She groans. “That thing is worse than a B-movie monster that won’t stay dead. Go on. Give it to me. Tell me what happened.”

So I do. As we dart around the last of the summer tourists, I show her Adrian’s texts and tell her about my fight with Lucky. I tell her everything, all the stupid things I said. The accusations I made, and how he asked me to trust him. How I couldn’t, even after he trusted me that we weren’t leaving town. I even tell her about seeing Desmond Banks before the flotilla, and how I could have avoided all this by just talking to Evie.

All of it.

When I’m done, she blows out a long breath, puffing out her cheeks. “Wow.”

“Your daughter is kind of a dingbat.”

“From a long line of dingbats,” she says with a soft smile. “But hey. Let’s not forget that he made a stool for the Nook with his own two hands. A beautiful stool. A work of art.”

“He’s a craftsperson, not an artist.”

“Well, la-di-da,” Mom says lightly.

I laugh. “But, okay. I see your point. Yeah, he did make the stool for us. That was something. Right?”

“Definitely. I think it’s a clear sign that he’s trying to talk to you.”

“You do?”

“I can’t read his mind or yours, but maybe, just based on what you’ve told me, maybe he realizes that you were going through some difficult things that day, and finding out about your father may have messed you up a little bit and made you act a little irrationally. Speaking from experience—when I found out the truth about your father, I packed up and took you away from Beauty for five years.”

“Oh,” I say as this clicks into place in my head.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding. “So maybe this is how it affected you. And I can’t be certain, but he seems like a smart guy, so maybe he worked that out for himself and is trying to establish a line of communication with you again, in his own way.”

Was that possible?

“And,” Mom continues, “if he’s trying to communicate with you through his art—excuse me, through his craft—”

“He’s a stickler about that.”

“—then maybe you should do the same and communicate with him through your art.”

I blink at her. “Through my photos?”

“Why not?” she says with a shrug. “That’s what you’re doing by taking pictures of your signs, right? Using photography to communicate? That’s what it says in your portfolio.”

“Well, yeah …”

“So use your photography to communicate with Lucky.”