Her pulse pounded as she slowed the car. The place looked just as she’d imagined. White cottage with a wraparound porch. Red brick chimney. Gray awnings. White picket fence around the back yard. A tattered American flag waved in the Atlantic breeze. She pulled into the short gravel drive—or maybe it was shell-lined—and parked. The fact that she’d inherited the summer home from a man who’d never become her husband shocked and overwhelmed her with fresh grief. Her parched throat dried as if it had filled with sand. She had to get out of the car, but how could she?
    I don’t want this, Lord. I want to forget.
    This house taunted her. Reminded her of all she’d lost. The quicker she sold everything, the better. She could get back to her clients. Her life before. If only Jordan’s family had been willing to help. But they’d had their own loss that still plagued them in this town, the accident that had torn their family apart. And she couldn’t ask her father. He had enough on his plate taking care of Mom. Bringing her mother would only make the task more complicated. Add too many obstacles, too many questions and frustrations. More negative emotions when she couldn’t handle the ones she’d already been dealt. 
    It’s You and me, Lord.
    The heat besieged her now that she’d cut the engine, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Groaning, she opened the door and forced her feet to the ground, the mix of white rocks and shells crunching.
    One moment at a time. Her pastor’s words. And she knew this concept from the counseling she did for others through art therapy. Part of healing was facing the trauma. Facing the grief.
    God, help me get through this moment.