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Poor Dorie had to break the news to her despondent but desperate sweetheart. Channeling some kind of made-for-TV movie, I see the red-eyed Dorinda. In my daydream she still has on her tiara, since that’s the only picture I carry around of her. So here’s Dorinda, tearfully explaining grown-up reality and maternal orders to her soon-to-be discarded Romeo. What’s his name. CC. Even knowing the futility of their teenage declarations, they bitterly vow never to part, and then heavyhearted but flaming with desire, they embrace, and then—

The video in my head screeches to a halt.

Maybe CC Hardesty was actually Gaylen’s father. Maybe that’s why CC left town so quickly. Enlisted, then exited. Maybe that’s why Dorie agreed to marry Ray with such haste. And that would mean Ray Sweeney is not Gaylen’s real father. So Dorinda knew it. And possibly CC. But did Ray? Does Gaylen?

I try to count months, see how the wedding date meshes with Gaylen’s birthday, but I don’t have enough specific information to do the gestational math. But theoretically, it could be true. So imagine Dorinda’s despair. Her daughter’s real father, killed in some faraway military explosion. Perhaps never realizing their teenage lust and passion had resulted in a child. Or, worse maybe, did. Later her daughter’s stepfather, notorious, with a predilection for inappropriately young girls, makes disgustingly unwelcome advances. Maybe that proves Ray knew he wasn’t Gaylen’s biological father.

The only people Dorinda ever loved. CC: dead. Gaylen: fighting off a sleazy creep she thinks is her father, only to give him a fatal push in a final burst of self-protection. So Dorinda, finally, gets to take control. She takes the fall for Gaylen, sacrifices herself so her daughter, at least, can have a life. Not exactly a foolproof plan, since it relies quite a bit on Gaylen’s ruthless selfishness. But maybe that’s the proof I’m right. Ungrateful child to the end, Gaylen disappeared the moment the prison doors slammed shut, and lifted not a finger to exonerate the mother she knows is innocent. Anyone who is unfairly incarcerated would unquestionably want to talk about it. Unless there were an ulterior motive.

I like this theory. And Will Easterly will soon have to break it to Dorinda. I now know her secret. If she doesn’t talk, I’m going to tell.

I see my turnoff onto Pamet Road, and navigate the final curves of my journey to the weekend. For Josh’s sake, and Penny’s, and my potential future with both of them, I won’t call Franklin about my revelation until tomorrow. On Saturday. He knows as well as I do, there are no weekends in TV.

The
white lace curtains over the open bedroom window flutter in the breeze, letting in the day. The morning sun feels different on the Cape. Maybe because there are no buildings to block it, maybe something about the pollution, or the wind across the ocean. I look at the empty space and rumpled pillow next to me, and allow myself a lazy playback of last night.

Happily, Penny had claimed what she labeled the princess room, a cozily bay-windowed whitewashed bedroom on the second floor. Tagging behind Josh and me as he gave the tour of their rented summer cottage, Penny showed how she installed Flo and Eddy on the dresser and ensconced Dickens in special stuffed animal bed made of the blue-and-white throw pillows from her bedroom love seat. The princess seat, she called it.

Josh’s bedroom is downstairs. And while Penny was finishing her vanilla frozen yogurt with only-white jimmies on top, her father had stealthily moved my suitcase into the same room. We were fairly certain the solidly sleeping Penny would never hear us, especially after we’d let her stay up too late watching
Mary Poppins
until she fell asleep, sated with popcorn, on the rumpled couch.

Josh carried her upstairs, then finally we were alone. And although we attempted to muffle each other’s late-night laughter with pillows, that made the whole hide-sex-from-the-eight-year-old escapade even funnier. Finally, desire and longing won over stealth. Time and place forgotten, Josh and I lost ourselves in lust and comfort and passion. And, as he repeated many delicious times, in love.

I run my hand across the yellow flowered sheet, back and forth, over the empty space Josh left behind. Remembering his words. His touch. This is what people do, if they’re lucky. A cozy home, summertime, kids with sand in their shoes and sunscreen on their noses, the smell of bacon and coffee in the morning, memories in the making.

When Mom was my age, I calculate, I was off in college. I never thought about her and Dads, someplace on vacation, cozy and happy. I’ve seen snapshots, wavy-edged and falling out of those glue-on triangular photo album corners, but they’ve always been from another time. Me age three, with curly hair and a floppy sunbonnet, standing barefoot on the beach at Lake Michigan. Mom looking like Deborah Kerr in a structured black bathing suit and dark glasses. Dads squinting, holding a towel, looking out of his urban element, surrounded by water and sand. They don’t seem like real people, that family from the past.

And yet, someday Josh and Penny will be captured in photographs like that. And me with them. Maybe. And I wonder why I’ve never thought before, that’s why people take photos. To try to capture happiness. Without the memories, though, the photos are just pieces of paper.

I roll over and scrabble though the pile of watch, beeper, reading glasses, water bottle, hand lotion, and Blistex on the nightstand beside me, looking for my cell phone. Talk about ungrateful daughters, focused on themselves. I dial the hospital. I’ve been thinking about Mom the mom, not Mom the person. Who probably, who certainly, just wants the same things I do. Love. Contentment. Family. And I’m part of her family. I need to let her know I understand. She just wants me to be happy.

“The patient you have called…”

Should I leave a message? I hang up the phone, deflated. But resolute.
Later.

P
ENNY
’
S DROPPING
Cheerios into a glass of milk, then fishing them out, one at a time, with a spoon. Droplets of milk splash on the kitchen table as she retrieves the pieces of soggy cereal, then puts them into her mouth. Josh, at the stove with his back to her, is prodding a frying pan of sizzling eggs with a spatula. Both are wearing bathing suits, flip-flops, and Bexter Academy T-shirts. Exactly what I’m wearing. If someone didn’t know better, we look like a prep school prof’s family cozily summering at our second home on the Cape. Another proof appearances can be deceiving.

No one’s noticed me yet. Somehow, I’m intimidated by this entrance. Am I part of the group? Do I sidle up beside Josh, wrap one arm around him and take over the eggs?

Or am I company? Which means I casually announce my arrival to both of them, as if last night never happened and tonight won’t either.

“Over easy? Or sunny-side up?” Josh says, turning to Penny. His spatula is dripping butter onto the stove top, then onto the linoleum floor. I notice his arms are getting nicely tan and his hair still looks like morning. He sees me, and smiles as if he’s seen his best friend. “Oh, good morning, sweets,” he says, with a private wink that makes me weak in the knees. Then, all business, he points to me with the buttery spatula. “Just in time for eggs.”

“I only want the white parts,” Penny replies, ignoring me. “The yellows are too runny and yucky. They make my toast sticky. Which is dis-gusting.” Another Cheerio, released from arm’s length, plops into the milk.

I finesse my entrance, giving Josh a casual-looking touch on the back which I hope Penny categorizes as “pat” and Josh categorizes as “there’s more where that came from.”

I pull up a chair across from Penny. She continues to play the Cheerios game, ignoring me. I pull a spoon closer to me—it’s old-fashioned and stubby, diner style, stainless steel—and I spin it on the navy-blue tabletop. “Think I can keep this on my nose? Without holding it?” I ask. Ultra-casual. I hold the spoon by the handle and put its bowl on my nose, talking around it. “Bet you I can.”

Penny looks at me, suspicious. She pauses, but then apparently can’t resist the temptation to prove me wrong. “No way,” she says. She blows her bangs out of her eyes. “Uh-uh.”

Pushing the spoon toward her, I offer her the challenge. “Try it,” I say. “I promise it can be done.” I glance at Josh, who’s now turned down the burner under the eggs, and is watching our mano a mano. “Try it, and then I’ll show you how,” I say. “It’s cool.”

Penny takes the spoon, pursing her lips. From her wary expression, I can tell she suspects this is some kind of grown-up trap. But she wants to know the trick.

She puts the spoon on her nose. It instantly falls off. Picking it up and staring at it with deep concentration, a flare of insight crosses her face. She licks the spoon. And tries it again. And again. Each time the spoon falls with a clatter onto the kitchen linoleum.

Josh scoops up the spoon and hands it to me, challenge in his eyes. “What do you think, kidlet?” he says to Penny. “Shall we make her show us? And what if she can’t do it?”

Penny stands by her chair, hands on her little hips, her tanned legs poking put from under her oversize T-shirt. “We’ll make her…” She shifts her weight back and forth, tapping a thoughtful finger on her check. She’s apparently eager to plan my retribution. “We’ll make her…do the dishes by herself!”

“Yes!” Josh agrees, pointing to her. “Do the dishes by herself. Love it. Except however, what if she can actually do it?”

This is more perplexing. Penny shifts back and forth a few more times. “If she can do it…” she says slowly, “I’ll help her with the dishes.” She plops back into her chair, crossing her arms in front of her. “But I know she can’t do it.” Then the earth moves, as Penny directs her comments to me. “Can you?”

I put the spoon against my open mouth, cover it with my other hand, and give a puff of moist breath. I quickly paste the bowl to the end of my nose, then take my hands away. The spoon hangs, suspended. For at least two seconds. I snap it up before it falls. “Ta-da” I sing out, as Josh applauds. “The magical spoon.”

Penny’s eyes go wide, then she grins, processing what she’s just seen. She dashes around to my side of the table, snatches the spoon from my hand and hands it back to me. Demanding. “Show me,” she says. “That’s totally awesome.”

As Penny and I discuss the spoon technique, Josh brings breakfast dishes to the table. We all practice between bites of fried egg and toast. Penny’s yolk, I noticed, remains perfectly intact in the center of her plate, only a fringe of white encircling it. She comes around behind me, curious, as I show her how spoon reflections can be upside down. Putting her hand on my shoulder, she peers at her topsy-turvy self. It’s the first time she’s ever touched me.

Josh clears the table, and gives Penny a meaningful look. “Dish duty for you, kidlet,” he reminds her.

Penny looks at me, pleading. I almost melt onto the floor. “Um,” she says. “Could you help me?”

“Of course,” I say. “But how about…let’s leave ’em for now. Do the dishes when we get back from—”

“The beach!” Penny interrupts, flinging both hands into the air.

“Beach it is,” Josh agrees.

And then the phone rings.

It’s not for me. Franklin would use my cell. And if it’s for Josh, it can only be—

“Hello, Victoria,” I hear Josh answer. “No, we’re…”

“Mom!” Penny yells, and runs to scramble for the receiver. I’m left at the kitchen table, staring at my still-white legs and my unreliable future.

Fine. If they’re on their phone, I can be on my phone.

“D
ID HE LEAVE A MESSAGE
? He just said, call him? So, did Kevin call him? Did he tell you what he said? Why would Oscar Ortega be calling our news director? Why wouldn’t he call me? Or you? Why wouldn’t Tek do the calling?” I finally wind down my barrage of questions, but Franklin is still quiet on his end of the line. I drag my toes through the sand beneath the tree swing in the back yard, trying to process his perplexing news.

“Are you finished?” Franklin says. “As I told you, you can ask me anything you wish. But as I also told you, I won’t know the answer. I don’t know any answers. All I know is I got an e-mail from the news director. In it, Kevin said he’d gotten a call from Oscar Ortega, and that I was supposed to find you, and have you call him. He probably e-mailed you, too, but I assumed you hadn’t checked or you would have called me.”

“Call Oscar Ortega? I’m supposed to call Oscar Ortega?”

“Call Kevin,” Franklin says. “Jeez, Charlotte. Why don’t you just call him instead of asking me lists of unanswerable questions?”

“But it’s Saturday,” I say. “You think Kevin’s at the station?”

“I’m closing my eyes to see if I can get any psychic vibes,” Franklin answers. “Let’s see. Is…Kevin…at the station….”

“Hush,” I say. “I’m trying to figure this out. And even if Kevin is there, Oz certainly isn’t at
his
office. Damn it.” I wrap my arms around the swing ropes, twisting impatiently. Josh and Penny are loading the car. I’ve got to go. But I need to call Kevin. Do I? Nothing’s going to happen today. I hope. No matter what, though, I’ve still got to fill Franklin in on my Gaylen theory.

“I have to go,” I begin. “But two things. One, you call Kevin, say where I am, and see what’s up. I’m reachable on my cell. Unless we’re at the beach. Then leave a message. There’s just nothing I can do—I’m here, he’s there. The other thing? Listen to this.” I plant my feet on the ground to stop the swing, and lean forward, elbows on my knees. “I was thinking about Gaylen.”

T
HE WASH OF THE WAVES
, hypnotic and serene, almost takes me away from my reality. The sand is baked warm under my toes, and seagulls screech overhead. While Josh has gone off to get sandwiches, I’m trailing behind Penny, who’s scampering in and out of the water, pretending she’s alone. From time to time she scoops up a shell and tucks it into the already sagging patch pocket of her T-shirt. She’s soggy and sandy, and seems blissfully lost in her day.

The beach at Race Point is crowded with color, humming with motion, dappled with sun and shadow. It’s windy, as always, but that just makes the waves sparkle and dance. One of those days you get a glimpse of where Monet was coming from. I glance back at Penny. And she’s suddenly too far away. Too far out in the water.

“Penny,” I yell, running after her. “Come back this way.” I don’t want to spook her and I’m not sure if I’m being overcautious. But how can you be overcautious when there’s an eight-year-old in the Atlantic Ocean? My feet splash into the cool salt water, sticking into the sandy bottom, my progress instantly slowed by the pull of the waves. I don’t take my eyes off her. Or the wave that seems to be coming too close.

In an instant, Penny is engulfed.

Running as best I can, I don’t take my eyes from the spot I last saw her. I know she wasn’t anywhere near over her head. The water was only knee-deep. But I caught the glimmer of fear and surprise in her eyes as the water unexpectedly knocked her legs out from under her. I plunge toward her, seeing only an arm and a flailing leg.

We arrive at the surface together, sitting on the sand, the water all around us, the waves receding as if the moment never happened. Penny’s clinging to me, red faced, gasping, wiping the water out of her eyes, her hair in dank strands, dripping into her face. Her pale green T-shirt floats into puffs, billowing around her, and she looks like a waterlogged little flower. She’s fine, but afraid.

“I thought…I was…I didn’t know…” Penny gulps, trying to breathe and talk and hold back tears at the same time.

“You’re all right now, sweetheart,” I say, pushing her dark curls away from her sand-streaked cheeks. “I was watching you the whole time. That wave just took you by surprise, didn’t it?”

The water is calm now, peaceful and unthreatening. To anyone watching, nothing happened. I smile at her, reassuring, not letting go. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I won’t let it.”

I take her by the hand and help her to her feet. The water, so clear we can see the tweedy sand underneath, is just up to her knees. “Ready to go back to the blanket? Or want to stay in a while?”

“Um,” she says. “Let’s walk back.” She keeps my hand as we slosh to the shore. “I wasn’t scared,” she insists.

“Well, hey,” I say, slowly. “It’s okay to be a little bit scared. The ocean is big, right? And kind of unpredictable. That’s why you always swim with a pal.”

She’s quiet for a moment as we walk. “Like you?” she asks.