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over her shoulders while she moved, Italian curves from head to toe. My mother was thirty-five, had me when she was eighteen, was married by nineteen and divorced by the time she was twenty-one. I took after both my parents—my mother’s nose and eyes, the color and style of her hair, but I got my father’s tall, thin build. My mother shifted, and I saw a slice of profile. Suddenly tears were pushing into my eyes. I’d lately become aware of how things could change from one minute to the next, how I could lose something precious in a single moment, and I drank in the sight of my mother like I might never see her again. Like I needed to remember her every detail, just in case.
    Details.
    Michaela’s father. Wanting more details.
    Like the metal plate on the toe of Patrick McCallen’s boot?
    But that was for tomorrow. Tonight was still mine.
    “Found it,” my mother said, the sound of her voice breaking into my thoughts. She pulled out a skinny silk tank the color of a cloudless sky. Something she’d sewn herself. “Casual yet pretty, and you can wear it with your jeans.” She held it up to me. “It will look better on you, anyway. You have the right body. It’s a little slutty on me.”
    “Mom!” I laughed.
    She started laughing, too. “It’s the truth.”
    I took it from her. Leaned in and gave her a hug.
    “What was that for?” she asked, tilting her head. Taking me in.
    “I just love you,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
    “You’re welcome. Now go shower. I’ll stay out of sight when he shows, all right?”
    “You’re the best,” I told her, and took off to my room, thinking about how strange it is to feel so lucky and so unlucky all at once.
    • • •
    My heart pounded. It wouldn’t stop. I put a fist over it.
    Handel Davies and I were walking toward town. He hadn’t said a word about where we were headed. Either Bridget or Michaela might be right about our destination. At any moment we could stop on a corner for the night or end up on a fishing boat. I was hoping for something more interesting.
    “So it’s only you and your mother in that house?” Handel asked.
    I watched him light a cigarette. Take a puff. “Do you think we could hide anybody else in there?”
    The left side of his mouth turned up in a smile. “I guess not.”
    “It’s just us. My mom didn’t have any more kids after she got divorced.”
    Handel gestured left, and we turned down Chestnut. “My ma knows her.”
    “Really?”
    “I think every woman around here has been to your mother for some reason or another. Wedding. Christening. Funeral.”
    We were passing Mrs. O’Brian’s house, and she was in her front yard, watering some plants. She stared hard at Handel and me. I gave her a wave and a look that said
mind your own business,
and she went back to her watering.
    “Which one brought your mother to mine?” I asked.
    “My sister needed her prom dress fitted,” he said. “That, and my uncle Billy’s funeral.”
    “Oh. Sorry to hear that.”
    He shrugged. Took one last drag of his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the edge of a trash can at the street corner and tipped it inside. “That’s business as usual in my family.”
    I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say, and I was a little surprised Handel spoke so easily about it. I remembered reading about how Billy Nolan had gotten shot in the middle of the street one day, but I hadn’t thought he might be related to Handel. Then again, it was well known across town that Handel’s family—extended family at least—was deep into shady dealings. Sometimes living in this town seemed like being on a movie set. Nolan must be Handel’s mother’s maiden name. I wasn’t sure how much more I wanted to know on the subject of Handel’s family and their, well, business.
    Handel hooked a finger into the belt loop of his jeans. “So, some friends are hanging out over in the dunes tonight.” We reached the end of Chestnut, and Handel stopped.