We walked another quarter mile before Amy stopped and pointed toward a disruption in the otherwise smooth beach twenty feet ahead of us.
“Oh god, you didn’t plan this, did you?”
I squinted for a better look—there were divots and piles of sand ten feet from the shore.
“You do see it, right? It’s not a mirage?”
“Not a mirage,” I said—it was just the beginning of a sandcastle someone had started and abandoned.
I checked our surroundings. We were still alone, as if we’d wandered into a ghost town. Exactly how long had we been walking?
“I’ve got goosebumps,” Amy said. “There are probably a dozen unfinished sandcastles on this beach—it’s not like we stumbled on a unicorn—but doesn’t it feel like someone wanted us to find it? Like it’s a sign?”
There were two plastic buckets between the mounds of sand, along with a pink plastic shovel mounted like a flag atop one of the sandpiles. A red Igloo cooler waited by the dunes. It was possible we’d strayed onto a patch of private beach, but I hadn’t noticed any warnings.
“Tell me it’s a sign, Donnie.”
We stepped closer as the waves grew stronger, the high tide coming soon. I picked up the plastic shovel as Amy dropped to her knees, her fingers digging into the sand. Up close, the design was impressive. There were parapets connecting the towers, a carefully dug moat, another building taking shape within the courtyard. I’m sure Amy was thinking the same thing: on that terrible morning twenty years earlier, Sarah never got the chance to finish her sandcastle.
“Okay, it’s a sign,” I said, and Amy and I went to work.
Who knows how long we stayed there building that sandcastle? We passed the buckets back and forth, scooped sand, drew water from the ocean, shaped the mounds into two-foot-tall towers; I even made a steeple. We weren’t very skilled, but that didn’t matter—what mattered was that Amy and I were together, with Sarah in our hearts, moving all those grains of sand to create something beautiful. Even the sandpipers joined in, three of them poo-tee-weet-ing around the edges of a broken conch shell.
Our proximity to the shoreline meant that the tide would eventually wash it all away, but we still had time to finish it, to turn those abandoned piles of sand into something whole.
“One more bucket and I’ll be done with the East Tower,” Amy said. “How are you doing on your end, Donnie?”
I looked out at the ocean, unsure of almost everything, but for once, completely awake.
“Still needs work,” I said, “but I’m getting closer.”
Acknowledgements
The initial idea for The Revolving Heart came to me while walking in the dark through an old Quaker cemetery with my dog, Azul. The last sentence arrived during a different walk, with a different dog, Bella. Nearly every word in between was written, revised, and rewritten again with a dog or a cat either at my feet, or in the case of my departed cat Homer, draped over my shoulders or standing on the keyboard. Thank you, Homer, Chloe, Miles, Bella, and Azul. Readers are encouraged to visit their local shelter and provide a loving forever home to an animal in need.
The opening chapters were drafted during my time in the MFA Program at Queens University in Charlotte. Anne Cummins provided much-needed encouragement for a version of the early chapters. David Payne saved me from some wrong turns and pushed me toward a higher standard. Jonathan Dee and Fred Leebron offered valuable insights about the art of fiction that helped make The Revolving Heart a stronger work. My fellow students in the program gave their time and attention to my fledgling efforts and are among the best readers I’ll ever have.
A special thanks to H.L. Nelson, whose comments were critical during the early revisions. Marcy Dermansky and Emily Bell both provided input integral to the finished novel.
Thanks to Reagan Rothe and the team at Black Rose Writing for taking a chance and bringing The Revolving Heart into the world. Your efforts are much appreciated.
Finally, thanks to my wife Sheri Burkat and her warm loving spirit. Her presence in my life is ongoing proof that love makes a difference. In my life, I love you more.
Note from the Author
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed The Revolving Heart, please leave a review online—anywhere you are able. Even if it’s just a sentence or two. It would make all the difference and would be very much appreciated.
Thanks!
Chuck
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