As they moved she noted with satisfaction that he made a hatch mark on the bottom of the paper for every bird he saw. He gazed up as a flock of laughing gulls cruised above them, his mouth moving ever so slightly as he counted. Eight more hatch marks.

A few minutes later, four birds—plovers by the look of them—darted along the shore fifty yards or so ahead. Violet lifted her binoculars to her eyes, and next to her he did the same.

“Wilson’s plovers,” he said after a moment.

“Not piping plovers?”

He kept the binoculars to his eyes. “Piping plovers are a little smaller. And these guys have longer beaks.” He pulled the binoculars down and squinted into the distance, then pulled them back up again. “Fella in the front just got himself a snack. Probably a coquina.”

She glanced up at him, surprised by his accuracy. He chuckled, though he kept his gaze straight ahead. “I do know a little about birds, Vi. Did you forget?”

She sighed as she lowered her binoculars. The mix of salt and brine and sand and the very nearness of him swirled her thoughts right back to the night they’d first met. The gentle sway of shoulders moving to the music. Hazy smoke-filled air coating her skin. Their shared laughter over a red-billed tropicbird. Oh, she hadn’t forgotten. The details were still there, etched. Engraved.

He angled his shoulder toward her, his voice low as if to keep the birds from eavesdropping. “You didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see me as I was when I found out you’d be the one training me on bird surveys.”

“You knew it’d be me?”

“That’s what the woman at the Audubon office told me. I asked if there was anyone else who could do the training with me, but according to her, you’re the best teacher. She also told me you don’t tolerate tardiness.” He paused. “I got all the way to the parking lot, but I almost didn’t get out of my car. That’s why I was late meeting you.”

Violet reached up and brushed away a strand of hair caught on her lip. “What made you get out of the car?”

He shifted and gazed up the beach a ways. “I don’t know. Curiosity?”

Please don’t ask me. Her silent plea rang in her ears. Too much curiosity, any attempt to peel back the years and all that was left unsaid, would only result in pain. Much better to stick to the basics—counting birds, logging data, then going their separate ways.

At the sound of approaching voices, they both turned. Two men walked along the water’s edge, running shoes in hand. After a moment, they broke into a jog, sand spitting back behind them and scattering the plovers ahead.

“It’s just a little farther to the end of the route. Then we can head back.”

They fell into slow step, with Frank still counting and making notes on the page.

• 4 Wilson’s plovers—juvenile
• 8 least terns—4 adult, 4 juvenile
• 6 brown pelicans—age indeterminate