"Yes," she said, but her dark eyes were smiling. "He has come to me a couple of times with questions about a man, who I assume is you, and he wants something cylindrical and green that he thinks is somehow used to dig in the sand."
I knitted my brow, thinking of my previous encounters with the kid, and put it together.
"Rolling Rock," I finally said.
"Ahhh," she answered. "One of my favorites."
We both went quiet and watched the boy.
"Do you live here?" she asked, scooping up a handful of sand and letting it sift through her fingers.
"Yes, uh, on and off," I said.
"I noticed your housekeeping skills." She tossed her head back toward the bungalow.
I smiled. She was talking to me, but watching closely every movement of the child and I realized I was, too.
"Do you have family?" she said, and I did not answer at first.
I looked south down the sand to the edge of the water where two women were approaching. The taller one had long, tightly muscled legs like a cyclist's. The younger one was carrying a new sunburn. In the bar that night Sherry and Marci had found a connection. A woman's need to mother. A young lady's need of comfort. Over the past few weeks they'd spent hours talking and running the beach together and even when I was not invited I somehow felt part of it. As they came near, Marci leaned into Richards and flipped her ponytail onto her shoulder and put her arm around her waist and said something that made them both laugh.
"Maybe I do," I said, watching them. "Maybe I do."