Anne hadn't been here in years. She must have been 15 the last time she visited her nana and papa at their large home on Harris Point. As a child the home had seemed to go on forever and even as an adult it was still impressive with its 5 bedrooms and 6.5 baths. It was typical clapboard siding done in gray with black shutters on the windows. The home had been built in 1900 and over the years her family, the Harris family for whom the Point was named, had added as the family had grown. What had begun as a large Cape Cod style home was now a picturesque rambler with large dormers on many areas of the roof. Although the home looked like a two-story home, Anne knew a cozy yet roomy third floor was nestled under the roof just inside the dormer windows.<br/><br/>It made her sad to think it took the sudden death of both her grandparents to return, but the truth was that at 29, she was forging her own way and she had settled in the Monterrey, California region of the country. The shores were completely different, but both extraordinary in their beauty. She had let the lease go on her home in Monterrey when she got the word that the house on Harris Point was now hers. Yes, she was established in Monterrey, but she could continue to work from Harris Point through her web-based business dealing art. This move would give her pictures, photography mostly, a new twist. She liked that idea. She also liked the idea of being in the presence of so many warm and enjoyable family memories. Her own parents had died when she was 20 and a junior in college. An only child,she had put off her senior year to come home and take care of the estate. Her grandparents had helped her put most of the funds in a trust that would mature for her use when she turned 35, so money wasn't a problem for her. The pain of the loss of her parents drove her to. . .she didn't know. It just drove her. What ever she thought to do she did it to the fullest extent. When she went back to school she picked up a double major in business to go along with her art degree, when she looked for a place to open her art gallery she researched for over six months to see what area would be the best for picture likability which lead her to Monterey. It had been a tossup between Monterey and Carmel, but the literary history of Monterey intrigued her, so Monterey it had been.<br/><br/>Now, here she was at another juncture. She was an all or nothing kind of girl, so the return to Harris Point was going to be a success. There wasn't any other way for it to play out. She had gotten local contractors to do any and all repairs to the home that were needed including updates inside as well as painting the whole house, inside and out. She had gone to the Chamber of Commerce to check on the possibility of using the house as a Bed and Breakfast. Jed Harris, a distant cousin, had helped her get in touch with the right people to make that happen, and now, The Harris Point Inn was ready for business. Anne would enjoy having the big home to herself most of the time, but the website advertising the home as a place to stay while visiting the region already had 16 weekends available and there had been some traffic to the site, so she was hopeful.<br/><br/>She hadn't meant to be up this early, but once the rays of sunlight began to come in the window she knew sleep wouldn't return, so she got dressed, slipped into her old docksiders and headed out to the beach. Anne loved the early mornings out here. It didn't matter what the weather was like, she loved it all. She was surprised that some of her best pictures had been storms and rain. Her favorites always held streaks of lightening, but she actually had more response from customers for the torrents of rain that appeared to come down in sheets. Neither of those looked anything like the morning she was enjoying today. She could tell it was going to be a clear day, and the forcast was for a warm sixty-eight degrees.<br/><br/>Anne had always been in the habit of looking down at her feet as she walked the beach, probably to find rare shells or stones, and the occasional crab. The stick she carried helped her keep her balance as well as served as a digging tool. The sound of her walking had a rhythm of its own with two even-paced steps and a sucking and setting sound of the stick being lifted then reset in the sand. She was lost in that rhythm when she happened to look up at the water. Probably about 200 yards in front of her someone was at the water's edge walking toward her. That was strange. She didn't remember ever seeing anyone on the beach this time of day since she moved back. . .