On a spring day, the fog hung heavy over the beach in Harvey Cedars. The wind, although howling, couldn’t clear the beach of the mist. The wind, the wind, the never-ceasing wind. A solitary figure walked the strand, hunched over against the wind, scanning the sand for remnants, memories of what had once been but had been scoured by waves and sand and wind, left to be found, found by someone with eyes enough to see.

A few blocks west, on the bay side of the Island, in a small, unassuming house with a spectacular view, Margaret Thomas…