"Will you find me another project to work on?" She held out her hands, began to count off the projects. "There's the winter stock structure, the right whale habitat, the sea turtles and fisheries . . . any of them."

"Sofie, I promise we'll try and find more work for you as soon as possible. You can take the summer off, though. When school starts back up, we'll find a place for you if you have time. But we have nowhere to put you right now."

"I'll do anything, Mr. Martin. I'll stay off the boats. I'll log data, clean the tanks. . . ."

He took a deep breath. "You've been working here nonstop since you were fifteen years old, Sofie. Go have fun for the rest of the summer. Please. I don't have a choice. You've recently been in a terrible accident. Take some time off."

"They saved me. Those dolphins saved my life and I have to help save theirs." They're all I have left, she thought. All I have. I can't let them go. . . .

Andrew rose from the table. "You have helped them, Sofie. You've done research that will make a difference in their lives, in understanding their behavior around nets and boats. But this particular study at this center is over."

Sofie stood then and walked out of the room, her legs carrying her to the seawall before she had a plan, before she knew where she would go in this strange world in which she was free to do whatever she wanted. Her job was gone, her boyfriend dismissed, her mother dead.

Sofie listed the events that had brought her to this point, to this unbound life: one discovery of a woman on a plane, plus one art historian, plus one secret revealed to Jake Murphy. Adding those three events together could not, and did not, equal the number three, but a sum of greater magnitude than could be calculated with simple addition.

Sofie stood on the seawall and willed her dolphins to come. The water blinked in the glory of morning. Along the sh.o.r.eline, pluff mud lay exposed and dark in the low tide, clumps of spartina sprouting from the rich almost-black mounds. Then the waves rippled, three dorsal fins broke the surface, scattering drops of water like silver confetti.

It took Sofie a moment to understand what the dolphins were doing as they circled a single dolphin in the middle. The pod was surrounding Delphin's mate, Sandy. In protective unity, the dolphins pulled closer. They cried out to one another, danced around the female. Sofie swung her legs over the seawall and peered down; her breath caught with a cry of joy-a just-born dolphin calf swam below Sandy.

Sofie had been taught that dolphins were born tail first as the mother bent in the middle, that newborns were four feet long and weighed about forty pounds, that the calves were usually born between May and July, and that the fetal folds on the skin appeared to be stripes. Yet these facts did not explain the marvel of a newborn dolphin calf swimming next to its mother. Facts could never capture the full wonder of experience.

The mere facts of her life could not fully encompa.s.s who she was and whom she was going to become.

Sofie's joy threatened to overflow in tears. Just as she had come to say goodbye, the pod was greeting new life. Delphin rose above the surface, nudged his nose toward Sofie.

Go, she told him in her mind. Go, take care of your new baby. Thank you for saving me . . . for knowing my name.

He splashed with his snout and then nudged his new baby toward its mother, where the calf would nurse and then get a free ride in the mother's slipstream. Sofie exhaled with this truth-she had done the same thing: been carried along in her mother's slipstream, living life beneath her mother's fiction and fears. She would not travel that way anymore.

Sofie returned home to tell a story, one that would open the door to letting go. To the truth.

She typed an e-mail with slow, deliberate strokes.

Hey, Jake, so you think you've always got the best story? I've got a great one for you. Ready?

Here's a little intro: The ancients thought names were powerful. The name of an individual was often not the real name at all, as the real name would bring danger or knowledge, yet changing the name changed the destiny. Here is a naming story: One day there was a G.o.ddess named Diane. She was married to a G.o.d of money, fame and power who didn't love her, but loved to own her. She ran from him and gave birth to wisdom.The bargain she made with the G.o.ds was this-in exchange for this escape she would never find true love or reveal her real name. For the rest of her life, true love evaded her no matter how hard she tried to find it.

Think I finally beat you this time-bet you can't name this one. . . .

With love, Sofie

Then she rose and stared out the window toward the water, toward all she was letting go at this moment. Then the ring of incoming e-mail made her return and sit again.

Hey, Sofie, okay, I'm officially stumped. You have to tell me which one it is. Celtic? Greek? How are the dolphins? Love, JM

Sofie placed her hand on the screen as if she could touch Jake's face. When she saw his initials like that, with the word "Love" in front of them, her heart ached for something she couldn't label-like a distant land she'd once glimpsed but never reached.

Then she typed what she'd rehea.r.s.ed over and over in front of the window.

JM, I'm coming to Marsh Cove. I'll leave today and be there day after tomorrow to give you the answer. . . . Love, Sofie

She didn't want to see his reply and learn that maybe he didn't want her to come. She turned the computer off and yanked her suitcase out from under the bed. It was time to tell the story-not a myth, not a tale, but her story and her name.

TWENTY-THREE.

ANNABELLE MURPHY.

Jake sat on the front porch, tilting his laptop for the best reception on the wireless Internet. Afternoon shadows fell across the scuffed white floorboards. Annabelle came up behind him, hugged his neck. "Let's make some decent use of your time-the porch floor needs painting."

He turned to her as her gaze wandered down to his computer screen. He held his hand up in an ineffective effort to cover the words.

Annabelle straightened. "You're e-mailing Sofie?"

Jake rolled his eyes. "Oh, Mom. Yes."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Nothing is 'going on.' We just talk. . . . She tells me about her work. I talk to her about all the stupid, boring things I'm doing while I decide where to go next. . . ."

Annabelle had to ask the question. "Has she told you anything else about her mother?"

Jake shut the laptop, stood up. "We don't talk about it, Mom. Really, we don't. It hasn't come up since I left. I tried. Then I stopped."

"Is she recovered from her hospital stay?"

"Fully," Jake said.

Annabelle had been a scholar of her children's faces since babyhood and understood even now that he was telling the truth. He wasn't hiding anything from her. She stared at him, and then asked, "Is there . . . something between you two?"

"A friendship, Mom. A friendship. We like the same things and it's nice to talk. . . ."

"I wish you'd told me. . . ." She turned her head to the ringing phone inside the house. "You could've told me."

"You've seemed so . . . happy lately, and I didn't want to bring it up again."

She touched his shoulder. "I have to get that-I'm expecting a call from the newspaper."

"Sure," Jake said.

Annabelle saw the relief on his face that this particular conversation was over. She grabbed the phone a half ring before the answering machine came on. "Sorry," she said. "I'm here. . . ."

"Oh . . ." A male voice, one she'd heard somewhere before, came through the line.

"Uh, who's this?" Annabelle sat at her desk chair, turned on her computer to prepare for taking notes during the call.

"This is Michael Harley. I'm looking for Annabelle Murphy."

Annabelle's stomach plummeted. She tried to speak, but her words stopped at the base of her throat.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"This is Annabelle. h.e.l.lo, Michael. How are you?"

"I'm fine. . . . You're a hard woman to find. I've been calling for two days."

"You didn't leave a message."

"No . . . I didn't think you'd call me back, so there really was no point." He laughed, but she detected nervousness in it.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm in town."

Annabelle closed her eyes, leaned back in her chair. The beep of the call waiting indicating an incoming call sounded on the line. "Listen, I have a scheduled call coming in on the other line."

"Can I come see you?"

"No, I'd rather you didn't."

"Will you meet me at the Marsh Cove Art Studio?" he asked.

Annabelle sighed. If she didn't meet him there, he might show up at her house, or continue to call. "I'll meet you there in an hour." Then without saying goodbye, she clicked over to Mrs. Thurgood's voice.

The call was about expanding Annabelle's role at the newspaper and possibly having her write a commentary on Southern life once a month in the living section. Annabelle focused her full attention on the call. When the conversation ended, she promised to think about Mrs. Thurgood's offer.

First she had to meet Michael Harley at the art studio, where Liddy Parker had once lived and worked.

During the past weeks, she'd found comfort in her self-imposed isolation, in the simplicity of being alone. There had always been people depending on her, expectations to meet, obligations to fulfill, and these days of solitude had soothed her. Now she needed to put on some makeup, find an outfit and go out into the world.

Anger at Michael skirted her thoughts-he'd interrupted what should have been a sweet moment: a vote of confidence from the newspaper's publisher. She stood and went to the front of the house and stared into the hall mirror, examining her appearance. "All right," she said out loud, "let's go."

The art studio was situated between the Curiosities gift shop and the Sweet Tooth bakery. A sign lit by tiny white Christmas lights perched above the double wooden doors stated simply MARSH COVE ART STUDIO. There was a two-bedroom loft above the studio-Annabelle had visited there a few times to pick up Jake when he'd gone home to play with Sofie after school. Once, Annabelle had found Jake and Sofie on the floor with a huge piece of butcher-block paper and so many crayons that Annabelle remembered being stunned that Crayola even made that many colors.

Now she stood outside the studio and stared at the double wood doors painted bright blue. If pressed, she wouldn't be able to count how many times she'd been here for c.o.c.ktail parties, art shows, an afternoon with a girlfriend looking at new work in the gallery. The present owner offered cla.s.ses and showings on a regular basis.

Annabelle ran her hand through her hair, wiped her palms on her jeans. After Liddy had left this place, Annabelle had wondered for a year or so where she'd gone. Then she'd forgotten about Liddy altogether. But someone hadn't forgotten.

Her heart took a quick skip when she heard someone say her name. She turned, expecting to see Michael, but found Shawn instead. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other. He was unshaven, and his white linen shirt hung loose over a pair of khakis. He was tan and appeared calm, so well-rested.

"Hey, girl." He held up his full hands. "I'd hug you if I could."

She smiled at him. "You look well. Guess unemployment is doing you good."

He laughed, then crinkled his eyes. "How'd you know about that?"

"Cooper told me." She lifted her sungla.s.ses, set them atop her head. She didn't know what to say or do because she hadn't seen him since he left her on a bench at the bay after his confession of love and her mute reponse. Nervousness moved like quick-fire sparks across her skin.

"So you're emerging from your coc.o.o.n? Does this mean you might come out of hiding and rejoin the rest of us?"

"I haven't been hiding, Shawn. Just . . ."

"Hiding." He took a sip of his coffee, shoved the paper under his arm and used his free hand to rub his face. "Listen, I didn't mean to freak you out last time with my sudden revelation. I didn't mean to make you hide. I just needed you to know."