Could it really be that simple? Alice wondered. Alice had led an eventful, if not an extraordinary, life. She was recovering from a disastrous second marriage, had been shaken to her core, had caved in on herself and crawled back out again. She had raised a son and watched him fly from the nest. She had cared for her aging parents and dutifully ushered them to the Pearly Gates, all while working at a series of demanding executive jobs. Now, she wondered, Is it, in fact, my turn?

Even the thought felt naughty and selfish.

Alice's reverie was interrupted by a still, small voice that said, "Hello."

A little girl sat at her breakfast table; coltish brown legs dangling not quite to the floor, dirty bare feet swinging back and forth, a bracelet of seaweed woven around one delicate ankle. Alice thought the child could be no more than six or seven. She looked at once tiny and fragile and fierce and confident. Her hair was wild, wavy, windblown-the color of dune grass bleached by the sun and impossibly tangled in places. And there was something in her eyes, those exotic eyes, that made her seem an old soul, wise beyond her years. They seemed to shift sea green to dark navy to the softest shades of blue, the very color of the porch swing and the beach sky.

She had ocean eyes.