I think about this as we stroll past Lady Arabella’s, an old-fashioned store that carries vintage toys, its window filled with jars of colorful marbles, hoops, tin soldiers, and cornhusk dolls. “So, you’re saying I should send one of my photos to the boatyard?” I ask Mom.

“Maybe?” she says, moving out of the way as a small child runs out of the toy store carrying a stuffed whale. “Send him a message. Strike up a conversation. See where it leads. Maybe even grovel a little, because that’s something dingbats should probably do.”

“Probably,” I say with a groan.

“But shutterbug?”

“Yes?”

“If I’m wrong about this, and he’s not ready to talk, then you need to respect that. You can’t be an Adrian.”

I nod, stomach dropping at that possibility forming in my head—that Lucky isn’t ready to talk. Regardless, I think Mom may be onto something. I think this isn’t the worst plan.

I think I want to try to strike up a conversation with Lucky again, and this may be a good way to try to do that. What do you know? Talking out my problems with real-life people actually results in real-life solutions.

“Hey, Mom? While we’re talking about relationships, don’t think I didn’t notice that you still avoided driving down Lamplighter Lane on the way here. You can’t avoid Drew Sideris forever, you know. This town is too small,” I tell her, as Lucky once told me. “Maybe you should be striking up conversations of your own.”

She gives me a sidelong glance. “Last time I checked, I’m the one who’s supposed to be handing out advice.”

“Saint-Martins have never been very good at following rules. Something about breaking them and doing it the right way … I can’t remember.”

Mom snorts a laugh. “Fine. I’ll think about it, but that’s all I’m promising. Now, come on, rebel.”

As we round the corner of the block, heading toward the harbor, the Fife and Drum comes into view: gambrel roof, dusty blue clapboard walls, and white pediment-topped door. It’s been standing here since the 1600s and will surely be standing here long after I’m gone. There’s already a line queuing up for the lobster roll. People in Beauty are serious about their seafood. We should’ve come earlier, but if we hurry, we can still make it.

We both pick up the pace and jog toward the back of the line as the restaurant’s server comes to do a head count. Another couple tries to beat us, but we’re too competitive and have no shame whatsoever about racing for bargain lobster rolls.

“Victory,” Mom says as we claim the last coveted spot in the queue.

I smile at her, and she smiles back, both breathless.

“Hey, look at us.”

“A pair of old gal pals, scoring cheap seafood sandwiches,” I agree.