“I know,” I said. “The saddest part isn’t how he never wanted her, but how with each passing year she became more and more concerned with ‘things’ in her life. She wrote about houses and jobs and promotions and country clubs and trips to Europe; she wrote of decorating and local fame; of fund-raisers and haircuts and clothing. She wanted things just so. She stopped talking about stories or books and fun. Sometimes even I sound like an appendage. She believed—really believed—that if she wrote down everything she planned and wanted and needed that it would happen for her. And often it did.”

Birdie filled my coffee cup again but didn’t speak.

“Except for him. Every year she wrote her goals, and every year she said this: ‘This is the year He will know He loves me.’ It was the one thing that never happened. It’s like she wrote her life story, but couldn’t fix the love-story. He’d once told her he loved her and then reneged, took back his own words, and she wanted him to love her again and again and again. She wanted him to know. She tried to write that into her story.”

“Writing our own story,” Birdie said. “Yes, she believed that.”

“Can we really do that?”

Birdie smiled. “In many, many ways, yes, we can. Not just in your mother’s way. But no matter how many times you write it or wish it, you can’t make someone love you.”

“I know,” I said. “And speaking of finding my way—I think I’ll head down to the waterfront stores and galleries. You want to come?”

“No. You go on. I have a … date.”

I broke into laughter and then slammed my hand over my mouth. “Really? With who?”

“None of your business,” she said with laughter so intertwined in the words that I couldn’t even think about being offended.

“Have fun,” I said, waving good-bye.

The afternoon heat mixed with promising rain as I stood outside the folk art gallery, waiting on Hutch. A table outside displayed jewelry, and I was holding a pair of silver earrings up to the sun when I saw Birdie walking toward me. She didn’t see me, and she looked up to a man’s face, laughing. Then they were both standing in front of me: Birdie and Cotton.

My out-loud laughter made them both look at me. “Oh, Ellie,” Birdie said. “Hello there.”

“Well, hello to you two,” I said. “I thought you said you had a …” And then I grinned. “Ah,” I said.

“You like those earrings?” a voice behind me asked, and I turned to a smiling woman with spiky black hair.

“I do. How much?”

“Twelve fifty,” she said.

I dug through my purse for cash as I spoke to Birdie. “What are y’all doing?”