I nodded for him to follow Tatum, and he listened. In the quietness of solitude I stared into the rays of the sun until I saw nothing but blonde hair blowing in the wind.

There was this song that she swore was the worst country song ever composed, and to prove that fact, she sang it all the time, so much that what started out as a joke became a theme. She didn't cook often, but Sunday was sacred to Everly Anne. We dressed up for New Church, which consisted of tee-shirts bearing the logo of Our Lady of Hope. Nearly two hundred hot meals were dished up every Sunday for families in need, and Everly Anne Brighton was the finest member of the Georgia Peach Outreach Society. And when we came home, she made fluffy biscuits, her body positioned in a wonky way, her back arched with her hips pulled away from the stove, guarding her stomach and legs from being burned. Oven mitts stuck to her hands as she waited for them to bake. Two deep breaths before she opened the oven door, and bravely pulled the hot tray out, set it proudly on the counter.

"Why no, I don't knead your help, Callum Andrew." She teased, lifting on her toes to kiss me. "But I love you for asking."

I brushed flour from the tip of her nose away. "We must be married. You've gone from sex jokes to bread jokes."

"Still love you," she returned. "Still want to feed and . . ." she laced her arms around my neck, raising her eyebrows.

"Still love you, too," I said. "Still want to . . ." I raised my eyebrows. "So very, very much. Move the mixing bowl."

"Andy is just outside play-"

Sometimes, Sunday dinner was less burnt and served a bit hotter than others.

As we gathered around the table for Sunday Fourth of July Dinner, per Andy's request, everyone was silent as the one empty chair stared at all of us like a giant elephant in the room. Marta bowed her head in prayer, and then my father, Tot, Nick, and their daughter Ava, followed.

Andy looked at me, silently questioning with his eyes, "Is this all right, Pop?" But he found the answer inside of himself, folded his hands and lowered his head.

I stared at the food knowing it would only taste like a charade.

I wasn't praying, but to be respectful, I bowed my head . . . until . . . I heard Andy quietly recite the words of that damn country song when his turn for prayer came around. And as he thanked God for his chicken fried, cold beer on a Friday night, and a pair of jeans that fit just right, I was swept away by the power of charm and the braveness of fifty-three pounds.

And the magic of that bravery and charm was infectiousness. The food tasted like the best memory, and the laughter, for once, didn't lead to sorrow.

I handed Nick a corked bottle.

He shook it around. "Is that . . . ?"

"It's a lock of Everly's hair. Make sure it stays in the boat."

"Whatever you want, Cal." He tucked it into his shirt, and then climbed down the dock. It was just before sunset, and the kids hadn't come out on the beach yet. I lined the red balloons just like every other year, except this Fourth of July, they were going to get a real show.

Shannon didn't have any fanfare when she walked out on the beach this year. She didn't even come over to me. But I pulled Everly's collector's edition of Peter Pan from a bag, and walked over to her.

"Look what washed ashore this morning," I whispered. "I think it must have been in the ocean for a long time. Look how old and crinkly the pages are."

She gazed up at me. "You found it on the beach?" She touched it. "Why isn't it wet?"

"I dried the pages with a hair dryer," I lied. "Here, take it."

She took the book, and held it to her chest. "Do you think it was that mermaids? What was her name?"

"Topolina," I answered. "Her name is Topolina."

"Some say it's not true, you know."

I kneeled down to meet her height. "Who says?"

"My mom. I heard her saying you only did it for Andy's mom."

"Well," I sighed. "Sometimes grown-ups stop believing in things because they are, well, too grown up. You're not all grown-up yet, are you?" I made a face at her.

She smiled. "Not quite."

"Good. Because in order to read that book, you're gonna need the eyes of a kid who refuses to grow up." I looked at the ocean. "And to see Topolina, you'll need those kind of eyes, too."

"So it IS made up? I mean, Peter Pan is a story, so that means Topolina is just a story, too."

I looked at her. "That word is very dangerous, Shannon Elizabeth Patterson. Don't go using it so carelessly."

"Sorry."