When he finished, Hope glanced away before pushing the blanket aside. Rising from the couch, she went to the front window. Her face was in shadow, but he saw the wet shine of her cheeks glowing in the moonlight.

“Why did fate always seem to conspire against us?” she asked, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Do you think there’s a greater plan at work, one we can’t even fathom?”

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.

Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly and she turned away again. She stared out the window without speaking until finally drawing a long breath. Returning to the couch, she took a seat beside him.

Up close, he thought, her face looked the same as it had in all the drawings he’d ever done of her. “I’m sorry, Hope. More sorry than you know.”

She swiped at her cheeks. “I am, too.”

“What now? Do you need some time alone?”

“No,” she said. “That’s the last thing I want right now.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

Instead of answering his question, she scooted closer and readjusted the blanket over her legs. She reached for his hand, and he cradled it, relishing the softness of her skin. He traced the tender, birdlike bones on top, marveling that the last time he’d held a woman’s hand, it had been hers.

“I want you to tell me how you learned about my letter,” she said. “The one I put in Kindred Spirit. The thing that finally allowed us to find each other again.”

Tru closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s hard to explain in a way that makes sense, even to me.”

“How so?’

“Because,” he said, “it started with a dream.”

“You dreamed about the letter?”

“No,” he said. “I dreamed about a place—a café…a real place, just down the hill from where I live.” He gave a wistful smile. “I go there when I’m in the mood to be among people, and it’s got a fantastic view of the coast. Usually I’ll bring a book with me and while away a couple of hours in the afternoon. The owner knows me and doesn’t mind how long I stay.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Anyway, I woke one morning, knowing I’d just dreamed about the place, but unlike a lot of dreams, the images didn’t fizzle away. I kept seeing myself sitting at a table, like I was seeing myself on camera. I had a book with me, and there was a glass of iced tea on the table, both of which are ordinary parts of my life. It was afternoon and the sun was shining, and that’s typical as well. But in the dream, I remember noticing a couple walk in and take a seat at a nearby table. They were strangely out of focus, and I couldn’t make out their conversation, and yet I felt this urgent need to speak with them. I just knew they had something important to tell me, so I got up from the table and started to approach, but with every step I took, their table seemed to get farther and farther away. I can remember feeling a rising panic about that—I had to speak with them—and it was in that moment that I suddenly woke. It wasn’t a nightmare, exactly, but it left me a bit unsettled the rest of the day. A week later, I went to the café.”

“Because of the dream?”

“No,” he said. “By then, I’d largely forgotten about it. As I mentioned, I eat there frequently. I’d had a late lunch, and was sipping a glass of iced tea and reading a book on the Boer wars. At that point, a couple came into the restaurant. Almost every other table in the place was free, but they sat down right near me.”

“Kind of like the dream,” she said.

“No,” he said with a shake of his head, “everything to that point was exactly like the dream.”

Hope leaned forward, her features softened by the firelight. Outside, night gathered at the window, collecting darkness, as Tru went on with his story.

* * *

Like everyone, Tru had experienced feelings of déjà vu in the past, but in the moment he glanced up from the book, he felt the previous week’s dream come rushing back with utter clarity. For a moment, the world seemed to swim at the edges, almost as if he were back in the dream again.

However, unlike in his dream, he could see the couple clearly. The woman was blond and thin, attractive, and somewhere in her forties; the man sitting across from her was a few years older and tall, with dark hair and a gold watch that glinted in the sunlight. He realized he could also hear them, and decided he must have subliminally picked up bits and pieces of their conversation, which was the reason he’d glanced up from his book in the first place. They were talking about their upcoming safaris, and he heard them mention their plans to visit not only Kruger—a massive reserve in South Africa—but Mombo Camp and Jack’s Camp, both of which were in Botswana. They were speculating about the accommodations and the animals they might see, topics he’d heard discussed thousands of times over the past forty years.

Tru didn’t recognize the couple. He’d always had a good memory for faces, but these people were strangers. There was no further reason to be interested in them at all, and yet he couldn’t look away. Not because of the dream. It was something else, and it wasn’t until he zeroed in on the soft twang of the woman’s accent that he felt a jolt of recognition, one that made the feeling of déjà vu come rushing back again, even as it mingled with his memories of another time and place.

Hope, he’d immediately thought. The woman sounded exactly like Hope.

In the years since his visit to Sunset Beach, he’d met thousands of guests. A few had been from North Carolina, and there was something unique about the accent when compared to other southern states, a softer roll to the vowels, perhaps.

They had something important to tell him.

Before he even realized that he’d risen from his seat, he was at their table. Normally, he would never think of interrupting strangers at lunch, but like a puppet on a string, he felt as though he had no choice.

“Pardon me,” Tru began. “I hate to interrupt, but you wouldn’t happen to be from North Carolina?” he asked them.

If either the man or woman was bothered by his sudden appearance at their table, they didn’t show it.

“Why, as a matter of fact, we are,” said the woman. She smiled expectantly. “Have we met?”

“I don’t believe we have.”

“Then how on earth would you know where we’re from?”

“I recognized the accent,” Tru responded.

“But clearly you’re not a Tar Heel.”

“No,” he said. “I’m originally from Zimbabwe. But I spent some time in Sunset Beach once.”

“Small world!” the woman exclaimed. “We have a house there. When did you visit?”

“1990,” Tru answered.

“That’s long before our time,” she said. “We just bought the beach house two years ago. I’m Sharon Wheddon, and this is my husband, Bill.”

Bill reached his hand out, and Tru shook it.

“Tru Walls,” he said. “I heard you talking about Mombo Camp and Jack’s Camp. Before I retired, I used to be a safari guide, and I can assure you that both are outstanding. You’ll see plenty of game at Mombo. But the camps are different. Jack’s is in the Kalahari, and it’s one of the best places in the world to see meerkats.”