and jogged through the sand until he’d reached the back porch. He was breathing hard when he answered the phone.

“Dad?” he heard on the other end.

“Ronnie?”

“I need you to pick me up. I’m at the police station.”

Steve reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be right down.”

Pete Johnson, the officer, told him what had happened, but he knew Ronnie wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. Jonah, however, didn’t seem to care.

“Mom is going to be mad,” Jonah remarked.

Steve saw Ronnie’s jaw clench.

“I didn’t do it,” she started.

“Then who did?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. She crossed her arms and leaned against the car door.

“Mom’s not going to like it.”

“I didn’t do it!” Ronnie repeated, swiveling toward Jonah. “And I don’t want you to tell her that I did.” She made sure he understood she was serious before turning to face her father.

“I didn’t do it, Dad,” she repeated. “I swear to God I didn’t. You have to believe me.”

He heard the desperation in her tone but couldn’t help remembering Kim’s despair when they’d talked about Ronnie’s history. He thought about the way she’d acted since she’d been here and considered the kinds of people she’d chosen to befriend.

Sighing, he felt what little energy he had left dissipate. Ahead, the sun was a hot and furious orange ball, and more than anything, he knew his daughter needed the truth.

“I believe you,” he said.

By the time they got home, dusk was setting in. Steve went outside to check on the turtle nest. It was one of those gorgeous evenings typical of the Carolinas -a soft breeze, the sky a quilt of a thousand different colors-and just offshore, a pod of dolphins played beyond the break point. They passed by the house twice a day, and he reminded himself to tell Jonah to watch for them. No doubt he’d want to swim out to see if he could get close enough to touch them; Steve used to try the same thing when he was young, but never once had he been successful.

He dreaded having to call Kim and tell her what happened. Putting it off, he took a seat on the dune beside the nest, staring at what was left of the turtle tracks. Between the wind and the crowds, most of them had been erased entirely. Aside from a small indentation at the spot where the dune met the beach, the nest was practically invisible, and the couple of eggs he could see resembled pale, smooth rocks.

A piece of Styrofoam had blown onto the sand, and as he leaned over to pick it up, he noticed Ronnie approaching. She was walking slowly, her arms crossed, head bowed so that her hair hid most of her face. She stopped a few feet away.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

It was the first time since she’d been here that she’d spoken to him without a hint of anger or frustration.

“No,” he said. “Not at all.”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

He pointed toward the nest. “A loggerhead turtle laid her eggs last night. Have you ever seen one?”

Ronnie shook her head, and Steve went on. “They’re beautiful creatures. They’ve got this reddish-brown shell, and they can weigh up to eight hundred pounds. North Carolina is one of the few places they nest. But anyway, they’re endangered. I think only one out of a thousand live to maturity, and I don’t want the raccoons to get the nest before they hatch.”

“How would the raccoons even know that a nest is here?”

“When a female loggerhead lays her eggs, she urinates. The raccoons can smell it, and they’ll eat every single one of the eggs. When I was young, I found a nest on the other side of the pier. One day everything was fine, and the next day all the shells had been broken open. It was sad.”

“I saw a raccoon on our porch the other day.”

“I know. It’s been getting into the garbage. And as soon as I go in, I’m going to leave a message with the aquarium. Hopefully, they’ll send someone by tomorrow with a special cage that’ll keep the critters out.”