Could the sun really be so close? Had it stopped by to welcome us, a great golden visitor standing just yards above the surface in a backyard called the Atlantic?

We arrived early, barely an hour after first dawn with a load packed the night before. I followed the boys out onto the deck. It was still wet with dew and aglow with a blanket of light that stretched with gleaming grace across swelling waters and crystal sand dunes to lay its radiance on the aged planks beneath our feet. No one spoke, but chests heaved with a sense we were stepping into a great adventure.

Everyone hates moving so I will tell no more of our story, except to say John-John delivered his friend’s step van as promised, and Sagan and Scott were giddy all day with the excitement of moving to the beach. To be young and living right on the ocean -- in a beach town like ours, dude, you’re gonna be stoked.

Frankie, and Sagan’s girlfriend also helped. It didn’t matter that the house was no palace. It only mattered that it was less than a quarter-mile from the prime surf area south of the inlet. I had visions of our deck as the jumping off point for legions of shaggy-haired, baggy-wearing surfers.

While my hands were full with one end of a couch, my cell phone rang and later I found a voicemail from Mrs. Chisholm, Carolyn’s mom. Her call was unexpected but not surprising. We hadn’t spoken since that day in Charley’s office but I knew we eventually would. Did she fear I felt betrayed? If so, she was wrong. I knew she had done exactly what she had decided was right. She was not one to second-guess her decisions and I admired her for that.

The secretary said Mrs. Chisholm wanted to see me and I agreed to the next morning, but not too early. Moving takes its toll, even on the fit.

The time was 10 a.m. -- late enough for the sun to climb high over the ocean and work its shimmering magic on the entire seaside. But here on the south beach, nature’s clock had been adjusted. A wall of high-rise condos held the sun at bay, casting their dark shadows across the coastal road until noon. Driving south, I moved in and out of narrow bands of light where the sunrays snuck through gaps between buildings.

The Chisholm Center, positioned appropriately on the west side of South Atlantic Avenue, is the largest office building on the south beach. Mrs. Chisholm’s purchase of the venerable, coral-colored tower in the mid-90s confirmed her as the top developer in the area. Never one to let personal interest inhibit progress, she immediately built a pair of 12-story condos directly to the east on some of the last remaining ocean front property. Until then, she had a beautiful view from her office of the wide blue Atlantic. Now her view was colored in U.S. Mint green.

Mrs. Chisholm was at her desk and talking on the phone when I entered. She looked up and with her eyes directed me to a chair in front of her desk. A boy waiting for the principal, I thought, and turned away, crossing to her east windows. We were on the fifth floor, the top floor, once a respectable height for a building here. But now ten, twelve or more was the norm. I found that if I tried, I could peek through the openings in the stucco and glass wall of condominiums and find a glimpse of ocean on the far side. This was the new end of the beach, the end where retired newcomers bought, tourists rented by the week and wealthy Orlando people came for occasional weekend escapes in condo units empty the rest of the time. While the north beach held desperately to its quaint neighborhoods of cottages and fulltime residents, its oceanfront homes set back behind the dunes, the south was a tribute to arrogance, ignorance and money.

I picked up bits of the phone conversation -- something about slow unit sales in a new tower she’d built farther south near the national seashore. Then silence and the clicking of her keyboard.

Finally she spoke to me. “Nice to see you Dietrich; this really is a surprise.”

“You asked me to come,” I said.

“But I didn’t think you’d come so quickly. I know you’re busy with the move and all.”

Mrs. Chisholm was handsome, with long hair for a woman in her mid-fifties. On the job she always kept it pulled back and tucked up. She could show a pleasant side when she wanted, which she seemed inclined to do right now. It put me on guard. The truth is I met her before I met Carolyn. She is roughly as much older than me as Carolyn is younger and for a moment, before I met her daughter, it seemed something might develop between the new pastor -- that’s me -- and the powerful widow. But then I met Carolyn and her children, and Mrs. Chisholm, to her credit, was more interested in her daughter’s welfare than in a romance for herself. It would never have worked anyway.

“So what did you have in mind?” I asked.

“Pardon?”

“What did you have in mind? You didn’t summon me here just to chat.”

“Don’t you think summon is too strong a word? I suppose, in a way, I did just want to chat and catch up on how you’re doing. How are you doing, Dietrich?”

I had taken the seat she originally assigned and she walked around front to perch in front of me on the edge of the desk, one shoe on the floor. Her wool skirt and long-sleeved silk blouse looked professional but a little too formal for our laid-back beach town.

“I’m fine,” I said. “A little tired from moving yesterday but that’s OK; all in all it was a great day. We had lots of help and everyone was excited to be moving to the beach.”

“Yes,“ she said, standing and walking past me to the windows where she stared silently to the east.

I followed her. “Is something wrong?”

“Not really. You and Carolyn moving out of the parsonage just brought it all home. The life we knew is over. Beloved pastor, supportive wife and mother-in-law, the kids -- your family, the church family … happy days … they’re all over now. It … hurts.” She turned to me, looking pained but showing no tears. “Does that surprise you, Dietrich? That a hard-bitten businesswoman like me can get so sentimental?”

“I would have said ‘tough-minded’ … mom.”

She smiled. “You called me ‘mom.’ That’s nice Dietrich.”

She returned to her chair and I went back to mine. The smile and the pain were gone from her face.

“So Dietrich, now that it’s all gone, what are you going to do? No more paycheck, no more health benefits, rent to pay I assume -- unless Jerry is letting you stay there for free.”

“He is.”

“That’s good. But you have groceries to buy, gas prices are going up, and you have to get some health insurance. You can’t just let that go. And what about life insurance? Anything could happen and where would they be?”

“Maybe I’m trusting God.”

“Nonsense.”

I could have told her about the trust fund. I could have mentioned my new Sunday morning ‘gig’ and how we were going to start passing the plate. I didn’t feel like telling her anything.

“I want to help,” she said. “My first thought was to give money directly to Carolyn. But my accountant says only a certain amount each year is deductible. Then he suggested a 501(C)(3) for you. A non-profit that could pay you a salary. My attorney could help set it up. I’d fund it to start and I’d take a tax deduction for what I put in. To me, that sounds like a perfect plan. You get to pay your bills, and I don’t lose sleep at night. A win-win deal.”

So much of what Mrs. Chisholm stands for, I detest. I had calculated that we could get by for awhile on the money from the trust -- a few years if we were frugal. God, I didn’t want to take money from this woman. I could just imagine she’d want to put herself on the board of this non-profit. But she had some points -- health insurance for example … what if …?

“Could I have a few days to think about it?”

“Sure,” she said. “You know Dietrich, I don’t understand at all what you’re doing, but I’ve always respected you … your ability, your sincerity … and I certainly can’t let my daughter and grandchildren be exposed to the winds of chance.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad you do,” she said, “because ever since that day in Orlando I’ve been struggling to make sense of your hostile attitude.”

“I don’t feel hostile. Who am I hostile to? Haven‘t I been pleasant to you?”