The line moves forward faster than I expect, and soon we are at the counter by the arched windows. Ellie orders two big plates of beignets and we wriggle through the crowd toward the edge of the awning. Eddie sees a group of people getting ready to leave and pounces on the empty table.

We have to find an unused chair, but soon we are all seated. My back is against the gate, a perfect vantage point for crowd watching.

After a short wait, a girl brings two platters piled high with steaming brown beignets. They are hot enough to warm cold hands and piled so high with powdered sugar I don’t know where to pick them up. It seems like we’re all having the same hesitation, but in a moment we all—even Ruth—reach for the plates and take a pastry, causing powdered sugar to sprinkle over all of us like snow. Before I’ve taken my first bite, I’ve got a sprinkling of white on my collar and Eddie has to wipe sugar dust from his glasses.

We all take a bite of the perfectly shaped, perfectly fried beignets and I see Ellie close her eyes and smile like a kid.

“So worth it,” she says.

Eddie leans toward me so I can hear. He gestures at Ellie. “That happy face is worth however many hours of driving,” he says.

I look over at Ruth and catch her almost smiling, the angry furrow gone from her brow, and I think I know what Eddie’s talking about. I’d fly to China for dumplings if it would get that smile.

Maybe beignets are a good sign. Maybe there really is such a thing as magic, only now we call it baking. Ruth’s iPod is in her pocket and her hand is cupped under her chin, trying to catch powdered-sugar avalanches before they tumble into her lap. I hurry and wipe my fingers on my pants and aim my camera lens at Ruth and click while she’s got a sticky hand raised in the air and is trying to lick sugar off the tip of her nose. I don’t think she even notices. A perfect photo for the “Sisters” folder.

Ruth looks around and mumbles something about napkins. There are none.

All of us are dusted somewhere with sugar. Ruth is licking white off her fingertips and Ellie brushes crumbs off Eddie’s chin. I wipe my palms on my jeans again and try to dust the sugar from the front of my shirt.

Maybe it’s the sugar, but I have a weird idea. I wipe my hands clean the best I can and, while the others seem distracted by their own messy fingers, duck under the table with my camera.

“Whatcha doing down there?” Ellie asks.

So much for trying to be subtle.