“Magic sticks. She called it magic sticks. Even her grandchildren thanked us for helping to manage her pain. They smoked it with her when their parents weren’t around.”

My mother beamed. “It was a family moment. The third generation with the first, all stoned and happy. Now, don’t you reprimand me, Evie! The grandchildren were in their forties. They were not children. They had children.”

“Who else?” Sundance laid his head on my lap. I think he knew this conversation was pointless.

“Well, you know Pietre, the Frenchman, yummy Frenchman, who has that restaurant on San Lola Island?” My mother fluttered her hands. “We carry it across the ferry in my purse. I usually use the purple-flowered one, which matches my purple plumeria hat with the white feathers.”

“I love that hat,” Aunt Camellia said. “It’s reflective of your passionate personality, your aura of commitment.”

“It’s purely medicinal, Evie,” Aunt Iris said. “When Pietre was younger, his stepfather planted an ax in his back. He was also in a motorcycle accident in his twenties and his back aches badly now that he’s older. He didn’t want to take painkillers, he knew he could get addicted, so we bring him his pot.”

“Then we have lunch at his restaurant. I had French onion soup the last time. With wine. It was scrumptious,” my mother gushed.

“I had his famous croissants,” Aunt Camellia said. “With butter. Everyone should eat butter.”

“But we keep our businesses separate,” Aunt Iris said. “At my insistence. We need to be logical. He pays for his marijuana and we pay for our meal, and we share a glass of wine on the back porch and watch the ferries come in.”

“It’s such a pleasant way to spend the day,” Aunt Camellia said. “I feel rejuvenated after eating Pietre.” She coughed. “I mean, eating with Pietre. I do not eat Pietre.”

There was a silence. Aunt Iris muffled a laugh. My mother didn’t bother to muffle hers.

“You’re dating Pietre?” I asked.

“No, not exactly,” Aunt Camellia said.

“You’re seeing him.”

“She sees all of him,” Aunt Iris said.

“But we’re not committed,” Aunt Camellia said.

“Not dating then?” I asked.

“We’re lovers,” Aunt Camellia said. “Sometimes. I’m not dead yet. Why can’t I have a lover?”

I shook my head. This was a little too much. “You can have all the lovers you want. But back to the pot. Who else are you selling to?”

“Do you remember Elsa Bryn?” Aunt Camellia said. “She had such severe anxiety she didn’t leave her house for almost two years. Panic attacks, too. She’s a cat hoarder. We brought her a little pot one day. She was a bit resistant at first, so your mother and I smoked it with her, out on her deck. You know she has that mansion overlooking the bay. She can see the whales frolicking about.”