Reunion Beach Elin Hilderbrand (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📖

and screenwriter, playwright, and television writer and producer. Adriana co-founded The Origin Project, an in-school writing program that serves over seventeen hundred students in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. She lives in New York City with her family.

Adriana Trigiani met Dorothea Benton Frank at the Book Expo of America ten, twelve, or fifteen years ago and had been dear friends ever since. It turns out that hilarity is the gift of friendship that lasts. Adriana remembers Dottie with joy.

Also by Adriana Trigiani

Stand-Alone Novels

Tony’s Wife

Kiss Carlo

All the Stars in the Heavens

The Shoemaker’s Wife

Lucia, Lucia

The Queen of the Big Time

Rococo

Big Stone Gap Series

Home to Big Stone Gap

Milk Glass Moon

Big Cherry Holler

Big Stone Gap

Valentine Series

The Supreme Macaroni Company

Brava, Valentine

Very Valentine

Viola Series for Young Adults

Viola in the Spotlight

Viola in Reel Life

Nonfiction

Don’t Sing at the Table

Cooking with My Sisters (co-author)

Screenplays

Big Stone Gap

Very Valentine

Mother and Child Reunion

Mary Alice Monroe

Dedication

This story is dedicated to

Dorothea Benton Frank

beloved author, wife, mother, friend and to

Christiana Harsch

dearest cousin, friend, and brave soul

Chapter One

Mother

A lazy sun rose reluctantly over the horizon. Elinor Earnhardt stood on the precipice of a sand dune overlooking the great breadth of beach, ocean, and sky. She crossed her arms, giving herself a hug, as a winsome smile crossed her face. The first rays of pink light brought a faint blush to the sand. Dawn was her favorite time of day. No matter how sad or lonely she might have felt the night before, standing on the beach when a new day began always had the power to fill her with renewed hope.

Especially today. For on this long-awaited day, not only a new day was dawning, but perhaps a new beginning. After today, her life would never be the same. Today, she would be reunited with the child she had released for adoption forty years earlier.

The thought made her heart beat faster. She deeply inhaled the morning air, still moist from the night rain. The lemony scent of primrose clung to the scant breeze. The sun yawned broadly, releasing more pink and yellow color into the shimmering haze that broke the darkness of the horizon. This morning’s dawn was neither bright nor quick. Rather, the sun rose slowly, like a recalcitrant child, not quite ready to push back the warm blanket and rise.

Her smile slipped. Silly woman, she chided herself. What did she know about sleepy children? Or any child, for that matter?

Elinor bent to pick up her backpack and the red plastic bucket, her tools for turtle duty. No time for wool gathering. The Isle of Palms/Sullivan’s Island sea turtle team was expected to assemble at the nest at six a.m. sharp for a nest inventory. If you were late, they started without you. Well, she thought as her heels dug into the soft sand of the high-tide line, everyone but her. Elinor was the team leader and they couldn’t start without her. But she was never late. What made her a good project leader was her need to dot every i and cross every t on her reports. Elinor played by the rules.

In the distance she spied the familiar orange tape and wooden stakes that marked the sea turtle nest. It was barely visible high on the dunes amid the thick crop of sea oats. It was August, and they were ripe with golden panicles. This summer marked her twentieth summer on the team, and even after all these years, working with sea turtles never got old. She used to rush to the beach at dawn before her classes. She’d taught biology at the College of Charleston. But when she retired after twenty years, she’d taken over as the turtle team project leader. Truth be told, the sea turtles—and the women on the team—were her life.

Elinor was the first person to reach the nest, which suited her. It gave her time to survey the nest without interruption. Her gaze swept the worn, two-foot-high stakes tilting in the sand; the raggedy orange tape that had survived fifty-three days of wind, rain, and salt air.

The hatchlings had emerged from the nest three nights prior. A healthy group that had scrambled in their comical Keystone Cops manner all the way to the ocean. The moon had been bright, the night clear, and there were no obstacles to their journey home. She’d counted at least seventy-five hatchlings as they raced past. A good boil. All that was left to do now was open the nest and count the hatched and unhatched eggs to track the season’s nest success rate.

Suddenly her breath hitched. She caught sight of two tiny trails of turtle tracks leading from the nest. Well, what do you know? she thought with amazement. Two more hatchlings had sneaked out. Good for you.

She glanced at her watch: five minutes till six. She set her red plastic bucket filled with a spade, small towel to kneel on, plastic gloves, and her clipboard onto the sand, then dropped her backpack beside it. Rolling her shoulders, she thought again how she really had to begin an exercise plan. She’d gone up another dress size this year and she could actually feel her body begin to sag. Other than walk the beach in the morning and maybe a bit of gardening, she pretty much just sat and read books. Especially on days like today. She wiped a sheen of perspiration from her brow. It was going to be a hot one.

“Elinor!”

She turned at the sound of her name. A group of women were trudging through the sand toward the nest. She grinned and waved back at her teammates Maeve, Betts, and Ting. They carpooled to the beach in the morning from points on Isle of Palms. Maeve led the troop, her green backpack burgeoning. She and Maeve were peas and carrots on the team. They were close in age, both of average height and weight, even their mousy brown hair color was similar. Maeve wore hers in a blunt cut to the chin. Elinor’s