Writing All Wrongs Read Online Free Page B

basket of kindling positioned next to a fireplace opposite a large sectional sofa. Someone had left a battery-operated DVD player on the coffee table, and Olivia found a dozen board games in the corner cupboard. In addition to the games was a treasure trove of books on Palmetto Island. Some were pictorial histories while others were academic tomes concentrating on the island’s unique ecosystem or maritime history. Finally, there was an illustrated collection of ghost stories and, topping the pile like a Christmas tree star, a NicholasSparks novel. Olivia assumed the Sparks novel held pride of place because the movie based on the book had been filmed across the Cape Fear River.
    Olivia continued her tour by glancing into the dining room and sunroom. The air in the house felt slightly stale, so Olivia cracked a dozen windows. By the time she was done, Rawlings had finished unloading the golf carts. “There are two bedrooms on this floor. Does that mean Haviland is sleeping downstairs?”
    “Not likely,” Olivia said. “He’s probably staking his claim on the master suite as we speak.”
    Taking her suitcase from Rawlings, Olivia climbed the stairs to find Haviland industriously sniffing the curtains on the wall next to the king-size bed.
    “A fireplace in the bedroom?” Rawlings came into the room behind Olivia. “Who needs electricity?” Humming contentedly, he began to unpack.
    Eager to check out the view from the beach, Olivia decided to organize her things later. “I think Haviland and I will go treasure hunting,” she said, slipping on her old tennis shoes.
    “I’m going to take a self-guided golf cart tour—see how much things have changed since I was a kid.” Rawlings produced a paper map of the island. “Judging from this, the changes are significant. But I want to know if any of my old haunts still exist.” His expression turned wistful. “I hope it’s not all different. It’s hard to come face-to-face with what the passage of time does to a place. In my memory, it’s a place of adventure, mystery, and beauty. A Robert Louis Stevenson island.” He glanced at Olivia. “Do I sound ridiculous?”
    “No,” she said. “You sound like the romantic you are. But I hope you find some of your boyhood landmarks unchanged. They’re symbols of your past, so they’re important.” She followed Rawlings back to the kitchen. “Happy hunting.”
    “You too,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe Tropical StormRose deposited rare coins or priceless jewelry on the beach for you to find.”
    Olivia shrugged. “More often than not, the items with no monetary value are the most interesting. You know that I have pickle jars filled with such things. Shotgun casings, wheat pennies, belt buckles, buttons. Mulling over the story behind each object is what I like most about beachcombing.”
    After promising to return in time for cocktails, Rawlings pushed a baseball cap over his salt-and-pepper hair, grabbed a bottle of water, and hopped into a golf cart.
    Haviland released a series of questioning barks as the chief reversed the cart, but the moment Olivia showed the poodle the familiar backpack containing a folding trench shovel, trowel, and sieve, he stopped barking and wagged his tail instead.
    Shouldering her new Bounty Hunter Legacy—a wedding gift from the Bayside Book Writers—Olivia struck out for the beach.
    Signs of Rose’s passing were noticeable. The beach was strewn with palmetto fronds and clumps of sea grass. The waves had carved sluiceways from the shoreline to the dunes, and a precise pattern of ripples covered the sand. The design was an indication that the sand had been battered by wind and salt water for hours without pause.
    Olivia wanted to walk out on Cape Fear Point first, so she kept her metal detector turned off as she and Haviland left their beach and approached the raked and debris-free area designated for the guests of Land End Lodge.
    No one was on the boardwalk skirting the dunes behind