Dismissing him as a random tourist, I raise my own camera again and turn to the other side of the square. There my lens finds SUNNY SIDE UP with its eponymous sign and, since it’s after two, a CLOSED card on the door. The shop is much as I imagined it would be, meaning yellow and fresh. It is flanked by a bookstore with as many bright toys in the window as books, and a sand-colored shell shop, both holdovers from my time here. Farther along, I see a deli, its patrons eating thick sandwiches on the patio. At the foot of the square, a beach shop hawks boogie boards, a stack of folding chairs, and blow-up toys ranging from simple rings to Wonder Woman. Next comes Smith Real Estate. And after that, oh Lord, the penny candy store, another holdover from my childhood, and wouldn’t you know, Joy is glued to its window, which is nearly as colorful as she is. How not to immortalize that? I bracket several shots, then, when I see that she sees me, lower my camera. She sprints over.

“Mom.” Her eyes are wide with excitement, her voice breathless as she grabs my hand. “You have to see this.” She pulls me down the south side of the square to a shop between the Clam Shack and Small Plates. The latter is apparently a seaside version of tapas, serving small portions of lobster salad, slaw, sliders, and skins, if the low prices on the chalkboard outside are a clue. I don’t have time to study the menu further, though, because she draws me into a store between the eateries. Jeans and Joe.

It occurs to me that Joe is the guy Anne mentioned, the one who dressed Dad when he wandered down from the bluff in his PJs. Jeans are displayed in the window, but they are way outnumbered by BAY BLUFF gear. This is where the family in blue got their shirts, but I’m stunned that my daughter wants this, rather than organic yogurt raisins or coconut smiles. She has never liked tourist gear, always considers it tacky. Before I can remind her of that, though, she slides her sunglasses to the top of her head and leads me past stacks of beach towels and blankets, shelves of branded mugs and picture frames, racks of T-shirts and tank tops and bathing suits. With uncanny precision, she extracts two hoodie sweatshirts, one women’s S, one M. Both are bright red with the town’s name splashed on the front in large white letters.

“Can we?” she asks, and, yes, it’s a question, though I see dire hope in her eyes, and it’s a killer.

She’s getting the sweatshirt, of course. I’m a sucker for dire hope, and this is a unique circumstance. Still, I ask, “When will you ever wear this?”