Erica Folger sat cross-legged on the flat, railed platform known to Nantucketers as “the walk,” which perched astride the sloping roof of her aunt’s shabby, well-weathered gray house on Orange Street, overlooking the blue waters of the harbor. The water was very blue on that late October day, and the sunshine very clear and golden on the distant commons of the unromantically named “Pest-house Shore” across the harbor, where the brilliant coloring of autumn was already flaming in a riot of orange sedge, and the red and gold and rose of turning huckleberry. The air was full of the clean tang of sea salt and of sweet-fern and bayberry, mixed in a most aromatic fragrance. Erica, busy as she was…
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